"Does Jack have a profession?"
"Marriage!" she said acidly. "He's been divorced three times, and he's only twenty-six. Mother says she doesn't care how many women he has, but why does he have to marry them all? It's like an addiction. Did you ever hear of such a thing? It's not a subject the family likes to discuss, but I'm sure he's married again and wants to get out of it. Whenever Jack spends a few weeks at home, he has an ulterior motive. He's been married to a rock singer, a figure-skater (she was nice), and an Italian actress."
"Some day he'll marry a librarian and live happily ever after," Qwilleran said.
Liz laughed a little. "I'm doing all the talking, Qwill. Tell me about you. Where do you live?"
"I live in a converted apple barn in Pickax City, population 3,000. I used to write for large metropolitan dailies, but now a friend of mine publishes the small local newspaper. I write for it and get involved, somewhat, with small-town life."
"You seem happy," Liz said with a touch of envy.
"I've achieved contentment, I think. I have friends, and I'm writing a book."
"I'm not happy," she said with bitterness. "You were right when you said I need a place of my own. When I'm at home, I lose all my spirit and ambition and appetite."
"How do you account for that?" he asked gently, although he was eager for particulars. Some day he would actually write that book, and he was always scrounging for material.
"Mother wants to direct my life, choose my friends, and make my decisions. After a while one just ... gives up!... There! That's all I'm going to say about it."
"Let's visit the Dark Village," Qwilleran said.
He rented a two-wheeled cart, and they headed toward the east beach with Liz at the reins. It was an expanse of pebbles with picnic tables and rubbish containers at intervals. A few tourists were sunning on beach towels or hunting for agates or sharing picnic lunches with stray cats. Qwilleran said, "I've seen feral cats everywhere except at The Pines."
"No," she said sadly. "They know they're not wanted."
After a while a rutted road forked to the left and plunged into the woods. The hush was almost oppressive.
"The Dark Village," Liz whispered. "Can't you feel its spell?"
Ancient trees spread a dense canopy of branches over the road. There were windswept cedars twisted into grotesque shapes and gnarled oaks with trunks five feet in diameter, crusted with lichens. As the horse plodded through the ruts, the wheels of the rented gig creaked noticeably; otherwise, there was a lonely silence. A ramshackle hut or collapsed roof might be seen in the woods, but there was no sign of humanity. Deeper and deeper into the forest the road followed a tortuous path between the arboreal giants. Qwilleran had to remind himself to take a deep breath occasionally.
Farther on, scattered habitations began to appear pathetic shelters nailed together from fragments of wrecked ships or structures swept away from some distant shore long ago. Some of them had small yards fenced off with misshapen pickets of driftwood, enclosing two or three crude tombstones. Yet, there was evidence of the living as well as the dead. A few pieces of clothing hung forlornly on a clothesline; an old dog slept on a doorstep; hens pecked in the road, and a goat nibbled weeds in a front yard. Once, a wild cat dashed across the road, dodging the horse's hooves. Some children, playing in a yard, rushed out of sight when the cart approached. Occasionally there was a glimpse of movement in a window, as someone peered out at the strangers. Somewhere a rooster crowed.
At one point the road widened slightly, and there was a small but well-built schoolhouse with outhouses for boys and girls; the siding was government-issue aluminum. Nearby, a weatherbeaten structure looked like the ghost of an old general store; two gaunt old men sat on a bench in front and glared at the cart as it trundled past. One other building made a brave showing with white paint but only on the front; there was a cross above the door.
After that, there were fewer dwellings and more open spaces with more patches of sunlight, until the road came to an end at the mountainous sand dune. Here the road forked right to the pebble beach and left into a tangle of weeds and underbrush.
Liz told the horse to whoa. "It was a hard pull through those ruts. Let him rest awhile."
Now what? Qwilleran thought; there seemed to be more on her mind than the welfare of the old nag. She was preoccupied. He said, "This has been a spellbinding experience. It's hard to believe that people live like this. What is that overgrown road to the left?"
"It used to be the villagers" shortcut to the west beach. It was closed when the Grand Island Club originated."
He was searching for a topic that would focus her attention. "That must be the sand dune where the fellow was shot last weekend." Then he told himself, This woman doesn't even read newspapers; she may not know about the shooting.
Liz turned to him abruptly. "Qwill, I think my guardian angel sent me that snake, so I could meet you."
"That's a charming compliment," he said stiffly, "but you paid a high price for a dubious benefit." He hoped this avowal would not lead to embarrassment.
Speaking earnestly, she said, "Ever since my father died, I've had no one to confide in."
"Is something troubling you?" he asked cautiously.
"I had a horrible experience right here on this spot a few years ago, and I've never been able to tell anyone."
"How old were you?"
"Sixteen."
Qwilleran's curiosity went into high gear, but he said in an offhand way, "If it will help you to talk about it, I'll be willing to listen."
She pondered a few minutes, looking tragic in her father's old hat. "Well, I was spending the summer here with my mother. Father had just died, and I felt so alone! Then my brother Jack came up for a few weeks. Mother had just paid a big settlement to get rid of his first wife, and now he had married again. Mother was upset, but Jack was her pet and could wheedle her into anything." Her mind wandered off into realms of family intrigue.
Qwilleran nudged it back on track. "So he came up to The Pines for a few weeks."
"He was doing penance. He was being sweet to Mother and even to me. We played croquet and went sailing, and one day he took me for a drive through the Dark Village, just as Father had done. We took my favorite carriage and favorite horse and a basket lunch to eat on the south beach. I was so happy! I thought I had finally found a big brother who would be my confidant."
The rented horse snorted and stamped his hooves, but Liz was consumed by her memories.
"We drove through the Dark Village and when we came to this fork in the road, he turned left into the weeds. I said, "Where are you going? This road is closed!" His mouth turned down with a nasty expression, and I can't tell you what he said! I can't tell you what he tried to do! I jumped out of the carriage and ran screaming to the beach road. There were some fishermen beaching their boats, and I told them I was from The Pines. I said my brother had played a trick and driven away without me. They remembered my father and took me home in their boat. It was full of wet, slippery, flopping fish, but I didn't care. I was grateful."
"What did you tell your mother?" Qwilleran asked. "I couldn't tell her what happened. She wouldn't have believed me. I told her my mind suddenly went blank. Jack told her I went crazy. Ricky said I was grieving for Father, and the ride through the Dark Village triggered a seizure. I had to have a nurse companion all summer, and Mother sent Jack to Europe while she paid off his second wife. That turned out to be poetic justice, because he met an actress in Italy and married again."
There was a distant rumble on the horizon, and Qwilleran asked, "Is that thunder? Or is Canada being attacked by missiles?"