Chapter 9 Carrie
My sister disappeared in the last blush of summer, and there have been no wildflowers left on the doorstep since.
—Clemence Morgan, December 18, 1875
The stranger from before is outside the cottage. He’s carrying wildflowers—a small bunch of yarrow and evening primrose—in his fist. At first, I watch him through the windscreen, gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white. I’ve just gone to pick up a steam wallpaper stripper; it’s sitting in a box on the passenger seat at my side.
The man knocks on the cottage door, once, twice, then shakes his head. He places the wildflowers on the doorstep and thrusts his hands into his pockets. He’s all angles, this stranger. Dark hair curving over his forehead, framing sharp cheekbones, his back curved like a sickle. He turns, walking toward the path that leads up the mountain. My gaze snaps to the yarrow and evening primrose, the haze of white and yellow that I know will wilt within an hour, and then to his retreating back. I get out of the car.
“Wait!”
I call, slamming the car door shut. “Wait!”
His footsteps stutter as I hurry over to him, past the wildflowers, past the cottage. He turns, eyebrows raised in a question. And as I get closer to him, I see the true color of his eyes. Blue, a deep midnight blue, the deepest navy I’ve ever seen. Those eyes blink at me now, over his pursed mouth. “Who are you?”
Irritation nettles me. “I’m the woman you’re leaving flowers for. Did you leave a bunch the other day as well? On this doorstep?”
“Yes.”
“Well, don’t. Do you think I need this? Here? I don’t want these left here, I—”
His forehead bunches, tiny lines creasing his skin. “I left them for Ivy.”
“Ivy . . .”
I blow out a breath, relief pooling in my middle, replacing the irritation, the fear, the superstitious fear that I should be gathering up these flowers. The wildflowers were left by a person. An actual, living being. Not by the mountains. Not like some folktale that’s been passed from tongue to tongue in Woodsmoke or written in the book. I rub a hand over my face, the tiredness of the last few days catching up with me suddenly. “Ivy passed away. I’m sorry.”
“Oh,”
he says. He closes his eyes briefly, as though gathering himself. When he opens them, they’re fixed on me. “Are you her granddaughter?”
“Yes, I am.”
A faint smile ghosts around his lips. “She said you’d return.”
Then he turns on his heel, setting off for the mountains.
“Wait!”
I say again, reaching a hand out to him before I can stop myself. I don’t know why I reach out to him. I’m wrung out, fed up with the wallpaper stripping, with this cottage that seems to be crumbling at its core. The more layers I peel back, the more I find. And these wildflowers, these gifts, have been bothering me for a week. Like a distant buzzing I can’t quite tune out. But I can’t ignore them, knowing the tales, the magic of this place. “How did you know her?”
He hesitates, turns partway, and fixes his eyes on the cottage at my back. A shadow passes across his face, but he quickly blinks it away. So quickly that I wonder if I imagined it. “I helped her last winter. A few repairs, just to keep the place going. I wanted to do more, but she said it wasn’t time.”
He shakes his head in confusion.
“Ivy was like that,” I say.
“Mysterious?”
“Cryptic. Stubborn. Even in her own sweet way.”
He shakes his head again. “Sorry I disturbed you.”
“It’s all right,”
I say, shrugging. “It’s good to know where the flowers are coming from. Even if they’re not for me. You should have waited the other day, when I called after you. For a minute, I thought I’d imagined you.”
He frowns, seeming to move words around in his mouth, reshuffling them, before he answers. “I should have waited and spoken to you. I guess I haven’t seen anyone in a while. It’s quiet up at the cabin, and I liked Ivy last winter. She didn’t expect a lot, but she always loved having flowers in the house. Yarrow was her favorite. And anything yellow. Or pink. Like red campion, but I guess it’s past its time. I couldn’t find it the other day. Huh . . . I can’t believe I’m already talking about her in the past tense.”
He smiles ruefully, his gaze slipping to his feet.
And I don’t know why—maybe because I’m relieved these flowers are left by this person, or because I’m worn-out and lonely, or because of the halting, genuine way he speaks—but I share a piece of myself. “I know. She—she used to collect it for me. She kept a bedroom here, my bedroom, it was always in a jug on the bedside table,”
I add. “Anyway.”
I shove my hands in my pockets, feeling like I’ve said too much.
But his eyes soften. “I’m Matthieu, by the way . . . I doubt she ever mentioned me.”
“We . . . we didn’t speak much. A few letters, but she didn’t like telephones.”
He nods, clearing his throat. His skin still has that alabaster pallor, cheeks and nose tinged a faint blush color from the cold. I swallow, trying not to stare, suddenly very aware of my untamed hair, my jacket faded to a shade of brown that could almost be green. He looks unkempt in an almost deliberate way, wearing a lumberjack-style shirt, jeans ripped on one knee. There’s a wildness to him. As though he’s brought a piece of the mountains down with him. There’s something about his eyes, the sculpted line of his jaw . . . I swallow, feeling heat rise up my throat as his eyes meet mine. “Well, if you need help with the cottage, I guess you’re here to fix it up? Sell it on?”
“I—I don’t know yet.”
I open my mouth to say more, dropping my gaze to the ground. The image of Tom with that little girl swims before my eyes. “I’ve only just got back.”
He fishes in his jacket pocket, pulls out a battered black Biro, then an old receipt. He scribbles some numbers on the back and thrusts it into my hands. “Here’s my number. Like I said, there’s more that needs doing in this cottage than Ivy ever let me do.”
I hesitate, then take the receipt from him, pocketing it. The irritation nettles again. Another person seems to think that I’m not cut out for this. That I need help, that I can’t manage alone. Shouldn’t I be the one to make that decision?
“I’m fine. But thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.”
He shrugs. “Your call. If you need help, I’m here all winter.”
“All winter?” I ask.
His gaze locks with mine, the inky depths of them feeling almost familiar. As if I’ve seen the shape of this gaze before, though I can’t quite pin down where. “I’ve rented the cabin just up the trail—the Vickers one?—for the low season, same as last year. It’s booked up for spring and summer, but I’ll be here as long as the frost holds.”
I watch as he walks along the path, disappearing into the gloaming.
I dream of Tom that night. I’m back in that long, trailing gown, the bells chiming in my ears. They’re discordant. Distorted. Tom, his face ashy with fear, all pinched and wrong, is trying to say something. I look down at my hands, see the blood welling in them. Blood and petals, falling, forever falling. And when I look up, it’s not Tom standing before me. It’s Ivy, holding a bunch of yarrow. Asking me to fix her cottage. Pleading with me to stay.