perfume of pines and the faint scent of ozone from high mountain
passes, swept out of the northwest. The boughs of the evergreens
strained a low mournful sound from that rushing river of air, the
grassy meadows conspired with it to produce a whispery whistle, and the
eaves of the house inspired it to make soft hooting sounds like the
weak protests of dying owls lying with broken wings in uncaring fields
of night. The countryside was beautiful even in that prestorm gloom,
and perhaps it was as peaceful and serene as they had perceived it when
they’d first driven north from Utah. At that moment, however, none of
the usual travel-book adjectives sprang to mind as a singular and apt
descriptive. Only one word suited now. Lonely. It was the loneliest
place Jack Mcgarvey had ever seen, unpopulated to distant points, far
from the solace of neighborhood and community.
He hefted the bag of dog chow onto his shoulder. Big storm coming. He
went inside. He locked the front door behind him. He heard laughter
in the kitchen and went back there to see what was happening.
Falstaff was sitting on his hindquarters, forepaws raised in front of
him, staring up yearningly at a piece of bologna that Toby was holding
over his head.
“Dad, look, he knows how to beg,” Toby said. The retriever licked his
chops.
Toby dropped the meat. The dog snatched it in midair, swallowed, and
begged, for more.
Isn’t he great?” Toby said. “He’s great,” Jack agreed. “Toby’s
hungrier than the dog,” Heather said, getting a large pot out of a
cabinet. “He didn’t have any lunch, he didn’t even eat the raisin
cookies I gave him when he went outside.
Early dinner okay?” me,” Jack said, dropping the bag of dog chow in a
corner, with the intention of finding a cupboard for it later.
“Spaghetti?”
“Perfect.”
“We have a loaf of crusty French bread. You make the salads?”
“Sure,” Jack said as Toby fed Falstaff another bite of bologna.
Filling the pot with water at the sink, Heather said, Travis Potter
seems really nice.”
“Yeah, I like him. He’ll be bringing a date to dinner next Sunday.
Janet’s her name.” Heather smiled and seemed happier than at any time
since they had come to the ranch.
“Making friends.”
“I guess we are,” he said. As he got celery, tomatoes, and a head of
lettuce out of the refrigerator, he was relieved to note that neither
of the kitchen windows faced the cemetery.
The prolonged and subdued twilight was in its final minutes when Toby
rushed into the kitchen, the grinning dog at his heels, and cried
breathlessly, “Snow!”
Heather looked up from the pot of bubbling water and roiling spaghetti,
turned to the window above the sink, and saw the first flakes spiraling
through the gloaming. They were huge and fluffy. The wind was in
abeyance for the moment, and the immense flakes descended in lazy
spirals. Toby hurried to the north window. The dog followed slapped
its forepaws onto the sill, stood beside him, and gazed out at the
miracle.
Jack put aside the knife with which he was slicing tomatoes and went to
the north window as well. He stood behind Toby, his hands on the boy’s
shoulders.
“Your first snow.”
“But not my last!” Toby enthused. Heather stirred the sauce in the
smaller pot to be sure it was not going to stick, and then she squeezed
in with her family at the window. She put her right arm around Jack
and, with her left hand, idly scratched the back of Falstaff’s head.
For the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt at
peace. With no more financial worries, having settled into their new
home in less than a week, with Jack fully recovered, with the dangers
of the city schools and streets no longer a threat to Toby, Heather was
finally able to put the negativity of Los Angeles behind her. They had
a dog. They were making new friends. She was confident that the
peculiar anxiety attacks that had afflicted her since their arrival at
Quartermass Ranch would trouble her no more. She had lived with fear