Chapter Text
Chapter 4
Billy sits at the kitchen table, the steam from his cup curling up into the shaft of light that falls through the open door. Ha-eun is rolling on the tiles at his feet in a stripe of sun, a rainbow sheen on her black fur; Goody’s already left for the store. It had been a bad night, the first since they’d arrived; he’d woken to Goody’s thrashing and muffled cries, and after he’d come back up from the depths they’d lain for a long time in the unaccustomed silence of the night – no distant sirens or clatter from the street, just the wind in the trees and night-calling birds. But they’d slept again towards dawn and Goody had shown no ill-effects, off to work positive and fresh again; moving’s not a panacea, they’re both old enough to know that. And otherwise things are going well, life settled and easy, and Goody cautiously optimistic about the business, first fortnight’s takings better than I hoped, cher, and plenty of orders too.
But for himself? He scratches Ha-eun’s belly with a bare foot and she rolls over, luxuriating – he might as well admit it, he’s blocked. He’s set up his workroom and spent time selecting and displaying his photos in the store, he’s taken some publicity shots and a few in black and white for himself of Goody busy at the desk under the gallery in the slanting sun, or marooned in a drift of unshelved books, lost in the volume he’s picked up; but every time he’s thought about taking his camera out, getting to grips with the new environment, he’s baulked at it. He knows why: Rose Creek is just so … photogenic. Pinterest-perfect. All he can see here are images to suit a mass aesthetic – deer on suburban lawns in the morning, baskets of vegetables outside the farm shop, the old firehouse with its tiles and brass. Traditional. Quirky. Cute. It makes his teeth itch. What would you prefer? he chides himself. Graffiti on derelict lots? Shopping carts and foam from factory runoff in the river? That’s not his aesthetic either, but still, he feels out of place: what does Rose Creek really have to offer him? ‘Won’t find out if I don’t go looking,’ he tells Ha-eun; she blinks at him sagely, then turns her back and starts to wash.
He lets his tea sit unfinished and goes to fetch his bag, checking it for lenses, light meter, filters and tripod as a vague plan forms in his mind. The woods are supposed to be inspirational, aren’t they – surely they can give him some kind of subject? By the time he gets into the car he’s decided: he’ll follow Josh’s route from the other night, see if he can find the swimming hole again and start from there.
The streets around him are waking up as he heads out of town, children and neighbours he’s starting to recognise heading off to school and work: he passes Carmen with TV and Luis and that and his morning’s interaction with Ha-eun remind him of the catio they still haven’t commissioned. On an impulse he takes the next corner and pulls to the kerb outside the house Alejo shares with his father. Alejo’s small apartment, converted from the main house, has its own front door: it’s a while before anyone answers Billy’s ring and Billy wonders if perhaps they’re not the only ones who had a difficult night, but after a pause he hears approaching footsteps and the lock rattles.
Alejo’s clearly just out of bed, shirt randomly buttoned and his hair sticking up. ‘Bad time to call?’ asks Billy apologetically.
‘No, it’s fine.’ Alejo reassures him. ‘Should have been up before.’ From what Billy can see of the apartment – the living room on one side and a hallway leading down to the kitchen – it’s surprisingly sparsely-furnished, impersonal, even; there’s nothing in the living room apart from some weights and a guitar propped against the sofa. ‘What was it you wanted?’ prompts Alejo.
‘It’s about a job,’ explains Billy, ‘we need a catio built out back at our place, and Red Harvest said you were the man to ask.’
‘A catio.’ Alejo wakes up a bit, scrubbing at his jaw. ‘What kind of thing were you thinking of?’ He glances over his shoulder, oddly distracted. ‘Wait there – I’ll get something to draw on.’
He retreats back down the hall and as he does Josh appears from what must be the bedroom, scratching his bare chest. ‘Who was…’ He sees Billy in the doorway looking studiedly impassive and grimaces. ‘Less than ten minutes for the news to get around. Impressive even for this place.’
‘I’m on my way out of town,’ says Billy, ‘but you can’t seriously expect to keep it a secret. Emma can probably sense it already.’
Alejo sighs. ‘You might as well come on through. Go shower,’ he tells Josh.
‘Coffee,’ objects Josh, still planted in the hall; as Billy edges past him he gets a more extensive view than he would have wanted, and now he knows what he’s looking for he can see the marks of a no-holds-barred night.
Alejo puts his hands on Josh’s shoulders to steer him in the right direction. ‘I’ll put it on.’
Billy follows him through to the kitchen, as compact and spartan as the rest of the apartment; Alejo sets coffee to brew, then grabs his tablet. ‘Give me the details.’
‘Thought that was my line,’ says Billy, straight-faced.
Alejo looks at him reproachfully and taps his screen. ‘Vamos.’ Billy obediently sketches out what they want, a secure enclosure for Ha-eun to sun herself with shelves at different levels, while Alejo makes notes. He pauses to pour coffee for himself and tea for Billy, then goes back to figuring. ‘I’ll need to come and see the site, but I can give you a ballpark price,’ he offers.
‘Do we get a discount for being friends with Red?’
Alejo snickers. ‘You might, if you were.’ He sets the tablet aside and rummages out bagels to toast, cream cheese and salsa just as Josh comes back, his hair damp and curling stupidly, wearing a T-shirt that doesn’t fit. Alejo grins and wordlessly passes him a mug; Billy can imagine how sweetly domestic it would be if he weren’t sitting there.
Josh clearly feels the same: he gulps down half of his coffee, eyeing Billy with disapproval. ‘You not got work to do?’ he asks pointedly.
Billy sips at his tea delicately. ‘Don’t mind me.’ Josh shoots him a look of challenge, then steps up to close the distance between him and Alejo.
‘Mierd-‘ is all Alejo gets out before he’s crowded back against the cabinets and engulfed in a clinch. It’s long, enthusiastic and clearly for Billy’s benefit, though there’s something sweet about it despite the public show – the way Josh pulls back to read Alejo’s expression, the grip of Alejo’s hand on Josh’s neck. When it shows no sign of stopping Billy gets out his phone, snaps a photo and sends it to Goody with a text: marks out of ten?
At the beep of the message Josh breaks off with a scowl. Billy raises his eyebrows. ‘I’d give that six and a half.’
‘Six and a half?’ Josh chokes in outrage. ‘It was at least an eight.’
Billy shakes his head. ‘Your stance was poor,’ he judges, ‘and you could have made better use of your hands.’ Alejo huffs out an unwilling laugh and the phone pings with an incoming message. ‘Goody says seven, if that’s any comfort.’
‘Assholes.’ Nevertheless Josh seems more cheerful as he snags a bagel and slathers it with cheese. ‘Need to get to opening up: nothing early booked, but I can’t sit round with the shutters down.’
‘Maybe you should take an apprentice.’ Alejo waggles his eyebrows. ‘Give you a chance to stay in bed in the morning.’
Josh hoots with genuine laughter. ‘You think with a seven-year-old kid I ever get to sleep late?’ He drains his cup, cramming the rest of the bagel into his mouth. ‘You be at practice tonight?’ he asks indistinctly.
‘I know you would not manage without me.’ Alejo follows him down the hall and Billy hears muffled conversation and a burst of laughter, then the door closes and Alejo reappears, satisfaction in every inch of his demeanour.
Billy narrows his eyes. ‘Thought you told me I was barking up the wrong tree.’
Alejo sits down again, running a hand through his hair. ‘Don’t make it more than it is.’ Billy holds up his hands placatingly and Alejo pulls his tablet towards him again. ‘Where are you off to, anyway? Assuming you didn’t come by just to hassle us.’
‘Thought I’d head up into the woods again. Photographing,’ Billy clarifies at Alejo’s enquiring look. ‘Or scoping it out, at least.’
‘Don’t let any bears sneak up on you.’ Alejo snickers at Billy’s expression. ‘Not really. Most dangerous animals round here are the ticks.’ He stands up. ‘Show’s over. I should see if Papí needs anything.’
Billy goes with him down the hall. ‘Thanks for the tea. I’d say have a good day, but it seems redundant.’
Alejo snorts. ‘I’d say come by again, but actually, call first.’ He leans in the doorway to watch Billy go; as he gets into the car Alejo shouts after him, ‘It was an eight!’
Well, he should know. Billy heads back to the main road, preoccupied; he seems to be making a habit of blundering into Alejo’s business. The apartment, from what he’s seen of it, seems as much of a contradiction as he does, strangely bland and sparsely-furnished compared to the busy family life of his sisters. Didn’t bring much stuff with him when he came, Billy supposes. But maybe this will start to anchor him again – he and Josh make a good couple, in a combative way, and Alejo’s good with children… No business of yours, he reminds himself, and it’s not as though he’s any expert: who would have predicted that cold defensive Billy Rocks and touchy private Goodnight Robicheaux could find their way together? Not him. Still, though, they do better together than on their own, and isn’t that all a relationship is?
Out on the forest road he has to start paying attention again: it’s hard to judge exactly where they were the other night, the rutted turnoffs zipping by without warning, each indistinguishable from the last. In the end he simply picks one at random and drives a little way up it. Does it seem familiar? He has no idea; the trees are thick and impenetrable on either side, and when he steps from the car and listens he can’t hear the creek. Maybe he’s higher up than before?
He locks the car, shoulders his bag and strikes out into the trees; within a few minutes he’s wandering in what seems to be a boundless ocean of pines, their trunks marching into the distance all around. Shafts of sunlight pierce down, striking the low bushes and ferns growing among the roots to golden-green, and midges dance in the beams. The air is cool and still under the canopy of leaves, his footfall muffled by the carpet of needles; it’s like a natural cathedral, the same sense of towering space and quiet. He moves slowly, fingers brushing ridged bark and fronds of fern, drinking in the sharp green scent; a pigeon rises with a clatter just ahead, and higher up the branches shake as a squirrel bounds from cover to cover. The bag on his shoulder tugs at him: he should be setting up his tripod, composing his shot, but how could he begin to capture this on film? It’s sound, scent, sunlight, space – through a viewfinder it would become cramped and lifeless. What can a photograph tell of this cool greenness, of the sense of solitude and potential that he felt the other night?
He makes his way gradually uphill, following faint deer trails that rise, lace in and out of the trunks and vanish again. There’s no sign of human activity: the forest seems endless, timeless, as though he could be alone in the world. Then, without warning, he breaks through a screen of trees and into the open air again, finding himself at the edge of an ploughed field, a tractor parked at the opposite side. He has to laugh at his delusions of wildness: the field is planted with neat rows of low-spreading vines, bright with orange flowers, and the tractor’s owner is close by, bending over one of the plants.
He’s just the kind of Maine native Billy would have expected, burly and white-bearded in a flannel shirt and work boots, and his expression at Billy’s sudden appearance is as suspicious as he’d expect too. ‘Who are you?’ he demands; his voice is soft but his eyes are sharp, and Billy realises he must be trespassing.
‘I was just out walking. In the woods.’
The man’s eyes slide to his bag. ‘You a surveyor? Scouting for the loggers?’
‘I’m a photographer. Look.’ Billy drops his bag and opens it to pull out his Canon.
‘Journalist?’ The man doesn’t seem any more impressed by that idea.
‘No – I’m Billy Rocks. Goodnight and I have just settled in Rose Creek: he runs the new bookstore.’ He’d have thought this man would have heard as much about him and Goodnight as everyone else, but he shows no sign of recognition. ‘And I take photographs for a living. Was just out in the woods looking for inspiration.’
‘Well, now, that’s different.’ The man’s manner changes instantly, from challenge to gentle amiability. ‘You must think me mighty unwelcoming.’ He offers a work-hardened paw. ‘Jack Horne.’
Of course, Jack’s farm, like Teddy said. ‘Didn’t realise I was straying onto your land,’ apologises Billy, but Jack gestures expansively.
‘I don’t worry about that. No one should be putting up fences to keep folks out: can’t lay claim to nature.’ His gaze sweeps over the woods. ‘Why I don’t hold with loggers. Tearing up the forest, planting the wrong trees, scaring off the animals.’ He fixes Billy with a stern eye. ‘Kloskabe gave us this land to steward and we should walk in his footsteps.’
‘Klos--?’ echoes Billy, confused at this sudden turn in the conversation; Jack nods fervently.
‘Kloskabe made the rivers run clear and the trees grow strong, kept this place safe before men like us ever came, and the land is still his.’ With his gentle manner and wild beard it’s like meeting an Old Testament prophet, except that Billy has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. ‘Wisakedjak, Nanabozho: call him what you like, but show him respect.’ Native spirits? It seems unlikely from a grizzled white farmer.
Jack’s focus seems to snap back and he creases into a smile. ‘Don’t know how much inspiration you’re going to find in a field of pumpkins, though.’
‘That’s what these are?’ Billy feels hopelessly citified but Jack doesn’t seem to hold it against him.
‘Be a good harvest this fall: you can come up and get one. But right now I need to be sure they’re pollinating.’
He bends back to his task, hands earthy and cracked but touching the petals with delicate care; fascinated, Billy reaches for his camera. ‘Could I take some shots of you?’ he ventures. ‘Just working?’ In his experience few people turn down the request, and Jack proves equally amenable, chatting away unselfconsciously as Billy squats down beside him, zooming in on the vines.
‘You work all this on your own?’ It seems a daunting task for one man.
‘Most times.’ Jack smiles sunnily. ‘I have Juno to help when I need. She’s down at the shop with the orders just now.’
‘That your daughter?’ Billy’s concentrating on his work, the question idle, but to his consternation Jack sits up, serious again.
‘No, Rose was taken from me ten years ago, and my son too.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that—‘ Billy begins, but Jack shakes his head at him.
‘Alma looks after them, they’re all together. And I visit with them when I can.’ Billy frowns: he must mean in the graveyard. Jack bends back to his task. ‘I hold them with me in my heart.’
Billy really doesn’t know how to respond to that, and fortunately Jack doesn’t seem to expect an answer: Billy switches to a wider lens and stands to take some more shots from a distance, Jack making a small lone figure in the expanse of the field. ‘Thanks,’ he says as he packs his gear away, then more cautiously, ‘Mind if I wander around a little?’
‘Wherever you like,’ offers Jack cheerfully. He gestures back in the direction of the road. ‘Farmhouse is over that way, and the orchard behind; keep going up and you’ll come to the soft fruit, and beyond that the potato field and the alpacas.’
The what? Before the conversation can spin out of control again Billy shakes Jack’s hand and sets out around the perimeter of the field. He’s found one promising subject: could he be looking at a different form for his aesthetic, the interface of nature and civilisation?
He roams the site enthusiastically at first – the orchard full of little green apples and plums, empty barns where swallows dart and swoop, the flat expanse of the fruit fields – but by the time he reaches the edge of what must be the potato field his optimism has begun to drain away. The farm is – well, a farm, modern and well-equipped for all its owner’s otherworldliness, but essentially mundane: its rows of fruit canes and well-maintained machinery have nothing to offer aesthetically. He’s half-tempted to investigate the dark grazing blobs he can see in the distance, but alpacas, he’s certain, fall squarely into the ‘quirky’ tag he despises. Jack’s probably right – he’d be better off back in the woods. If he heads back to the road, he decides, he can loop down the hill on the other side.
All paths lead over to the farmhouse, an unremarkable timber-framed house with a steep roof: Billy threads his way around to the gravelled yard out front. Three cars are parked in a line, one a battered pickup and one a newish SUV, but Billy’s attention is drawn irresistibly to the third – a vintage Ford, unmistakeable in its shiny black splendour, its running boards and chrome grille like something out of a gangster movie. A car like this in driving order is impressive, he has to admit: Bogue’s affectations ought really to be irritating, but he understands Josh’s enthusiasm a little better. The three cars in line make a shot he can’t pass up, and as he’s working Bogue himself appears from behind the farmhouse in conversation with Jack.
‘Taking Tallulah’s picture?’ Bogue hails him genially. ‘Don’t blame you: she’s my pride and joy.’
‘She’s magnificent,’ says Billy. ‘Tho’ how do you keep her running?’
‘She was built to last,’ smiles Bogue, ‘and young Faraday treats her like the queen she is.’
Jack has come to join them; they make an odd pair, Bogue fussily formal as usual, Jack towering over him, modern and workaday. ‘I’ll see to the felling in the first week of September, give it time to season,’ he says, and at Billy’s enquiring look Bogue explains, ‘For the bonfire. Can’t leave it to chance and have it fizzling out – you need proper seasoned logs for a good blaze.’
‘Teddy was telling us about it,’ says Billy: everyone does seem oddly keen on this civic get-together.
Bogue nods enthusiastically. ‘Whole town comes up to my place for it,’ he tells Billy.
‘A light at midwinter,’ says Jack, the faraway look in his eyes again. ‘Rose and John love it, they’ll be there.’
Rose and John? Billy catches Bogue’s warning glance as he pats Jack’s shoulder. ‘I know they wouldn’t miss it.’ He gives Billy an imperceptible nod as he opens Tallulah’s door. ‘I won’t keep you any longer,’ he says politely to Jack, ‘I’ll drop by again in due course to organise when to collect.’ He settles behind the wheel, then pokes his head out the window to ask Billy, ‘Can I offer you a lift back down to town?’
For a moment Billy’s tempted to accept just so he can ride back down to Rose Creek in style, but he shakes his head. ‘Came out here to work, and I’ve not done much yet.’
‘That so?’ Bogue’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Well, make sure you get up to the overlook – you’ll want to see the view. Jack can set you right for it.’ He hits the starter and Tallulah’s engine stutters to life in that distinctive rattling roar; Bogue reverses her carefully out and disappears down the hill.
Billy is left alone with Jack, who stands gazing after the car as the sound of the engine dies away. ‘The forest needs the fire to let it grow,’ he says softly, ‘and we need the flames to scour us and make us whole again.’
By now Billy’s pretty sure Jack’s largely out of touch with reality; as Bogue hinted, best to humour him. ‘The overlook?’ he asks. He’s not sure a touristic viewpoint is going to be much use to him, but he can at least see it.
‘Way up is back there.’ Jack points back behind the house. ‘From the top corner of the orchard. No one uses it much these days.’ He stops, looking doubtful. ‘He said you could, I heard him, but...’
‘Don’t go poking about where I’ve no business?’ guesses Billy.
Jack leans closer, confiding. ‘Wouldn’t want to run into Denali.’
More Native myths? ‘I’ll take care,’ Billy assures him.
Jack looks relieved. ‘Just keep to the path – you’ll see a marker when you reach the boundary.’
Billy offers his hand again. ‘Good of you to let me look around.’ ‘Be seeing you.’ Jack doesn’t wait, just strides away back to his pumpkins.
The path is easy to find, and though as Jack warned it’s overgrown with thorns and ankle-snaring shoots it’s plain it was once well-used, a series of shallow steps cut into the hill to make the climb through the trees easier. Even so it’s steep and Billy has to pick his way carefully, his bag weighing heavy. After a while he passes a square stone marker with the name Beacon Hill in faded letters; beyond, the path seems to wind aimlessly, then abruptly turns on itself and all at once emerges onto a flat grassy terrace with a view clear across the valley.
The hillsides clad in velvety pines are majestic, rolling away into the distance under a clear blue sky; below him the land drops away sharply to where Rose Creek lies cradled in the dark green of the woods. Though Langston must be over the hill and Huntsford too Billy can’t even see a road; it’s as though this he’s looking down on the only town in a land still as wild as when Jack’s spirits walked.
The scale makes Rose Creek seem tiny, a miniature community perfect in every detail – its square of paler green next to the silver ribbon of the creek, the school away at one side, a toy-sized team out on the baseball field, the white church with its spire and the modern block of the hospital. Billy squares it up in his viewfinder, but stops, finger on the shutter: as a photograph he knows how it will come out: too impersonal, too distant. To appreciate the sight you have to know that Goody is down there in the bookstore, chatting to a customer, that Emma is working with one of her patients in rehab, Josh fixing a car in his garage, everyone going about the intricate mechanism of the town’s business, while you look on up here with an Olympian view.
He lets the camera fall, disheartened. So much for the inspiration of the woods – all he’s managed to find is things he can’t photograph. Might as well call it a day and head back down to the car, he supposes. Or… The path back down is to one side of the terrace, but it continues at the far side, winding back into the trees. His curiosity is piqued: why not go a bit further now he’s here? Bogue had suggested he come up here, after all, and his place is supposed to be worth seeing: a little exploration can’t hurt. Following a path isn’t trespassing, and God knows he has pitifully little to show for his trip so far.
He plunges back in among the trees, the woods as tangled and overgrown as before: you’d hardly think this was a private estate. It’s odd, come to think of it – he must be almost to the peak of the hill, yet the trees cluster if anything more thickly here, the tight-laced branches overhead turning the day’s sun to a cool twilight. He’d hoped for a view of the house, but there’s no sign of human presence at all, just the crunch of leaf litter under his feet and the brush of undergrowth as he passes: atmospheric, certainly, but no antidote to his creeping sense of failure. He ought to be able to make something of all this, find the right way to frame it, but the vision that lets him translate what’s before him into images is just not there. Perhaps he did leave his muse and his talent in the city after all.
He’s just on the point of turning back when a sparkle catches his eye up ahead, a flash of brightness there and gone in the murky depth of the pines. Too bright for a bird: he steps closer and there it is again, twinkling in among the trunks. A firefly? Do you see those by day? He moves slowly towards it, intrigued, and as he does so the little scintillating winks and flashes multiply, like the sun on wind-ruffled water, until he’s standing before the strangest of sights.
The tree in front of him is old, its knotted roots ridged into the earth and dark-leaved branches spreading low, and from its foot as high as he could reach, its bark is studded with pieces of metal, fragments of glass and tile, smooth pale shells and flints, each embedded carefully in the wood. He touches it, fascinated – there’s a copper penny, a glass marble, a scrap of china dish, a little silver figurine, a magpie’s hoard of shining things – and as he circles it his gaze slips behind to another just the same, and another – a whole uncanny grove of ornamented trees. What must it be – a form of folk art? An eccentric’s whimsy, an attempt at a natural folly?
At first he assumes the decoration is random, but as he traces from one treasure to the next he recognises a chip of green glazed tile that must come from the old firehouse, a pin with a high school crest beside one of the pale stones from the creek; it’s like a game, to identify each tiny item wedged into the bark – a turquoise ring, what must be a typewriter key, the broken blade of a knife; there’s the buckle from an overall, a chip of yellow ivory, shards of tinted glass and a button of jet, almost impossible to make out until it flashes like the eye of an animal. When he stands back the whole reminds him a little of Bogue himself, of the fussy detailing on his antiquated clothes, the sprigs on his embroidered vest, the row of buttons on his boots, his sparkling tiepin. And if he wanted a meeting of nature and civilisation then here it is, in the middle of the woods.
This. Yes, this. A familiar calm settles in him as he sets down his bag and starts to unpack his gear: a challenge, in the forest’s half-light, but worth it. At last he has what he’s been looking for, something which will speak on film, which will make an image alive with pointillist fascination and unsettling weirdness.
And afterwards, it’s suddenly easy, as though a key has turned and the tumblers of a lock fallen into place: everything he sees around him seems ripe with potential, the vision finally, tentatively, within his grasp. Time passes unheeded as he wanders, each vista drawing him on to the next, framing, testing, shooting; it’s good, he knows, it’s all good, and he rides the flow of it, the precious rare moment when he gets to live it, the camera an extension of his eye and his mind.
--
The rush of motivation, of vision, stays with him all the way home: he’s tired and hungry, but he goes straight up to his workroom to hook up the camera and start the transfer, then comes back down to grab a sandwich and wash it down with the cold tea while it loads. Seeing the images tiled out on the screen brings a leap of elation: they’re even better than he thought. He opens the programme to begin the process of cropping and tweaking, and is soon so absorbed that he doesn’t register the sound of the key in the lock downstairs. It’s only when the door opens and Goody peers around it that he looks up with a start.
Goody grins. ‘There you are.’
‘Come see.’ Billy tilts the screen to show Goody the picture he’s working on, a view through the trees to the crumbling earth of a scarp, with a shape like an indistinct figure silhouetted just at the edge of the frame.
‘Good day?’ Goody leans over to drop a kiss on the top of his head.
‘Great day.’ Billy taps the screen to show him another, this one taken low down across the surface of the creek, broken reflections tugging the eye to the indeterminate shapes of – rocks? Floating weed and washed-up sticks? ‘Took me a while, but I think I’m finally beginning to see the way.’
‘Where did you go?’ Goody carefully unwinds a twig from his hair, then perches on the windowsill, twiddling it between his fingers.
Billy spins his chair to face him. ‘Up to the farm, first, the one Teddy’s always talking about. Met the famous Jack. This is him.’
He clicks through to find the picture and Goody squints at the screen. ‘Real mountain man type.’
Billy considers. ‘He’s odd. Very friendly, once he got over being suspicious, but pretty strange.’
‘Started quoting scripture at you?’ guesses Goody.
‘Spirits, yes, but ones I’d not heard of, native ones, I think. He lost his family, there’s obviously a story there.’
‘Poor guy.’
To lighten things Billy adds, ‘He offered to show me his alpacas.’
Goody looks perturbed. ‘Is that some Maine slang intended to protect my sensibilities?’
Billy snickers. ‘I said no.’
The show clicks automatically to the next picture and Goody laughs. ‘I saw Tallulah too, down in town. Can see why Faraday’s like a kid in a sweetshop over her.’
‘Bogue came by the farm to talk about getting wood for his big bonfire. He sent me up to his place – I’d been really struggling before, but then it all just took off.’ After all these years Goody is used to his inarticulate attempts to explain his artistic endeavours, and Billy loves him for it. ‘There’s a lookout where you can see right down on the town.’
‘Have to go up some time.’ The show forwards again and without thinking Billy taps the screen to stop it before it gets to the trees. Somehow it just seems too difficult to explain about them. Not really important.
Goody gets up. ‘Glad you made a start, cher. Think you can peel yourself away from them long enough for dinner?’
Billy stretches, rolling his shoulders. ‘I should shower first. Give me ten minutes.’
‘I’d better feed our poor neglected cat.’ Goody’s footsteps fade down the stairs and Billy carefully saves his changes, then stops. The trees. They were the oddest thing he’s seen - why didn’t he tell Goody about them?
He’s just drawn a breath to say it when Goody calls up, ‘How about La Huerta tonight? You’ve got a lot to tell me about Alejo and Josh, and if our luck’s in we might even see them.’
‘Perfect,’ says Billy; he shuts down the computer and heads for the shower, closing the door behind him.