dark flash must have been a deer. There were a great number of them in the Litchfield hills, and they were becoming bolder. Everyone’s gardens, her mother’s included, attested to that fact.
Within minutes, the hillside flattened out into a piece of barren land that stretched all the way to the highway. This cut through New Milford, ran up to Kent and the small towns beyond.
Katie paused at the side of the road to let a truck pass, and then ran across to the other side. A second or two later she was on the dirt track that led through the wide meadows behind Dovecote Farm, a local landmark with its picturesque red barns and silos, and, in the summer, lush fields of rippling golden wheat.
At one moment, as she walked along, she glanced up. The sky had turned the colour of old iron, bitter, remote, and forbidding. Dusk was slowly descending and the meadows were beginning to fill with shadows. Wanting to get home as fast as possible, she began to jog down the track, and found herself plunging deeper into the fields. But soon she realized she must slow down. A faint mist was rising, wispy and vaporous, floating in front of her like a grey veil; trees and hedges were rapidly becoming blurred, turning into weird inchoate shapes looming all around her. Having tramped this dirt track from early childhood, her feet knew it well. Nevertheless, she found herself moving at a snail’s pace, growing more cautious, afraid of stumbling in the thick fog.
Far off, in the distance, she heard cows lowing, and even farther away a dog was barking. These distant sounds were reassuring in their familiarity, yet still she felt a loneliness pervading the deserted fields, a strange sense of melancholy, and she was unexpectedly uneasy. It had grown even colder. She pulled her jacket around her chest, moving faster again, growing conscious of the time, as usual worrying about her mother.
It did not take Katie much longer to reach the end of the dirt path, and she finally came to the wide road which led into the area where she lived with her parents and her two brothers, Niall and Finian.
Malvern had been founded in 1799, and it was called a town, but it wasn’t even a hamlet, not really. It was a scattering of houses, a couple of shops, a cemetery, a white church with a steeple, poised on top of the hill, and a recreational hall near the church. To Katie, the white church had always seemed like a brave little sentinel standing guard above the houses nestled so cosily below in a hollow of the hills.
It was with a sense of relief that she hit this main road. She stepped out onto the smooth tarmacadam surface, glancing back at the mist-laden meadows as she did, and she suddenly realized how glad she was to be leaving them behind. There had been something strange, almost ghostly, about those empty fields.
Slowing down as the road swept upwards to the church, Katie began her climb, her pace steady. When she reached the top she stood for a moment looking down at Malvern. She could make out the twinkling lights shining in the windows of the houses scattered across the hillsides, and the mingled smell of woodsmoke and damp leaves floated to her on the chill night air. She was suddenly struck by a sense of an early autumn, and she smiled. Fall was her favourite time of year, when the foliage turned gold and russet and red, and her grandmother baked upsidedown apple tart and cinnamon cakes, and the entire family prepared for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Fall was the beginning of the holiday season which her mother loved so much. As Katie passed the forest of Scotch pine trees on the right side of the road, her nose twitched, assailed as it was by the sharp, pungent smell of pine.
How reassuring everything was now that she was out of the damp meadows. Soon she would be home, where her mother was waiting for her. They would prepare supper for the family, set the table together and serve the food. A loving smile flickered across Katie’s wan face, giving it a touch of radiance, lighting up her blue eyes.
Although Katie loved her two girlfriends and was devoted to them, it was her mother who was the most special person in her life, to whom she was the closest, and whom she idolized. She thought of her mother as a faerie princess from Ireland. Certainly she was beautiful, with her flowing red hair and the bluest of eyes, which Katie had inherited. To Katie, her mother’s voice was mellifluous, warm, soft, resonant, touched with a hint of lilting brogue.
These thoughts of her mother galvanized her, and she began to run once more, her feet flying as she sped down the hill.
As her parents’ house came finally into full view, Katie was filled with a sudden rush of warmth, a sense of homecoming, and she continued to run, speeding down the road towards home as fast as she could.
Medium in size, and compact, the house sat atop a small hillock set back from the main road, and it was the only home Katie had ever known. She loved it dearly, as did her parents and her two brothers.
Tonight bright lights gleamed in some of the downstairs windows and plumes of grey smoke spiralled up from the chimneys; the house wore an air of friendliness, of welcome, and it appeared to beckon beguilingly.
Katie’s glance swept over it as she climbed the flight of stone steps; these cut down through the green lawn which sloped away from the flagged terrace at the front facing the road.
For a moment she paused to admire the house, and her pleasure in its appearance brought a quick, bright smile to her face. New England Colonial in style, it had a white-painted clapboard façade, dark-green shutters and a slanted, black roof.
The original house dated back to the 1880s, and although its good bones had been retained throughout, some of the interior rooms had either been restored or remodelled by her father.
Michael Byrne prided himself on his knowledge of Colonial architecture, which he had always loved, and, in fact, he had turned his boyhood passion into a profitable business a few years after leaving school. He was one of the few local contractors who had a superior knowledge of Colonial design, and because of this he had managed to find plenty of building and restoration jobs, once he had established himself in business.
Katie’s father and her elder brother, Niall, kept the house looking pristine, and devoted a great deal of their free time to its care and upkeep. It seemed to Katie that they never had a paintbrush out of their hands, and even her younger brother, Finian, the intellectual with his nose permanently in a book, did occasionally put the book down to dip a brush into a pot of white paint. It struck her often that twelve-year-old Finian was now as addicted as the other two males in the family.
When Katie reached the terrace she veered to her right, headed for the side door and went into the house. A blast of lovely warm air hit her in the face as she stepped into the back hall and closed the door behind her. Once she had hung her jacket on a wall peg, she hurried down the corridor to the big family kitchen. This had always been the hub of the house, the spot where everyone congregated, and it was a congenial and comfortable room. This evening it was filled with a warm rosy glow which emanated from the old Victorian glass lamps, placed strategically around the room, and the pile of logs blazing in the big stone fireplace.
Pieces of copper and brass winked and gleamed in this lambent light, and the room was alive with the most cheerful of sounds…the fire crackling and sputtering in the hearth, the kettle whistling atop the stove, the clock ticking on the mantel, and, in the background, soft music playing on the radio.
And even the air itself was special, weighted with the most delicious mixture of mouthwatering smells…an apple pie put out to cool on a board near the sink, loaves of bread baking in the oven, an Irish stew simmering in a huge pot and emitting fragrant wafts of steam.
For a split second, Katie stood in the shadows by
