One Foot in the Grove (7 page)

“Daphne, aren't you getting carried away? It's not like we're feeding an army.”

“Yes. Still, we want our hospitality to be nothing short of extraordinary. Our reputation is paramount. Guests write
reviews
on the Internet, you know!”

“Trust me. I know all about the Internet.” I rolled by eyes. “No worries. You just get some rest. I'll take care of all the details. It's no problem.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire!

Daphne's pom-pommed feet tip-tapped to the door as satin gowns swirled about her lithe frame. She pushed open the door and floated outside.

“Don't be worryin' about all this, Eva. Y'all will do just fine. Nighty night!”

A gust of wind ripped the flimsy screen door from Daphne's hand and slammed it shut.

Daphne drifted across the yard under wads of dangling Spanish moss that cast eerie shadows on the wet lawn. My sister floated through her lush, well-tended flower and vegetable gardens, then up the stairs onto the big wraparound porch of the farmhouse. The kitchen door opened and closed silently as she stepped inside.

I saw the back stair light flick on and then off. Except for a glow coming from Daphne's curtained master bedroom window in the third-floor family quarters, I didn't see a light on anywhere. Sleeping guests probably hadn't noticed the fast-moving tropical storm. After stuffing themselves silly with Chef Loretta's mouthwatering, mammoth meal and finishing it all off with a slew of cocktails, they'd all tumbled to bed, completely unaware that their cook had absconded with their fishing guide—off to Vegas.
Sigh
. At least they'd had one good meal. The Last Supper.

Make no mistake, “cooking” for me was, at best, heating up takeout. Or stir-frying tofu and a bag of frozen veggies. To prove it, I had nothing in my cupboards, except for a few
of Daphne's fresh herbs that her oldest daughter, twelve-year-old Meg, had picked and made into a bouquet for me. Moreover, the notion of me preparing food in any sort of “professional” capacity—worse still, preparing meals capable of meeting Daphne's demanding, perfectionist standards—was, in a word, insane. My chest tightened again just thinking about it. I'd never get to sleep.

“Come on, Dolly. There's a breeze outside. Maybe we can think better in some fresh air.”

I pushed the screen door, and it creaked open easily—too easily. Trees swirled above me as a burst of wind grabbed the flimsy door and slammed it back into the cottage's wooden exterior. Dolly yipped as she shot between my legs then skidded and tumbled across slippery grass. The rickety wooden door caught the wind again, flew back the other way, and smacked shut behind me.

Gardenia-scented air, thick and heavy with moisture, hugged my body close. I pulled my hair from its topknot and gathered it into a ponytail before tightening and retying my shoelaces. A drift of Spanish moss blew from a twisted tree limb to the lawn. Dolly pounced on it and shook the heathery wad.

I tried to think how I could fix a meal and serve guests in just a few hours.
Obviously impossible
. My stomach churned. Maybe I could pick up some donuts and coffee at Duke's Donut Shoppe.

The full moon peeked through fast-moving clouds, then disappeared.

“I sure hope they like donuts, Dolly.”

I'd tout the donuts as a local delicacy. An Abundance tradition. Maybe I could order some take-out eggs and bacon at Carter's Country Corner Store.

Daphne would just die
.

“I'll call Earlene Azalea and beg her to take Daphne shopping for the day,” I said to Dolly. “Daphne'd never have to know about the donuts.”

The moon peeked through the clouds. Dolly made a
little circle and wagged her tail. Her eyes twinkled in the moonlight, and she panted with excitement. She jumped up on my knee and made another circle.

“Yes, yes. I know.
You
like donuts! Okay, Dolly. We'll go for a quick run.”

I figured the deep-woods trail would still have decent footing despite the rain. I'd be back in bed in less than an hour. I crossed the lawn behind the cottage, jogged past the gazebo and pond, and headed toward the hardwoods. I'd make a big loop through the longleaf pine forest before heading back home.

Dolly jumped excitedly in the air and gave a little yip before trotting past me on the trail. Shrouded by foggy darkness, I heard the little dog sniffing and skittering across the sodden, muddy ground as I started out, jogging slowly behind her. After a minute or two, I picked up my pace and started to find my running rhythm—one foot in front of the other—with regular long breaths.

Admittedly, bringing along a flashlight, or my phone with flashlight app, would've been prudent. Still, trying to run by the light of a flashlight as the beam jiggles with each step is just plain annoying. I could never see past the beam, anyway. Besides, I was taking a break from my phone.

It wasn't long before we were on the other side of the pond and running through an ancient forest of longleaf pines. The trees whispered and howled in a confused wind. Towering straight and tall, many of the trees were more than three hundred years old, stretching as high as one hundred feet. On other Abundance properties these majestic pines would be felled for use as telephone poles. However, at our place they remained safe in conservation. I remembered playing hide-and-seek in the forest as a girl. And as a teenager, I'd walked many nights under the tall trees, hand in hand with Buck Tanner.

“Let's pick up the pace, Dolly.”

Deeper in the darkened forest it felt almost cool. An eerie mist rose up from dank blackness and twisted around
my calves. I sensed something—or someone. Stopping to listen, I heard nothing but rustling trees and the loud
shicka-shicka-shickaing
and tweeting of night creatures.

I pressed on. Clouds blew over the moon, shrouding the woods in inky shadows. We ran though blackness across a slick, spongy carpet of pine needles and itchy wire grass that grew past my thighs. When clouds opened up, shafts of moonlight highlighted little dots of purple, blue, pink, red, yellow, and white wildflowers that looked like Christmas tree lights scattered in the wire grass under the trees. The air here was uncomfortably muggy. My breathing was getting heavier. My nose tickled with the smell of decay and musty dirt mixed with minty pine.

Dolly trotted through the night as fireflies flashed and bats fluttered, dove, and squeaked overhead. I turned right at the first fork, then right again. Slivers of moonlight hit the trail, and a bat flew swiftly and silently toward me. I ducked. It shot up abruptly and over my head. Clouds covered the moon, and it was dark again. Suddenly, Dolly sat down, put her nose to the ground, and whined.

“Don't worry, Dolly. We'll be out of the woods soon. It won't be so scary, I promise.”

I had to admit, even for an experienced night runner like me, it was creepier than I'd thought it'd be. Creepier than I'd remembered from my childhood days. I'd gotten used to Boston city streets, with solid pavement and streetlights. By contrast, in the forest when the moon hid behind clouds, it was as dark as any place I'd ever been. Everywhere I ran, it all looked the same to me. I wasn't as familiar with the old trails as I'd imagined. Had I made a wrong turn? The run that normally would have relaxed me seemed to be setting me more and more on edge. The woods gnawed at my nerves.

A little later, I took a left fork, and after just twenty minutes or so, I decided to head back toward the cottage. I turned my head away from the wind to listen. All I heard was a cacophony of crickets and night creatures. There was some kind of screeching bird—at least I thought it was a
bird—and wind whistled though high boughs. Spatters of rain hit my face and arms.

Dolly started off down the trail again. I followed.

Minutes later, some sort of animal cried out. I stopped and clutched at my chest. It was a terrible, wretched cry—it sounded like a screaming baby. Fox? Bobcat? Maybe it was a wild boar.
What does a wild boar sound like?
I was losing my nerve.

The moon popped out and made ghostly, wavy shadows on the ground. Dolly stopped and cocked her head. I pulled up and looked around, to get my bearings. I couldn't see a thing except glowing fireflies, wire grass, and tall pine trees, their boughs surging in the blustery wind.

There it was again. That unnerving feeling that someone else was in the woods. I wanted to quell the wind and the cacophony of screeching critters so I could listen. But the howling storm was picking up speed and force. Was I lost? The moon disappeared again. It was pitch-dark. My sneakers were soaked through. My feet were wet, and my legs were spattered with mud.

If I could just find my way to the hundred-acre olive grove, I'd be safe and close to home, I thought. In the grove, there'd be a wide-open space cut out of the forest where young olive trees were planted together in rows. Twelve-foot swaths of dirt between each hedgerow of olive trees, with the drip irrigation hoses secured out of the way just a foot or so to each side of the tree trunks, made for a neat and orderly series of wide alleyways through the orchard. Moreover, Dad's young trees were pruned to no more than ten feet high to accommodate his adapted blueberry harvester that would mechanically gather olives in a few weeks. For me, all this translated into a grove of clear, flat paths that were perfect for running. Short trees would make it easier to see at night.

GRUMMPH.

That was definitely a gunshot, I thought.

“Come on Dolly, this way!”

It was pitch-black. I didn't have a light. I wasn't wearing
hunter orange or anything reflective. Dolly and I sprinted in earnest. We reached an intersection—three trails. Dolly sniffed a tree trunk. Rain was beginning to spatter. I guessed that the olive grove was left. Quickly, I scooped up my wet pup before taking off. Racing with Dolly in my arms made me unbalanced over the uneven terrain.

Still, I pressed on.

Soon after, the moon peeked out from behind clouds and I saw an opening in the pine trees.
Yes!
Daddy's olive tree orchard was just ahead. Rows and rows of young Spanish Arbequina trees—known for high-quality oil and early fruit bearing—along with super-pollinator varieties, Arbosana and Koroneiki planted every twelfth tree, were not much bigger than tall shrubs. Their slender trunks and narrow sage green leaves shimmered in the wind-kissed moonlight.

The hundred-acre plot was long and narrow. All I had to do was run down a row and find the path to the house through the woods at the other end of the grove. After just five or six minutes, I'd pass the old cabin, then go around the pond through the hardwood forest, past the other side of the pond, over the field, and I'd be home. I put the pedal to the metal, so to speak, and sprinted down the trail as fast as I could. Clouds covered the moon, and it was suddenly inky dark again.

I had one foot in the grove. Then, I tripped.

Coming out of the forest, something rubbery caught my toe and I went flying. I managed to keep ahold of Dolly until we hit the ground, then with a yelp she shot out of my arms. I landed like a deadweight on the edge of the grove. Dolly was somewhere in the dark ahead of me. I had a hard time getting my breath—the unbroken fall had knocked the wind out of me.

Finally, I found a little air.

“Dol-ly? Whe . . . where are you?” I gasped. I listened for my little dog, but I couldn't hear or see her anywhere. The damn night creatures were too noisy. Wind howled. Big raindrops slapped the ground. I gasped for another breath. However, like a deflated tire, my chest wouldn't open. I huffed short little sniffs of air.

My ankle hurt. I tried not to move my foot. Tears filled my eyes. My ribs and forearms ached. I worked to breathe. Covered in dirt and mud, I was shaky and weak—the way you get when your body knows something is hurt. Before you go into shock. Or faint.

GRUMMPH.

The sound was soft, but loud. Like a muffled cannon. It was close. My heart raced. There was a crazy hunter on the loose, I thought. I might as well be a deer. Or a wild boar that Pep said anyone can shoot. Anytime.

“Dolly!” I tried to sit up, but a sharp stab in my ribs caught me by surprise. Hot tears of panic and pain streamed down my face. I cried out again, this time louder, “Dol-ly!” Thunder rumbled as I carefully pulled my sprained ankle toward me.

“Dolly! Where are you?” I whimpered. Of all the dogs in the world, mine had to be coal black.

I twisted around to examine my ankle. The moon peeked out for just a second. And that's when I saw the foot. The moon disappeared behind the clouds, and it was dark again. Had I tripped over someone's foot? My head started spinning. I felt nauseous.

Somewhere in the dark, just a few feet ahead of where I'd landed, Dolly started barking. Shrill and sharp, she wouldn't stop.

“Dolly! Come here!” I cried.

Dolly barked as I dragged myself to the foot. Then, I saw the man. Facedown, in the tall grass. His rain-soaked khaki pants matched the wire grass. Only his foot, clad in a worn black sneaker, lay in the path on the edge of my dad's olive grove.

And I'd tripped over it.

I put my head between my knees to keep from fainting.
Breathe in. Exhale. Breathe in.
I knew that I needed to check the motionless man on the ground next to me—maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he was alive, I thought. Maybe I could save him. I took a deep breath before I dragged myself to his head and bent down to see his face . . .

Suddenly, Dolly barked like crazy—shrill and frantic. I turned my head against the wind and thought I heard a rhythmical, low thumping from somewhere behind me in
the woods. Menacing gusts wailed, and stinging rain slapped against my skin as titanic drops pelted the already-drenched cotton khaki pants on the morbid body next to me.

There was a blinding red flash. Earsplitting crackle. Earth-splitting
BOOM
.

I was engulfed by a deafening explosion.