The Path Through the Trees. Peggy Dymond Leavey

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      There was no moon to light the path as Jody made his way back to the shed in the woods. In spite of all the years that had passed since the last time he’d been here, the route from the big house was still familiar to him.

      Once in out of the rain, the embers of the fire in his little stove provided enough light for him to find the tin of matches. Striking one, he held it to the wick of the lantern, adjusting the flame before he hung it back on the nail over the bench.

       The lady had looked well enough, he thought. Older, but that was to be expected after all this time. But what about this girl he’d seen with her? Could she be the reason he’d felt drawn to come back here? Maybe the girl was the one who would provide him with another chance to connect with the family. But who was she?

      Five

      The first thing Norah heard the next morning was the sound of freezing rain peppering the eaves. Tiny icicles hung from the trees and coated the wires into the house. The only good thing about the dismal scene from the bedroom window, in Norah’s opinion, was that the temperature must be falling, and that might mean there would be snow for Christmas.

      It was past eight o’clock by the time Norah had dressed and hurried downstairs. Aunt Caroline had already disappeared somewhere into the silence of the house. There was one place set for breakfast at the table in the dining room. A fortress of little boxes of dry cereal ringed the place mat, and there was a glass of pale juice that turned out not to be orange, but grapefruit. It puckered her mouth. Norah took the glass with her to the window and looked out.

      She was surprised to discover her great-aunt in the backyard, her clothing covered by an enormous black raincoat. Moving carefully over the frozen ground, Caroline Stoppard was making the rounds of the ice-coated birdfeeders. Norah watched as she threaded her way between the feeding stations, filling each one with a scoop cut from a plastic bleach bottle that she dipped into a garbage can of seed on the back step.

      And there, watching her, was the boy. Norah was positive it was the same person she’d seen last evening. This time, he was standing inside the hedge, holding the collar of his short jacket closed with one hand, his shoulders hunched against the bitter rain. Aunt Caroline seemed unaware of him.

      Norah felt her pulse quicken in her throat, and she rapped on the window to alert her aunt to his presence. “Over there,” she mouthed, pointing, when the woman looked up with a scowl. “That boy, there!”

      Aunt Caroline didn’t seem to understand. She shook her head and bent to dip the scoop into the pail of birdseed again.

      Quickly, Norah set the juice onto the table and strode toward the kitchen. She’d go to the back door where her aunt could hear her. But out of the corner of her eye she saw that the boy had already vanished, slipping away into the trees beyond the hedge.

      She met Aunt Caroline coming up the back steps and held the door open for her. “Didn’t you see . . . ? Oh, be careful on those stairs!” Norah cried, realizing the coat of ice on the stone.

      Aunt Caroline entered the house with a great flapping of the raincoat and stepped out of her rubber boots. “I’m always careful,” she snapped. “But my feathered friends will be looking to be fed as soon as this storm’s over.” She glared at Norah. “Have you had your breakfast yet?”

      “I was just about to,” Norah admitted, as her great-aunt hung the dripping raincoat behind the door. “I didn’t think you’d seen that boy out there, so I was trying to warn you.”

      “Is that what you were hammering on the window about?”

      “I wasn’t hammering,” Norah objected. “I just wanted to get your attention.”

      “Well, nonetheless, I don’t need any broken windows, thank you. And I can assure you I was quite alone out there.” Still in her stockinged feet, Aunt Caroline filled a kettle at the sink and set it over an opening in the stove.

      “There was a boy out there, Aunt Caroline,” Norah insisted. “And it wasn’t the first time I’ve seen him either. He was there last night too. It’s like he’s watching the house.”

      “Nonsense,” her great-aunt scoffed. She sat down in the rocking chair to tie her shoes, then straightened up, slapping her hands against her thighs. “There, now I am ready for my mid-morning cup of tea. When you’ve finished breakfast, please bring your dishes in to the sink.”

      Confused and a little angry besides, Norah returned to the dining room. As she had expected, the yard was now deserted. But she had seen someone there! What seemed more puzzling even than the appearance of the stranger, was that her aunt refused to believe her. Why would she think she’d make it up? Could it be that the old lady did not want to be reminded about how vulnerable she was, living out here on her own?

      When she took her dishes to the kitchen, Norah found Aunt Caroline had set up the ironing board and was pressing the backs of several squares of needlework. She didn’t look up.

      Aware that the woman preferred to be alone, Norah set her breakfast things into the sink and slipped away to her room upstairs.

      The rain was coming from the east and driving against the back of the house. When Norah took her toothbrush into the bathroom, little icy fingers were tapping at the window there, like someone scratching to get in. The thought that a stranger could be watching the house made Norah shiver. Even if he was just a boy. And was it her imagination, or was the boy getting closer to the house each time?

      Shortly, she heard Aunt Caroline come upstairs and walk along the hall to open the door of the room next to the bathroom. Norah followed as far as the doorway.