The Seeker A Novel (R. B. Chesterton) (11 page)

When I was younger, I’d fancied I saw them. On a chill fall morning, they appeared out of the Appalachian mountain mist. Wagons creaking, horses plodding, they showed up in a flat patch of pasture and camped for the night.

I told Granny I’d seen them, shadows in the fog, and she’d told me to keep my imagination in check and would hear no more of it.

Granny loved a good ghost story, and she told me plenty, but none explained the things I saw. I learned quickly, though, that it was best to keep my visions to myself.

Poring over land records, I hoped to find some trace of Bonnie Cahill’s existence. The journal included dates and specific events I hoped to match up with items in the local paper, but that wasn’t the primary evidence I would need to defend my thesis.

Knowing the academic world as I did, I expected resistance. My dissertation took aim at a beloved figure of literature, a man whose writing had supported a generation of sit-ins as peaceful protests. Civil disobedience—the hippies took it to heart and changed a nation. While tactics of peaceful protest go far back in history, Thoreau was the father of peaceful protest in modern America. The view of him, alone, wandering the woods of Walden, bordered on sacred. My work would appear to some to be an attack on an icon. The virginal hermit of Walden Pond had consorted with a woman.

I wanted all the corroborating documentation I could find.

I searched every record available and could find no mention of a Cahill. The long-ago issues of the local newspaper were on microfilm, and I went through those. There were public notices of Emerson’s lectures, of the school built by Bronson Alcott, of the stimulating school of philosophy brewing in Concord. The dates mentioned in Bonnie’s journal bore fruit, but nowhere was Bonnie’s name included. Though this substantiated the journal to some degree, I needed much more.

To my surprise, I realized that the Concord of the 1840s was not a small town in the middle of a forest. Most of the forest had been cut down for fuel, with the exception of Walden Pond.

Thoreau had settled in the one area where his comings and goings weren’t visible to his neighbors. He wanted privacy. Because of Bonnie?

My imagination conjured them, walking along the rim of the pond. The bright green of new spring leaves unfurled in pale yellow sunlight. I heard Bonnie’s laugh and watched as she grasped Thoreau’s hand, swinging around to face him. His dour, bearded face broke into an expression of delight.

This was fancy, but I hoped Bonnie had such golden moments with her lover, for ultimately that romance was fated to die a brutal death. One of the latter entries in her journal spoke of the intervention of Thoreau’s family.

The bitter scene unfolded in Bonnie’s words. Her handwriting, normally elegant and controlled, belied her sorrow and frustration. Henry’s father appeared at Walden Pond and demanded that his son return to the family. Curses and damnation rained down on Bonnie as she refused to step aside. She held her lover’s hand and stood firm against the derision. Thoreau broke, possibly to spare her further humiliation. He acquiesced to his father’s demands that he leave Walden Pond, leave her.

An entry in Bonnie’s journal followed shortly after that confrontation and Henry’s abandonment of her.

I hold no grudge or judgment against Henry. He wanted only solitude when he came to Walden Pond. My presence shocked his system, as well as offered the comforts of companionship and the love of an open heart. Together we explored the natural world and the wonders of this small woodland. He taught me of the simple joys of a scented breeze or the bloom of a flower. My gift to him was a way to face the future with courage. I do not believe he now will fear his own mortality. He is a gentle and kind man, and while the balm of love and the nurturing elements of nature have kept deterioration at bay, he is not a healthy man. He would have left me eventually, but oh, the pain of such an abrupt ending.

I never told him of my condition. He nor his family will ever know. I will leave Walden Pond without a trace I ever existed. No search will lead them to me, for I will not be found. There is nothing here for me now.

My memory of Bonnie’s journal was accurate down to the word. I didn’t carry it around with me. The value was too great, but I knew passages by heart.

After Thoreau’s family reclaimed him, Bonnie disappeared. I suspected suicide, but I had no proof. Thoreau and the solitude of Walden Pond had stabilized her. With Thoreau, she’d been a woman with unique talents, and they’d explored her abilities together. Thoreau’s abandonment could have pushed her to end her life. I understood how it could happen. As I knew from personal experience, a human heart could take only so much suffering. The quiet of the grave could be appealing.

The only thing of Bonnie’s that made its way home was the journal. It had arrived at Brandeis the semester I earned my master’s degree. My goal had always been a doctorate in literature, but the journal, wrapped in plain brown paper and addressed to me, offered a stunning opportunity. Few doctoral students broke new ground. If I could validate the journal, I would be the exception. With this strange gift, which bore no return address, the horizon suddenly opened. My life had been a series of challenges brought on by my bloodline. If the journal paid off, it would be a blood connection that launched my success. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

At first I’d thought the sender had been Granny, but she denied it. She asked to skim through it, but I resisted putting it in the mail. The journal was too precious to risk again in the post or a delivery service. From the moment I touched the beautiful leather cover, I knew it was mine. It came to me by right.

For some reason, the idea of the journal sent Granny into a panic, even after I explained what a valuable tool it would be for my dissertation. Granny’s mind had started to slip by then. She urged me to destroy it. I promised her I would, because she was so agitated. Instead, I began preparations to enter the Ph.D. program. The journal was a compelling cautionary tale of the wounding power of love and loss. It was also a personal glimpse into the life of an iconic American writer, and I would share it with the world.

Lost in my research and thoughts, I jumped when the librarian tapped my shoulder, indicating it was time to close the library. Snow covered the ground, and darkness crowded the sun from the sky. I packed my notebooks and left, walking home in a wintry wind that smelled of pungent fir and the thick curtain of flakes.

The snow depressed me. Rolling my aching shoulders, I continued to the inn, the snow obliterating any trace of my passage.

15

Snowflakes dusted my shoulders and teased my lips and eyelashes as I walked back to the inn. The large white flakes had been falling for a while. A six-inch-deep accumulation covered open areas. Deeper drifts piled against buildings and curbs. The world had changed radically while I was inside the library, and I hadn’t noticed. The encroaching night and layer of snow made everything different, purer. The air smelled cleaner. Most of the shops had closed, and the street was empty except for an occasional car.

My stomach’s loud complaints reminded me I’d worked through lunch, immersed in the lives of two dead people. Only writers and readers could understand the way a story captured me and pulled me into another reality. Some would say I escaped into the lives of others. They would be right. This ability to give up reality and allow the story to absorb me had saved me many times in Harlan County. For the space of a book or story, I could flee Kentucky and live in another place, another life.

I left the town behind and the forest was swallowed in white as I trudged along the empty road. In snowfall, there is a unique silence. The cold precipitation muffled the man-made sounds of cars, leaving a magical stillness. I turned down the winding road to the inn. Almost there, I stopped to admire the lighted windows that radiated a sense of safety and welcome.

The distant noises of people gathered to eat and socialize reminded me that others found happiness in community rather than solitude. Instead of stopping by the dining room, I continued on my path. The scent of freshly baked bread tormented me as I passed the inn to leave my computer and books in the cabin.

Navigating the narrow path, I stopped, startled. With its brown unpainted exterior, the cabin was a square box against the last light in the sky. It should have been a dark building. Someone must have gone inside and lit a fire, because smoke curled out of the chimney and my desk lamp shown bright in the gathering dusk. Dorothea must have sent Patrick.

There were no footsteps in the snow that dusted the steps and front porch. How long ago had Patrick been there? I hoped the fire was fresh. At night I banked the glowing embers, but right now I needed dancing flames, the snap of a hot, fresh fire to cheer me up.

My hand reached to put the key in the lock when I stopped. I slipped to the window with the cut screen and peeped inside.

The fire burned bright, hot tongues of flame licking around the freshly laid logs. In the glow of the lamp I could see the entire cabin. A rise in the covers of my bed told me someone was there.

Joe! The jolt of happiness came and went in a split second. Where was his truck if he was inside, in my bed? I knew instinctively it wasn’t Joe.

Caution stayed my hand at the door. The intruder could have come before the snow drifted down, but the fire was freshly made. Disquiet prickled my skin, and I spun around to make sure I was leaving footprints. My panic warned me to abandon the cabin. I could go to the inn and ask Dorothea to come back with me to check out who snuggled in my bed. Or I could call the police.

That wasn’t really an option. What if it
was
Joe, waiting beneath the quilts? He might have left his truck parked somewhere and hoofed it to the cabin. For privacy, to avoid others poking their nose into our business. If I brought Dorothea or the police, all manner of unwarranted attention would follow, and I wanted no more interaction with the law.

I turned the key and stepped in. The lump in the bed remained completely still, like a dead thing. My heart thudded so hard I placed a steadying hand against the doorframe. I slammed the door sharply.

The figure in the bed sat up, throwing back covers. Blond tousled hair poked up on the head of Patrick Leahy. Not Joe, but Patrick. His grin was slow and lazy. I didn’t move or say a word as he pushed back the covers and stood, completely naked.

His body was a work of art. Lean cut muscles defined his chest and stomach, and the indentation beneath his hip bones made me inhale sharply. At nineteen, he was physical perfection, and he knew it.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said in soft invitation. “You know I’ve wanted you since you moved into the cabin. My god, Aine, you’re so beautiful and you don’t even know it.”

My common sense urged me to run, to open the door and flee. To safety. To a place where I couldn’t make another bad choice. But another, wilder voice argued differently. Patrick was here, and Joe wasn’t. Joe hadn’t called or in any way hinted that the night we’d spent together held special significance. For all I knew, I might never hear from him again. Patrick adored me and wasn’t shy about confessing it. Granny had urged me to choose the real, the solid, and Patrick was very, very solid. Still, I hesitated.

Patrick reached out for me. “When you come down the lane beside the inn, I stop work just to watch you, Aine. You’re incredible. I’ve never wanted anyone as much as you.”

It would be wrong to sleep with Patrick, but my feet didn’t budge. My gaze moved over him, lingering on those hip bones and the ripples of his torso, leaving no doubt that he affected me.

He stepped closer, allowing the firelight to play over the contours of his body. “We’ve wasted a lot of time. I want to make you feel as beautiful as you are. I want to make love to you.”

It crossed my mind to order him out, but I didn’t. Instead, I walked toward him and the bed. I kissed him hard, and he tilted me into sheets still warm and smelling of his aftershave. Clean with a hint of the ocean.

16

The fire burned low, a bed of red embers. Patrick slept beside me, his leg thrown over my thighs, his hand tangled in my hair. He slept without anxiety or trouble. I, on the other hand, lay wide awake with the reality I’d let impulse and wounded pride rule the last two hours of my life. Regret kept me motionless beneath his weight.

A log burned through, snapped, and a shower of sparks jumped up the chimney. The sound woke him and he gave me a sleepy grin. “Man, you are something else,” he whispered against my temple. “You’re beautiful, Aine.” His hand circled my breast.

I eased to the other side of the bed. When he glanced out the window, he sat up abruptly. “Holy shit, what time is it?”

“Just after eight.” My stomach growled. Another hour and I would miss dinner at the inn. I could order pizza, but I would have to walk to the main road to fetch it, and my meals at the inn came with the cost of renting the cabin.

“Dorothea is going to kill me!” He jumped out of bed and into his jeans. He pulled on his socks and boots as he walked to the door. Remembering his shirt, he stooped low and swept it off the floor. His arms slid into the sleeves in a fluid movement. Patrick wasn’t innocent. I was willing to bet he’d had plenty of practice dressing rapidly.

I wasn’t as quick as he was, but I wasn’t far behind. We left the cabin and walked through the snow to the inn, side by side, but not touching. The ground was pristine, a crisp white wonderland.

“We shouldn’t tell Dorothea about this,” he said. “She’d be upset with me. She wants you for Joe.”

“It’s in my best interest to keep this to myself.” I was strangely detached from the situation, but in the dead of night, anxiety and remorse would likely choke me. The cost of a few hours of pleasure would be many days of regret. Patrick was a teenager. I was twenty-eight. No matter that he’d made every advance and lain in wait in my very bed.

“That was, like, the most important thing that’s ever happened to me,” Patrick said. “I’m a different person.”