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My stomach clenches. I’ve never lost anyone close to me that way.
“He was a little older than her. Fifteen.”
“Was he a friend? Or …”
She gives me a knowing look. “I think more, though she wouldn’t tell me. She knows I don’t want her dating anyone yet. She’s too young.”
“How is she taking it?”
“She’s managing. It happens around us, especially in the villages. It happens too much. People are isolated, there aren’t a lot of options. They get hold of alcohol as an answer, even though it’s not sold anywhere legally.” She shakes her head. “This boy had a drinking problem, and I think maybe she’s been drinking with him sometimes. There have been signs and behavior over the last few months …” Her words drift.
Mabel? How did the bubbly, innocent twelve-year-old who chased chickens and took me to pick blueberries last summer change so much in a year?
The quiet on the screened-in porch has shifted to something disconcerting. “You should have told us, Agnes,” I admonish.
“I didn’t want to worry you. You have enough to focus on here. And Jonah, well, I’m not sure telling him is the best idea. He isn’t the most graceful with communicating at times.”
“Yeah. I get that.” He’s liable to yell at her, and where will that get him with a rebellious thirteen-year-old girl?
I watch Agnes closely. I had a feeling she was sugarcoating life in Bangor. I’ve noticed it in our phone calls, when she smoothly diverts the topic away from Aro, away from the new tenant in my father’s house, away from her troubles with raising a teenager. Always away from her, and toward us.
I should have pushed, but I’ve been so focused on us, too.
“Are you happy?” I don’t think I’ve ever asked her that outright.
“I’m …” She frowns. “We’re still trying to find our bearings. Without Wren and Jonah, life doesn’t feel quite alive anymore.” She offers a gentle smile. “But I think this little trip was a good idea for all of us.” She watches the two figures on the lake. “It feels like I have my family back together.”
Family.
Yes. That is exactly what this feels like.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
When I pull up to Roy’s place the next evening, Oscar and Gus charge me with excited barks, giving my pant leg a sniff before darting away to take up their sentry posts. The barn door is open, but the goats bleat noisily inside. Roy must be tending to them in there.
It’s been two days since he left his “apology” on our doorstep. I’m not entirely sure why I’m here tonight, except for the simple truth that I spent all afternoon watching the clock and replaying Muriel’s words from yesterday while internally debating my choices.
And now I’m here.
Instead of seeking Roy out, though, I head straight for the chicken coop, dragging the hose with me. Someone has shoveled out the chicken poop and replaced the pine shavings. I’d like to think it was Toby, but if there’s anyone stubborn enough to attempt that with a collection of broken bones, it would be Roy.
I set to work, cleaning out and refilling the feeders, silently wagering with myself how many eggs I’ll find when I check the roosts.
I sense rather than see eyes on me. When I look over, Roy is standing in the entryway of the barn, a rake in his good hand. His face is still bruised but the purple has faded some, now mottled with hints of green and yellow.
“Toby said you got a new truck,” he calls out, his voice gruff as per usual.
“I did. A Jeep.”
“Why didn’t you drive it here?”
“I don’t want to scratch up the paint.”
He harrumphs but says nothing more about it, disappearing back into the barn.
I finish feeding and watering the flock for the night and then duck into Roy’s house to leave the eggs—six!—along with a plate of Agnes’s roasted chicken, strawberries that Agnes hulled, and the last slice of my birthday cake.
Roy is lugging a pail of milk when I emerge. The barn door has been pulled shut. It appears chores are done.
