The House On The Creek (5 page)

He slid a little down the last few yards of the bank and then he saw the boat house. He thought she hadn’t touched it. The building looked just as he remembered, crumbling at the edges, solid at the core. Twelve years and it was still standing.

What a colossal joke.

He set his bottled and plate at the base of the foundation and ran his fingers over weathered brick. He’d never been able to work out where Abby saw the finger and toe holds she used to scale the thing. He wondered why she hadn’t bothered to rehab the little building.

Did she hope, as he had, that the boat house would crumble away and eventually disappear?

He turned his back to the bricks and walked to the edge of the Creek. The water ran high, nearly lapping against the front of the boat house. At its center the Creek appeared deep and green as the ocean. Trees and vines had grown up to overhang the water.

He would have to find the time to cut the growth back, maybe make himself a small stretch of sandy beach.

He waded a few steps into the clear water, and then dove neatly into the center of the current. The water whirl-pooled around him, washing sweat from his skin. He surfaced, sputtering, and brushed wet hair from his face.

Treading water, he blinked away drops of water and looked around.

The boat house loomed, sagging roof mottled. Leaves rustled overhead and dropped here and there to the surface of the water where they swirled in widening circles. He could hear the chirrups of startled sparrows and the buzz of a solitary mosquito. Deep in the green water, beneath his rapidly numbing toes, the current dragged.

It hit him, at last, that he had come home. And the realization turned his stomach sour.

Everett spent a good hour in the water, relearning the Creek’s old secrets and discovering new bends in the shore. By the time he reemerged onto try land he was shivering and ready for the heat of the air.

He sat on a moss covered rock and sucked on his beer. The drink had gone warm and stale, but he finished it anyway.

When the bottle was drained, he stood and collected his plate. He glanced over his shoulder one last time, mentally calculating the expense and energy it would take to strip away some of the vegetation.

A flash of light caught his attention. He turned, squinting at the far bank, and realized immediately what he’d found.

He set plate and bottle back onto the rock, dove again into the water, and stroked neatly to the opposite shore. There the bank was high and uneven, mostly shaded. He had to climb from the water on hands and knees, gripping high weeds.

Feeling absurd and awkward, he used a gnarled branch to pull himself upright and then balanced alongside the overhang of a large willow.

The thin, drooping branches sheltered the aft side of his little boat. Everett cleared the branches away and pulled vines free. Patches of rotted wood fell from the stern as he scraped her free of grass.

But he found, to his bemusement, that beneath twelve years’ growth the skiff was mostly whole. She would need repair, patching fore and aft, sanding and repainting and varnishing, and both of the oars had fallen to almost nothing in the soil, but he thought he could revive her.

“Not likely she’d hold a grown man.” He told the willow.

Still, he smiled, surprised by a surge of eagerness.

He sent sand pipers fluttering for cover when he pulled the skiff from the mud. She was lighter than he remembered and she stank of the wet earth. He propped her best he could across his shoulders and swam slowly back across the Creek. Cold water washed mud and bark from the boat’s shell. The dry wood absorbed moisture quickly and grew more heavy.

Everett hauled the skiff from the water and propped her against the boat house wall. Washed somewhat cleaner, the wood looked in better condition than he would have guessed.

Even so, it would take time and muscle to get her floating again.

He’d discovered the skiff in the marshes along the Colonial Parkway in the spring just before he turned eight. He had wandered endlessly that year, skipping school, riding to imaginary destinations on a brand new bike that had been a gift from his mother.

The skiff had been too heavy for a boy to lift from the marsh grass but he’d flagged down a passing motorist. People expected to see odd things on the Parkway, and the middle aged man in his fancy pickup hadn’t blinked twice. He’d helped Everett drag the boat free. And then he’d given the boy and the skiff a lift back to Williamsburg.

Everett had been afraid he would be caught hitch hiking, but the man in the pickup seemed to find the whole episode a necessary adventure.

Safely home, Everett had concealed his find in the weeds along the Creek.

The next year, his mother ran off and he outgrew the bike. But the skiff occupied his time. It took him a good three seasons to fix the boat up. And he’d done all the work himself.

He could fix her up a second time. Find her a new set of oars. Maybe he’d feel the same pride he had as a child.

Everett rolled the skiff over, dumped pie plate and beer bottle into her curving belly, and hoisted the boat back onto his shoulders. He carried her up the bank, cursing when he slipped on grass and stepped on thorns.

He’d find supplies in town, spend the afternoon sanding and stripping paint. Replace some of the boards on the fore. Maybe patch that hole in the stern with something more esthetic than plywood.

New purpose lightened his step. Everett left the skiff in the sunlight against the gazebo and made for the house, determined to change out of his wet suit and make directly for town.

The streets of Williamsburg were narrow, some of the narrowest were still cobbled. Everett drove along the Creek toward the center of town, his hand light on the Spyder’s wheel. He let air conditioning ease the heat, and turned the radio up until the Stones shook the windshield.

In the rear view mirror Edward’s mansion disappeared, swallowed up by the trees.

On the outskirts of town other homes were hidden in the green. Within the forest Everett glimpsed driveways and brick gables. He passed a tiny park set on the mouth of the Creek near the college docks and around another bend a crowded cemetery behind a low wall.

Everett remembered the park and the cemetery. As a child he’d run in the park, chasing ducks, and as an adolescent he’d spent winter evenings hiding on the edges of the cemetery, smoking pilfered cigars on the eighteenth century tombstones.

Along past the cemetery rose the Marshall Wythe School of Law. There the speed limit dropped to twenty. Everett took his foot off the gas and coasted past the squat law school, past the new brick courthouse, through one intersection, and into Colonial Williamsburg.

The hardware store Everett meant to visit was at the far end of town, just to the other side of the Historic District. He’d planned to cut through the District and save time. He hadn’t realized how much the living museum had grown during his absence.

Tourists were everywhere, flocking across streets and surging from buses. Children in shorts and baseball caps raced here and there, oblivious to oncoming traffic. Parents staggered after, weighted down by water bottles and backpacks and paper shopping bags advertising Colonial Williamsburg in fancy, scrolling print.

Men and women in colonial garb marched with purpose along the cobbled streets, interpreting another life, paid to be in character for as long as they wore their costumes.

Trapped between a smoking Greyhound and a crowded station wagon, Everett sat in the Spyder and stared. He stabbed a finger at the stereo, shutting off the music, and the clamor of tourists rolled into the car.

“Holy Christ.” A toddler wielding pink cotton candy streaked between the hood of his car and the back of a bus. The girl’s mother chased after, flashing Everett a panicked look as she raced by.

The Greyhound inched forward, bouncing on cobblestones, and Everett recognized Duke of Gloucester Street. Craning his neck to the right, he could see down the Royal Mile and pick out the spire of the Capitol Building in the distance. Streams of people flooded the Mile, damming up here and there as families waited to visit museum buildings.

Reproductions of the original colonial homes and shops lined either side of the street, white and grey slat board bright in the afternoon light. On the next block a man dressed in a red coat and black boots drove a horse and carriage for eager tourists. The cobblestones were bright in the heat and the row of trees did little to shade the street.

The very end of the Royal Mile, just before the street reached the College of William and Mary, was cluttered with shops and restaurants. Everett remembered the fancy bookstore, and the silversmith, and the cafeteria that sold burgers and ice cream to visitors from around the world. He didn’t remember the women’s clothing shop or the bright green sign advertising Scottish tweed.

The bus bumped forward again, and Everett followed closely, eager to escape the madness. A woman sporting a hooped skirt and lace walked quickly alongside the Spyder as the car rolled over the last yard of cobblestone and onto real asphalt. Everett heaved a sigh of relief, and then had to slam on the brake as the bus ground to a halt just a block past the Royal Mile.

Everett waited, tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel. Another herd of tourists disgorged from the Greyhound and pressed around his car. Idly, he noted a second cluster of shops grown up behind the original Merchant’s Square. Separated from Duke of Gloucester Street by a parking lot, the stores looked nearly as crowded as those in the Mile.

Another ice cream store, he saw, and a jeweler’s. An art gallery and -

“Chesapeake Renovations.” He gaped for a moment at the shop front and then wrenched at the steering wheel, sending the car darting from behind the bus and into the parking lot, and nearly running over a family wearing matching Lakers t shirts in the process.

“Christ!” Everett swore aloud for the second time since leaving the shelter of the Creek woods. “How the hell did she afford this prime piece?” But he was afraid he knew.

Everett swung the Spyder into an empty parking space and slid out from behind the wheel. He slammed the door shut. Keys clenched in his fist, he crossed the lot in four long strides and regarded Chesapeake Renovations grimly from behind his shades.

The shop was little more than a closet, a hole in the wall compared to its larger neighbors. But the sidewalk had recently been hosed down, and the sign arching over the shop’s bay window was beautifully lettered. A small placard in the window promised that the store was open.

Everett ducked inside.

Music played, something soft and classical that spoke of strings. Oriental rugs warmed the floor and framed photographs covered the walls. At the very center of the shop a man leaning on a square oak kiosk regarded Everett with friendly interest.

“Can I help you?”

“No.” Angry and impatient, Everett stalked across the rugs to the nearest wall and scowled at the first row of photographs.

“Two of our latest,” the man said, undeterred. He stepped from behind the kiosk and joined Everett at the wall. “The smaller one is down near Jamestown, and the colonial is up here along the Creek.”

Everett grunted and stared at the neatly framed ‘before’ and ‘after’ photos of Edward’s mansion.

“You’ve a home that needs some work?” The clerk suggested. He smelled lightly of apples. His clothing said big city but Everett noticed the his hands were rough and stained, the finger nails bitten to the quick.

“No.” Everett turned his attention from the old man’s house to the shots of a smaller two story. The ‘before’ and ‘after’ shots astonished him. The lovely little colonial displayed in the second frame was little more than a slant roofed shack in the first.

“Could be you’re looking for furnishings? We have catalogs.”

“She sells furniture?” Incredulous, Everett wheeled on his companion.

The man only arched one brow and smiled. “Some. Mostly colonial, although we do have a few brochures in the Art Deco style, and some Arts and Crafts. We’re a full service firm.”

Everett shook his head. He paced along the walls, looking from one set of photographs to the next, unable to believe his eyes. Restored garages, storefronts, apartment buildings, gas stations. Even, displayed in a whimsical red and green frame, a colonial style dog house.

“All this?” He muttered, studying the snap shots of a local restaurant. “She does all this?”

The clerk had returned to his kiosk. “Do you know Ms. Ross?”

“Abby,” Everett corrected automatically. “How long has this shop been open?”

“About eight months. Our first shop front.” He considered Everett. “And if you know Abby, you know how long and hard she worked to get this far.”

“She did all this?” Everett waved a hand at the rows of photographs.

The clerk nodded. “We outsource, of course, when needed. But Abby believes in being hands on, as much as possible.”

“A business like this would cost a pretty penny to get started.”