Evenfall Read Free Page A

nothing. Although I suppose it will serve Roscoe right if he comes up here on a goose chase—cantankerous old fool.”
    Gert starts off toward the guest house, her sneakered feet slapping briskly on the path. Every now and then she pauses to swat at a mosquito. Andie trails along behind, fingering the branches and leaves that reach out to block her way.
    When Andie was a child, sleeping over at Aunt Gert’swas an adventure. Clutching her overnight bag, she walked the trail between the two houses, pretending to be a fairy-tale character—Gretel, perhaps, or Little Red Riding Hood, or, on her more melodramatic days, any one of the endless sisterhood of cartoon princesses who had managed to lose their mothers at birth like her. By the time the front of the cottage came into view, partially screened by a stand of pine trees, she’d scared herself into thinking that every shadow, every twig that snapped underfoot, had ominous overtones. She’d have to stand on the front porch, shivering in the summer sun, until she got up the nerve to face whatever waited inside—witch or big bad wolf.
    By now though, Andie has had too much personal acquaintance with wolves of the grown-up variety to be scared by the make-believe type. Instead, she sees the cottage for what it is—a faded, shabby structure—and her throat swells with sadness.
    Gert plows up the steps, tugging open the screen door and letting it squeak shut behind her. Andie lingers on the porch, absently pulling off long curls of peeling paint until she realizes what she’s doing and stops, appalled. She tamps down the piece she’s been working with her thumb, but the curled edge won’t lie flat. She kicks the corkscrews of paint that have already come off into the overgrown shrubbery around the porch railing, then goes inside before she can do more damage.
    The afternoon sunlight is dim inside, filtered through the branches of the trees all around the cottage. The light casts shadows on the white walls, and as Andie’s eyes adjust, shecan see that not much has changed. The same blue sofa is positioned parallel to the door, dividing the living area from the kitchen. The cushions on the rocking chair in the corner are worn, but comfortably so. Postcards from Italy are tucked along the fireplace mantel, propped between pinecones and stones from the creek. A few more are stuck to the front of the kitchen’s refrigerator with magnets.
    Gert is standing over the white enamel sink, scrubbing potatoes for supper. Andie groans. Her aunt is a notoriously bad cook who believes food should be heated as long as possible, to kill germs. Andie has come to the rural southeastern end of Connecticut with hopeful visions of take-out pizzas and Chinese food, and armed with a secret stash of soy granola bars.
    “Here, Aunt Gert. Let me do that.” She moves to take over the chore, but Gert blocks her with the brisk efficiency of someone used to being in charge.
    “Nonsense. Go unpack, if you feel the urge to do something.”
    Dutifully, Andie wanders into the guest bedroom, where she’d thrown her suitcase before rushing off to the big house with Gert. Her aunt has placed it neatly on the single bed, a towel underneath to prevent dirt from staining the white bedspread.
    With a sigh, she unzips the bag, then takes a look around. There’s a chest of drawers, wedged kitty-corner against the far wall. The closet—really an old-fashioned cupboard, with hooks set into the back—will hold perhaps a third of the clothes she’s brought. The walls are bare, painted the sameflat white as the rest of the cottage. Idly, Andie runs a finger along the top of the chest. No dust. Sitting on the bed, she recalls that, as exciting as her visits to Gert’s were, as a child she was always glad to go back to the big house and Aunt Clara. After a meal of Gert’s plain oatmeal, she’d fly along the path to the big house, in time for a second breakfast of pancakes with real maple syrup and butter. Her