Good Story to Read.com: Short Story Collection #01

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  They had promised to be back by dark. But the sun was already setting, tucking itself away behind the mountains to the west. And in its place a full moon was rising in the east, bigger than any moon Rebecca remembered seeing for a long time. It cast its cold, pale light across the countryside, revealing everything that should have been hidden by the coming of night.

  Rebecca looked down from her kitchen window to a black, cast iron pan on the stove in front of her. In the pan the last of a plate of pork chops sizzled in its own fat with hints of garlic and pepper. She was always happy to make pan-fried pork chops, a recipe she learned from an aunt whose name was now almost lost on the present generation. Rebecca never shared the recipe with anyone. She kept it secret over the years, much to the disappointment of the other women in the family. But she always knew that one day she would pass the recipe on to someone in the family.

  She turned the meat over once and seeing that one side was as brown as the other, she jabbed it with a fork and took it from the pan. She turned off the stove and walked over to the kitchen door. Squinting, she looked out through the screen. She could barely make out the figure of someone coming down the road on a bicycle. She tossed her apron over the back of a chair and went outside. A soft breeze gently moved the leaves on the trees, but otherwise a strange quiet seemed to have settled over the valley. No birds chattered in the peach trees. No crickets chirped. Cautiously she stepped off the porch and walked a few steps down her driveway.

  In the old days, she could have picked out the hat a woman was wearing from a distance. A hat would have told her a lot. By the hat a woman wore Rebecca would have been able to tell if she was bringing good news or bad. By the hat she would have known to put on a pot of water for tea and a short visit or grind some coffee beans for a longer visit that might lead to finger cookies and lemon cake. But the days of dress hats were over and fortunately for Rebecca since she could not see well anymore. It wasn't until the figure on the bicycle turned into her driveway that she could tell it was the younger of her two great nieces.

  "Auntie! Auntie!" the girl cried out excitedly, "you have to see it!"

  "Where is your sister?" Rebecca asked.

  "She's still there looking at it. I just came home to get a camera."

  "Looking at what?"

  "There's a tree by that old farmhouse down the road. I never saw it before. But I don't know how I missed it. It's beautiful."

  "A tree?' Rebecca asked.

  "Yes," the girl said laying her bike down on its side. She hurried past Rebecca for the side door. "I have to get a camera!"

  Rebecca stood in the driveway as the quiet of the evening crowded in around her. The old farmhouse was the Burnham farm. It had been deserted for years since Maggi Burnham passed away. But she did not recall there ever being a tree in the field, especially one that could be called "beautiful". Her niece must be mistaken. It must be another place. Then like a gentle shake in the night to wake one from their sleep, Rebecca remembered a handsome boy who once looked deep into her eyes and made her feel alive. And she was suddenly terrified for her other niece.

  One moment Rebecca was standing in her driveway. The next she was pedaling furiously back down the road on her niece's bike. She didn't remember getting on the bicycle. She heard the girl shouting after her, but she ignored her calls. She pedaled as hard as her old legs would allow. Despite her age, she began to pick up speed. It was exciting after so many years to be on two wheels again with the air rushing across her face. But there was a sickening feeling in her stomach. The niece she left behind was safe. But she had to get to the other girl.

  The momentum she built up carried her over the first hill. She raced down the other side faster than she wanted to go, her hands holding on to the handlebars for dear life. She shot up the second hill and noticed that she was breathing harder. But it did not stop her from pedaling. She reached the top of the second hill, and the old Burnham farm came into view. She pedaled harder still. She could feel her old heart pumping, her labored breathing filling her ears.

  Finally, the meadow came into view. The tree that her niece told her about was there, pale white in the moonlight, just as she remembered it. She stopped pedaling. The bike coasted to a stop on the side of the road. Rebecca could see people under the tree, but it was too far from the road to see them clearly. She laid the bike down on the side of the road. Quickly she stepped through the rotted and broken fence that once graced the property and hurried across the field.

  Rebecca didn't know if she should smile or cry. There was a great anticipation in her heart to see the tree again, but she also was stricken with a horrible fear for her great niece. As she drew closer, she saw him, Homer Burnham, the boy who had haunted her memories from across the many years. He was as handsome and dapper as the day he first came to court her. He wore a clean, white shirt and a smart, red bow tie. She smiled, but tears came to her eyes. He was talking to her niece.

  Rebecca approached slowly.

  "Christine," she called, hiding her face with her hand, "Christine!"

  The young girl looked up, "Auntie!"

  She came running over.

  "Auntie," she said taking Rebecca's hands in hers, "Isn't it wonderful? There must be something magic about the moon tonight. It's like the whole tree is glowing. Doesn't it look beautiful? And I met the nicest man. He talks a little funny, but he says he knows you."

  "Christine," Rebecca said, taking the younger girl by her shoulders, "Did they offer you anything to eat?"

  "Yes," the girl said, "they're having a picnic, and they are the most friendly people I have ever met, and..."

  "Christine."

  This time the girl picked up on the seriousness in her voice. "What is it, Auntie?"

  "Christine, tell me that you didn't eat anything."

  The girl smiled. "Of course not, Auntie. I knew you were making your pan-fried pork chops tonight. I told them I didn't want to ruin my appetite."

  Rebecca loved her whole family, even her sister who could sometimes be impossible. But of all her relatives, she felt closest to this girl. She now realized that this niece reminded her most of herself. She grabbed hold of the girl and hugged her like a long, lost daughter. Tears streamed down the old woman’s face.

  "Thank God," Rebecca thought, "thank God."

  "It's OK, Auntie," her niece said, not quite sure what to make of the situation.

  Then from behind them someone asked, "Is that Rebecca Goodman?"

  "It's him," Rebecca's niece whispered in her ear.

  Rebecca wiped the tears from her eyes and turned around. She always thought an older woman should be immune to the look of a younger man. But when she looked into his eyes, it took her breath away. When he smiled as if she was young and pretty again, her knees felt weak. She felt a warmth inside that she had not felt in years.

  "Rebecca Goodman," the young man said, "you look pretty as a peach. I was wondering if you might not join me for a glass of lemonade?"

  Rebecca smiled. She looked down bashfully and noticed the shiny, black shoes he was wearing. He must have shined them all morning. She wanted to find a mirror to check her own appearance. Instead she brushed her hair back with her hand. She was surprised to find it long and black.

  The young man held out his hand for her to take.

  "Rebecca," he said softly. Her name sounded like music.

  She reached out to take his hand and noticed she was wearing white gloves. She looked down and found that she was wearing the pretty, little calico dress that her father had bought her all those years ago. She touched it with her other hand, amazed that it was so new and clean and she could still fit into it. All the while the young man led her under the branches of the tree. There were others sitting there on a blanket that had been spread out. She saw a picnic basket and several plates of food.

  "Don't eat the food," she heard a voice say. But she shrugged it off like one would shoo away a bothersome fly.

  "It is such a fine picn
ic you have laid out," she heard herself say.

  They made a space for her on the blanket, which she could see now was a beautiful quilt. She sat down slowly so that her dress draped down over her feet. Homer sat on her right. There was a woman on her left, wearing a flowered dress. Their eyes met.

  "Mrs. Radcliffe," Rebecca said recognizing the woman at once. Everyone in town had always believed Mrs. Radcliffe had run off and left her husband and children behind.

  "Hello, Rebecca," the woman said, "I am so glad you could join us. You look just darling today."

  "Thank you. And you look absolutely radiant," Rebecca said. She felt none of the bitterness that the townspeople, including herself, harbored over the years for Mrs. Radcliffe. Instead she was perfectly content to sit by her side.

  "Why thank you, my dear," Mrs. Radcliffe said.

  Rebecca turned to Homer. He held out a bowl of fruit.

  "No, thank you," Rebecca said politely refusing, "nothing to eat I am afraid."

  "Then how about that lemonade?" he asked.

  Rebecca nodded. It was warm out today. The sun was still climbing in the sky, and it would get warmer. She took out her handkerchief to wipe several beads of sweat off of her forehead. She could use a little drink to cool off.

  Someone poured the lemonade. Rebecca could hear the ice tinkling in the glass. Homer took up the glass and held it for her to take. She could smell the freshly-squeezed lemon juice. She licked her lips. She could