Chapter 7
When you reach the rainbow’s end, face to the right and locate the tallest tree.
Of course, as I make my way past the dead end and into the woods, I realize Mabel has had some fun with this because there are much shorter and simpler paths to where I now stand.
But it’s the journey.
I have no idea where those words come from—it’s almost as if someone whispered them in my ear. I even stop in place and turn to look, but I’m still alone.
Well, today has been a journey indeed. The last few days have been a journey. The last eight months have been a journey. And here I am, still looking for whatever it is I’m supposed to find at the end of a faded 1970s rainbow. I’m pretty sure it won’t be a pot of gold.
It’s not entirely easy to keep track of which tree is the tall one as I step under the boughs and foliage—it’s a jungle in here.
But I follow the logic that the tallest tree should have one of the bigger trunks, and before I know it, I’m standing at the base of an enormous tree I’m pretty sure is the right one, mainly because of the wild ferns scattered on the ground around it.
Of course, I need a “fern path,” and this is more of a sprinkling of them. But when I study them for a moment in the dark, shady coolness of the forest, I see that they sort of create a twisty line, if you look at it in the right way—so I follow it.
I seem to be heading back to the edge of the woods, just in a different direction, and then, lo and behold, at my feet I find a lichen-covered concrete frog wearing a crown.
I breathe a sigh of relief, because the stone frog is really just a stone frog, nothing cryptic or mysterious to decipher, and also because a stone frog would have been so, so easy for someone to pick up and carry away at some point, and I’m grateful no one did.
Up ahead, past the frog, the sunlight creates an opening in the trees, and beyond it—voilà, a green wooden door. The green gateway, surely.
“What on earth are you doin’ in the woods?”
I jump nearly a mile because—oh my God, of course the cowboy next door has followed me into the forest. Though when I spin to face him, he no longer looks like a responsible police officer and is back to being a random country dude, now in worn-out cowboy boots, a Buffalo Trace bourbon T-shirt, and that stupid hat.
“If you’re not careful, you’ll get lost,” he warns.
I’m already lost. I don’t say it, but it’s what comes to mind.
The truth has a way of sneaking in through little cracks and crevices when you least expect it.
I feel more lost than I have in a very long time, and now I’m following some crazy treasure map hoping to find . .. something. Something that matters.
“Don’t worry, I know where I’m going,” I claim anyway.
He gives his head a doubtful tilt. “How is that possible?”
I hold up Mabel’s directions. “I have a map.” Okay, so much for not letting him intrude on my private hunt. And since I can’t call back the words, I quickly try to change the subject. “Are you following me?”
“Yep,” he admits, like that’s an okay answer.
I’m moderately outraged. “Why?”
“Because when I step out the front door to see you barrelin’ off into the woods like you know where you’re goin’ when you don’t, I consider it my civic duty as an officer who’s been sworn to serve and protect to keep you from breakin’ an ankle, fallin’ off the edge of a mountain, or gettin’ bit by a snake. ”
Hmm. Okay, those are pretty good reasons. But what he doesn’t know is ... “No need to fear—I’m not going far.”
“What’s this map you’re wavin’ around?”
So much for diversion. And I’m hardly waving it—it’s just in my hand. But I guess the jig is up. So I hold it out and show him.
He snatches it away and starts to read. “What the hell is this?”
“I found it in Mabel’s things.”
After a moment, he eyes me suspiciously, and something about his look runs through my body. “Why didn’t you just show me this half an hour ago when we were talkin’ about the big mimosa? Why so mysterious?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.” And as much as I dislike being so honest with him, I feel like he’s forcing my hand. “For some reason, I wanted to keep this just between me and Mabel. I wanted a ... private project. Something to do quietly on my own.”
“Well,” he says, looking as if he feels a little guilty, “sorry I messed that up. But on the bright side ...”
I glance up at him from beneath the brim of my hat. “Yeah?”
“You found the garage key. I’ve been lookin’ for that for two years.”
I blink. Twice. That’s the garage I’m seeing through the trees?
I haven’t found a magical door to a magical hobbit house in the woods?
I mean, it makes sense, logically, now that he’s saying it’s the garage, but it’s a serious letdown.
Mabel, Mabel, Mabel—you really had me going.
All this and you could have just written “Go to the garage.”
I take a deep breath and cast my neighbor a sideways glance. “You’ve been trying to find this key since Mabel died? Couldn’t you have just broken in?”
He shrugs, considering it. “I suppose. But there’s nothin’ in there I particularly need. Just seemed like a good idea to be able to get inside.” He grins. “Now we can.”
As we walk toward the light, he tells me, “My grandpa put that chicken thermometer on the house. Mabel always did like it.”
“I can’t believe she sent me—well, me being the person who found this—on such a wild-goose chase just to get to the garage,” I mutter, still wrapping my head around that.
“Well, Mabel had some time on her hands the last few years of her life. Reckon she thought it’d be her family to go on this hunt.
And at the same time, she probably wondered if they’d bother.
Kevin’s dad was raised here, but once he left, the family didn’t come back a lot, and even less after Kevin and his sisters grew up. ”
“So you’re saying ... what? That she was screwing with them a little?”
He raises his eyebrows, flashing an amused expression. “Could be. Nobody likes feelin’ forgotten.”
You’re tellin’ me, pal.
“And besides,” he says, working to separate the key from the note, “it’s not a wild-goose chase unless there’s nothin’ good inside.” He gives a little wink that makes my chest ripple.
I jerk my gaze away just as we emerge back out into the early-evening sunlight and find ourselves behind Mabel’s garage, facing its back—green—door.
Getting the key free, he looks closely at it—then lets out a hardy laugh.
“What?” I ask.
He holds it out to show me: The side that was taped down is labeled with the word Garage . If I’d just removed the key to begin with, the answer was right there.
“Oh my God,” I say, laughing, too.
And so we’re suddenly laughing together . Which comes with a funny sensation in my solar plexus—until I remember that I really have no intention of hanging out with the police chief, for many reasons, so I stop and say, “Well, let’s see what’s inside.”
I pluck the key from his fingertips before he can stop me, because I earned the right to unlock this door. The sun is starting to dip toward the horizon in the distance, softening the light, and my heart beats too hard with anticipation. I don’t know why.
Part of me is a little mad that I have to share this discovery with Cowboy Matt—but in all honesty, another part of me is glad he’s here, just in case there’s something wild or crazy or confusing inside. Or if there’s snakes.
Grabbing the old enamel doorknob with one hand, I use the other to slide the key into an antique lock that I hope still works.
When I turn it and hear a slight click, I automatically lift my eyes to my companion and our gazes meet—until I immediately pull mine away.
Then I turn the knob and ease the door open.
Inside, it looks like a normal old garage: a well-aged, built-in worktable, tools on a pegboard, two rakes and a shovel, a grease stain on the cracked concrete floor.
The only things that come with question marks are the cardboard boxes and plastic storage containers. Stacks of them line the back wall.
Police Chief Matt must be thinking along the same lines since he walks up to the nearest cardboard box, rips off a strip of thick masking tape, and pulls back the flaps. Then, peeking inside, he says, “Uh-oh.”
I stand up a little straighter. “Uh-oh? What is it?”
“You found the Lost and Found lost and found.”