Free 1503951243 by Laurel Saville Page B

quizzically, had elaborated. “North of here.” Then, had nodded to indicate direction. As if this narrowed down the possible location of his home in any meaningful way. His voice moved on now, slowly, carefully, like someone crossing a river by stepping from stone to slippery stone.
    “She used to invite people up from time to time. My mother, that is. She was from Virginia. My dad was from here. She had it fixed up real nice. No kitchen. But you—her people, friends, I mean, visitors—they used the main house for that.”
    Miranda clung to the word you . She felt the soft warmth of his kindness spread through her insides, push gently into the coldness that had settled there. She was afraid to speak, almost to breathe, in fear of breaking the fragile thing hope had become to her.
    “I don’t cook much,” he said, sidling slightly off topic.
    Miranda thought of the sandwiches he ate, which were made on big slabs of bread she knew he had kneaded and baked himself. The stews and soups that filled his thermos she knew were made from vegetables he grew, venison he hunted. She couldn’t recall where she got this information from, but she knew it was true.
    “It’s empty,” he said. “The cabin. Might as well put it to use.”
    Miranda stood, desire and fear competing for her attention. She took a breath.
    “Dix, are you offering me . . . like, is this, would you be open to renting . . . ?” Miranda murmured, allowing herself to be enchanted with the image of a mossy cabin in the woods, a place for gnomes and fairies—or orphaned children.
    “Oh, you don’t need to pay me,” Dix interjected, his voice suddenly in a hurry. “I wouldn’t take any money for it. You could use it, just, you know, for as long as you need it. So you don’t have to stay in a hotel. ’Course, you’d have to come see it. See if you’d be comfortable there. No TV. Sketchy cell service.”
    Miranda sighed. She nestled into her own fantasy of the place. “It sounds wonderful,” she said. “I’d love to come see it.”
    They settled into quiet, each chewing silently on the decision they’d somehow just made together, the barrier they’d just crossed. A barrier they’d been getting closer to these past few months. Even though Miranda had insisted on paying him for as many of his services as she could, there were so many things he did for her that were impossible to quantify. The counsel and advice. The long talks. The ride to Plattsburgh when her car broke down and the trip to Albany to collect her mother. He was not a hired hand any longer. He was a friend. The only one she had. This kindness, this generous offer, she would accept. This she would take for free. Because it was for herself. It was a gift that had nothing to do with her parents or the past or the relationship of employer and employee Dix had had with her father. This was something between them alone. Miranda touched Dix’s arm again. Let her hand rest there a moment this time.
    “Thank you,” she said, her voice a released breath.
    Dix dipped his head. And for just a moment, the edges of his mouth turned up.

    Dix gave Miranda careful directions, but his place was still hard to find, and there were few signposts along the way. She had asked him what color his mailbox was, but he said he didn’t have one, as he picked up his mail at the post office. The first two turns were marked by street signs, but then she had to watch her odometer and count the tenths of a mile off one dirt road and then another, look for a falling-down barn and an abandoned farmhouse, try to find a bridge obscured by scrub growth, and then, if he hadn’t been standing there like he had been set down by aliens, she still would have missed his driveway.
    “You startled me,” she said as she rolled down her car window.
    “I thought I better come down and wave you in,” he said.
    “Good thing. I almost missed it.”
    He seemed nervous, something expressed only by an obliqueness in his