15 Tales of Love (17 page)

The guest speaker for the class was a writer with a freebie shopper in another city and was a totally uninspiring speaker who left Chickie unenthusiastic. He commented on several of the assignments, but not hers. She wasn’t surprised, but it left her depressed.
Maybe I write like that man talks!

She showed the Shar-Pei piece to Marion, but she wasn’t interested in puppies. “Can’t use that, Chickie.” She offered no further comment, and Chickie was further discouraged. Marion didn’t offer another assignment.

And I haven’t written anything else for Phil Smith to comment on.
She was keeping that one comment in her heart to feed on.

Her new class assignment was to find something of personal interest. Chickie had no hobbies, other than writing short stories occasionally, and what she would like to do, was visit some of the exotic places she read about. Mayan ruins or restored Colonial houses. How do you write about dreams?

But in reading through copy for the club news page she found a notice from the Woodworkers Club, an announcement about a talk by a man who built sailboats. She wanted to try sailing, but had actually been in a small sailboat only twice. She called the man and set up an appointment for Saturday morning.

Recalling the comments from the yard sale lady story, she decided to rely more on anecdotes and the
whys
of boat building than the
hows
. At the end of the interview, she was wishing for a two-man boat and the knowledge and time to sail it. She tried to impart that to her readers. She submitted the story at her Tuesday class.

She was dismayed, however secretly elated, to find that the speaker for Thursday’s class was Phillip Smith. She dressed a little more carefully than usual for the class, chose her prettiest blouse, a new pair of black slacks, and arranged her usually flyaway hair into a neatly coiled braid. She arrived as the class was starting and slid quietly into her usual last row seat. Since she had never met Smith, she did not expect him to recognize, or even notice her.

However, he began by asking each of the dozen class members to introduce themselves. “I’ve read all of your pieces and I’d like a face for each name.”

“Ah,” he said to Chickie, smiling at her, “Our local reporter. Nice to meet you.”

She managed a soft, “You, too,” before he moved on to the next person.

He did not choose her boat story for his commentary and she breathed a sigh of relief.

He was, Chickie decided, even better looking in person, and a delightful speaker. He made good writing sound easy with a wealth of anecdotes, just as he did in his column. She knew it wasn’t all that easy and left class dejected and depressed. She didn’t look at her returned paper.

There is no way I can write like that and maybe I should quit now. As for meeting him and having coffee? I might as well ask for the moon. What could he possibly see in me or my writing?
That one small smile, a fleeting recognition, didn’t mean anything.

In the morning she recalled the returned assignment paper, which she had stuffed in her bag, and took it with her into the lunch room. Thankfully, the room was empty. She fixed a cup of coffee and sat down to see what Smith had written about her sailing story.

“You write well,” he had noted in a careful hand in green ink, “getting to the essence of the people you write about.”

She was suffused in a small gush of pleasure. “However,” he added, “you need to show your readers you care about your subject. Like you did with the yard sale woman, and sort of with the old linens story. With this one, you come very close, but it could be much better.”

She put the paper down, discouraged again and ready to cry. She didn’t notice that someone else had come into the room until a deep voice asked, “May I join you, Miss McArdle?”

She looked up at Phillip Smith and almost stopped breathing. She said, “I guess,” and could find nothing else to say.

He sat down across from her, set his coffee cup on the table, and said companionably, “Marion says you’re going to be a regular feature writer.”

“Oh?” She wondered why they had been discussing her. When she had her composure back she added, “She didn’t say anything to me about that.”

“She’s been using your stories, hasn’t she? You’ve done some good ones.”

Chickie said a little bitterly, “But editing them so much I don’t think they’re mine anymore.”

He laughed. “That happens. That’s what editors do. It has your byline, doesn’t it? And she will do less editing as you learn what it is she wants.”

She asked, “Does she edit yours like that?”

“No. That’s an advantage of being a columnist.”

She couldn’t answer that. Nor could she look at him. He took her breath away and she could barely believe he was sitting there talking to her.

“Don’t give up,” he said. “We all go through it.”

Some of her sadness and frustration slipped out. “I want people to take me seriously as a writer. No one seems to be able to get past my nickname.”

“Ah,” he said, apparently enlightened. “Chickie.”

She nodded, wondering where he had heard it, from Marion probably. “People just laugh at that.”

“But Rose is a nice name, and that’s your byline.”

“I try to tell people that, but no one listens.” She hesitated, and added, “And my first name is Peony.”

He smiled, an engagingly warm grin. “Two very pretty flowers, and it suits you. Well, there are several things you can do. Ignore them, refuse to answer if they call you Chickie, or pretend you like the name and use it yourself.” He paused but she didn’t comment. “What would you like people to call you?”

She said, her misery showing in spite of her resolve, “I don’t know. Rose, I guess. I don’t like Peony.”

“That is a problem. Can I get you more coffee?”

“Oh.” She looked up at him, met his smiling gray eyes for a long moment and her heart fluttered again. “Sure.”

He brought the cup back to her and sat down again. “Think about it,” he said. “You are a good writer and will get better. You do have your own way with words. Remember that. Names don’t mean that much.”

“That is easy to say.”

“It is,” he agreed, “easier said than done, but you can overcome it.”

She looked up at him, but didn’t comment, wondering how one did that. His eyes were affecting her thinking and she wondered if he could tell.

He looked down at his coffee cup. “If you were a humor writer you could do a column called ‘Hen Scratchings by Chickie.’”

She winced. “Ouch.”

“I’m sorry.” He glanced up at her, and then down again. “I get carried away sometimes. It’s a bad habit.”

She thought he looked a little embarrassed and was not smiling. She regained some of her composure, took a deep breath and said, “But I can’t write humor.”

“Neither can I, and I wish I could. You have to make the best of what you’re handed. For instance,” he hesitated a moment not looking directly at her, “I usually don’t admit it, but my first name is Eustace. I’m named for a great uncle. I went through school being known as Useless Smith. I eventually took it as a challenge. So can you. And meet it.”

She gaped at him, a little open-mouthed.

“So think on it, Rose,” he said gently, getting up slowly and genuinely smiling at her. “And give that sailboat story to Marion. It’s pretty good and I think she’ll use it.”

“Thanks.” His approval reached her innermost soul, warming her.

“Maybe another section front, who knows?” He picked up his cup. “Sailing is one of the things I do in my spare time. Out there on the water I have the chance, the quiet, to think. Writers need that.”

“I’ve never tried it, but I’d like to.”
Is he inviting me? Or just talking?

“Don’t give up on that, either. Life is too short to give up on and you do have a lot going for you.” He turned away. “And there are also long easy walks on rail trails and such. Getting outside clears the mind. Think about it.”

She watched him leave, too stunned to move, while her breathing returned to normal and her pulse slowed down. What had he meant by all that? That he was a little interested in her? That she’d see him again? Had he come into the office and talked to Marion to learn more about her? Did he really think she was a good writer? Did she dare believe any of that?

She sat still a moment, wondering, hoping, and then went back to work, but with a new light-heartedness and a little hope. Since he had formed the connection, she could call him, couldn’t she, and ask a question or two?

In the morning there was a vase of flowers on her desk–a large pink peony and two white roses.

GOLD SANDALS

The box holding the gold sandals was still on the table where Candace Elder had left it in both disgust and dismay a week ago. She had not ordered dress shoes. She wanted a pair of hiking sandals, the kind that L.L. Bean calls “Explorer.” Sturdy, rubber soled walking shoes for poking around in wet places like tidal pools. Occasions for fancy evening wear weren’t on her agenda, and hadn’t been for longer than she cared to remember.

While the seashore was a summer vacation possibility, right now in early spring her interest was vernal pools, and there were several she wanted to investigate in her search for some endangered marbled salamanders. Explorers were the proper footgear for that kind of adventure, and she rarely needed anything more feminine.

Serves me right for trying to save money by falling for a magazine ad come-on with pretty pictures. And I didn’t even see these strappy things in
the ad. Why didn’t I just order from L.L. Bean like I always do? And now what do I do with these?

She learned that she could neither return nor exchange the unwanted shoes. “That was a special promotion,” a disdainful masculine voice told her once she managed to reach a live person at the listed contact number. “It was on the coupon.”

As much as she wanted to, Candace did not say, “If so, it was in very fine print.” Instead she said, as politely as possible through clenched teeth, “Thank you.”

He didn’t say he was sorry for any inconvenience.

Lesson learned. Shop where you know what you’re getting.

So the glittery sandals with their delicate ankle straps and much higher heels than she had worn in months still rested in their box wrapped in lavender tissue paper. She wondered if her order had been switched with someone else’s. What would the girl who had ordered the sandals do with a pair of hiking shoes, especially if she had a specific event in mind?

The same thing I’ll do with gold sandals! Maybe I can find somebody who can use them, and there’s always the church rummage sale.

Out of curiosity, Candace tried them on. They fit perfectly. She admired the effect of the crossed straps, which did, indeed, set off a quite shapely ankle. Until a year ago, she had frequently bought such shoes to go with a new dress for an evening out at an upscale restaurant, an art show opening, or a new play. But that was before her employer went out of business, friends drifted apart looking for new work, and Roger found a position in Rhode Island, which included an attractive fellow worker.

They had not had a firm commitment, but Roger had been fun and life with him was enjoyable. Sometimes she missed him, but mostly now she just despised him. She, too, had found a new life.

Working for the New Hampshire State Forest Service was rewarding, fulfilling, and occasionally even exciting. She had never thought about becoming a Forest Ranger but the position did make use of her degree in biology and allowed her to be on her own in the fresh air. She was gaining expertise in endangered amphibians, which had always intrigued her.

Since she had no plans to return to a social life, she put the sandals back in their box. They certainly did not go with her dark green uniform and were not designed for the woods she would be working in. She could decide later what to do with them. Right now she had to go to work.

Today’s schedule began with a conference, all of the district rangers meeting to get news updates and official pronouncements from the state’s Chief Ranger. It wasn’t a part of the job she enjoyed, and she had a list of things she needed to do, including one of her favorites. The owners of a large property on a mountainside were considering putting it under a conservation easement and wanted to know all their options. She envisioned a pleasant afternoon on a lovely spring day.

Candace was not encouraged by the number of cars parked in front of the regional office. A sporty car she thought of as metallic mustard was parked by the entrance. It belonged to the Regional Ranger, Donnie Morgan, and she thought the color described his personality: sharp and brash. He didn’t like to attend meetings, causing her to wonder why he was here. He usually sent his assistant.

She recognized all of the other cars but one, a beat-up black Jeep. Most of the service’s official vehicles, dark green pickup trucks, were parked to one side.

She got out of her own four-wheel drive Blazer, gave the unknown Jeep an incurious glance as she walked past it, noting that for all its dents it was recently washed and not half covered with mud as many such vehicles were.
I hope this meeting is short, routine, and productive. I’ve got that tract on the mountain to walk over and I’m meeting the owners before noon.

The new man was thirty-something, tall, well-built, with thick, light brown hair and an open, frank expression on his quite handsome, lightly tanned face. Candace was intrigued in spite of herself. Men, in general, had not aroused any interest since Roger. The other men in the conference room were older, married or assigned to other parts of the state so that she had little interaction with them. The only other woman present was Julie Thomas, the longtime office secretary and receptionist. As the only female ranger currently in the county, Candace sometimes felt herself politely ignored, which bothered her not at all; it tended to make life easier.

Chief Ranger Donnie Morgan, the oldest of the crew, was his usual aggressively loud self, perhaps, Candace thought, to make up for his short stature and his rapidly balding head. Morgan rarely wasted time exchanging pleasantries and he did not do so now. He nodded at the new man. “This is Logan Amory.”

Logan smiled slightly, stirred his hand in a suggestion of a wave, but said nothing.

Morgan continued. “He’ll be filling in for anyone taking vacations while he gets acquainted with the area and then he’ll take over for Emmett.” He paused, looking around the room. “You all know Emmett’s moving out West?”

Scotty Emmett was Candace’s favorite partner, a fount of information and local lore. But Scotty was moving to the National Forest Service in Colorado, a move he said he couldn’t turn down, and his wife was as excited about it as he was. Candace was happy for them, but sad for herself. This Logan person would have a hard place to fill.

“So,” Morgan was saying. “Amory will go with Elder this morning to walk that tract on Spring Mountain that might be donated to the Forest Society. It’ll give him a chance to see some unusually nice trees. The forester they hired to look at it says there is some old growth timber in a ravine that is too steep to timber easily so it got left untouched for two hundred years.”

Candace had hoped for a quiet walk with the owners. She loved big trees and didn’t know how this new guy would react.

“And,” Morgan said ominously, “the rumor is the Alvah Smith Company has made a substantial offer for the property.”

Involuntarily Candace said, “Ouch.”

The Smiths were one of their worst problems, habitual ignorers of the state’s Best Management Practices. Numerous complaints had been filed against them since they frequently left a lovely forest in a miserable mess, in spite of the citations and occasional fines. They operated close to the line of legality, occasionally overstepping it, especially if the trees on the other side of the property line looked good. Big old-growth timber was something they would covet.

Candace said quickly, “They always do. All we can do is clue in the landowners.”

Candace and Logan took his official vehicle because he said that he would prefer to drive and needed to learn the roads. Candace didn’t argue; she rarely got to be a passenger and enjoy the scenery. She pointed out the way they were to go, but other than saying, “I’m Candace,” waited for him to begin a conversation.

He said perfunctorily, “Pleased to meet you,” then asked, keeping his eyes on the road, “This place we’re going to has some really old trees? What kind?”

“Oaks, maybe some maples, beech, and some white pines in the ravine. Somebody mentioned basswood and hornbeam. This will be my first visit so I only know what I was told.”

He was silent for a long moment. “I like big trees.”

A note in his voice struck her as maybe a little wistful. “Where are you from?”

“New Mexico. You’d call our trees bushes.” After a moment he added, “But some of them are really old. They’re just small because of the weather, especially the wind.”

She recalled her forestry classes. “Joshua trees and bristlecone pines.”

“And mesquite and pinon, but the Joshua trees are in California.”

He had a very nice voice, rich with a touch of an accent she couldn’t name and it attracted her interest. “So how did you end up here?”

“When I was in college I spent a summer as an intern in western Oregon. I had never seen trees like those firs and cedars and thought I would move there. Then I came here for a cousin’s wedding and saw what a variety of trees you have, all those kinds I had studied, and I could see the regrowth and the progression of the forest that’s not possible in the Southwest. So when I graduated, I came here looking for a job.” He paused, looking straight ahead. “I worked for a lumber company for a while, timber cruising.” He sounded apologetic.

Calculating the amount and value of marketable lumber in a woodlot was not her idea of fun. She knew trees matured and needed harvesting to maintain forest health and provide income for landowners, but she preferred not to cut them down, even when it was done properly. “That can be good training.”

“It was. It got me acquainted with your trees. It’s a lot different from the mesa I grew up on.”

Candace considered that. She had never visited the Southwest.

“And then there is the ocean. There’s something about all that water and wet sand, and the smell of salt air. A bit different from dust.”

She couldn’t think of an answer to that while she tried to envision miles of dry wasteland, recalling the sets of old B westerns.

After a long pause, Logan said, “This logging company you mentioned . . .”

“The Alvah Smith Company, run by three brothers. It’s been around for years, started by the grandfather of the current operators. They appear to have no interest in preservation or conservation of old trees, or anything but money. That’s what gossip says, anyway. I only met one of them once and haven’t dealt directly with them. I know they leave a tract a mess.”

“They don’t follow the rules?”

“Not if they can help it. They’ve been fined, even banned from some small towns. They push to the very limits of the regulations.” She sighed. “It’s kind of hard to put trees back once they are gone.”

“Yeah.”

“The last time I was called in, their man had gotten too close to an old cemetery, a colonial era spot. You’re supposed to stay at least fifty feet away from cemetery walls. It’s an isolated place and they might have gotten away before anyone noticed, but a neighbor was out walking her dog.” She paused, remembering. “They weren’t very careful where they dropped the trees and damaged the stone wall. They also broke a granite gate post and two old grave markers, one from the Revolutionary War.”

“What happened to them?”

She heard the disbelief and outrage in his voice and warmed to it. “The landowners had a fit and fired them. Some of their ancestors were buried there. The Cemetery Trustees called the cops. The company had to repair everything, several thousand dollars in the end, to repair those old headstones.” She laughed shortly. “I did hear that the Smiths fired the man who caused the damage. They said he wasn’t authorized to be there, but that might be gossip.”

Logan didn’t answer for a moment. “That’s awful.”

Candace silently agreed and wondered what he was thinking. “Make a right turn here, onto that dirt road. We go up the side of the mountain for a ways. The owner will meet us along there.”

The owner, Weston Abrams, a graying, stocky, middle-aged man, met them as Candace had arranged and suggested they follow him. Their route along an abandoned road curved through stands of hardwoods and clumps of tall hemlocks. Candace was enchanted.
This is my kind of place.

About a quarter mile along the rutted road Abrams stopped at the edge of a clearing. Logan pulled up beside him and parked.

“There was a house here once,” Abrams said, pointing. “All overgrown now.”

Candace could see the ancient lilac bushes that bordered many such former home sites. They were just coming into leaf. “Too bad the old lilac isn’t getting enough sun to bloom properly.”

Abrams sighed. “It used to, when I was young.”

Logan asked, “Lilacs?”

Candace glanced at him, seeing his bewilderment. “Most early houses had a lilac bush or two. One by the front door was said to keep out the evil spirits.”

Abrams laughed. “I’m not sure it did that very well.”

Logan smiled. “Best to try everything.”

Abrams led the way into the woods, not following any visible trail. As they walked, Candace noticed several mossy, leaf-littered pools in shadowed hollows on the hillside. Vernal pools were caused by the underlying rock that prevented proper drainage and provided breeding places for the frogs and salamanders that were her current study. They were usually almost dry by mid-summer
. I’ll have to come back here to look.

An opening in the trees near the top of a steep hillside disclosed a series of south-facing granite outcroppings covered with a tangle of mountain laurel. Candace envisioned it in full bloom a little later in the spring. The property had some of everything, just what the Forest Society wanted to preserve.