Free The Tale of Halcyon Crane by Wendy Webb

as though an unseen rocker were admiring the view.
    “Shall we go inside?” Will suggested.
    “Not just yet,” I said, not realizing how heavily I had been breathing until I settled onto the swing. “This is a lot to process at once. Can we sit here for a minute?”
    He sat down next to me and we swayed back and forth in silence for a while. I noticed containers filled with wilting autumn plants and flowers—black-eyed Susans (my favorite), mums, and several other kinds I didn’t recognize—scattered here and there on the porch. The welcome mat in front of the bright red front door said go away. That made me smile.
    “After you—well . . . died”—William’s eyes were on the ground—”I didn’t come here for years. I couldn’t.”
    For the second time that day, something obvious occurred to me. This man had lost a friend all those years ago and now she had reappeared, back from the dead. I wasn’t the only one having a tough time with this new reality. I wasn’t the only one with a lot to take in.
    “What did everybody think happened to my father and me?”
    “Boating accident,” he said quickly. “They found your overturned kayak. The entire island put their boats in the water to search for you, but . . .” His words trailed off into a sigh.
    I didn’t quite know what to say. “How about we go inside?” I offered, trying to push out of my mind the image ofdozens of colorful kayaks, rusting fishing boats, and elegant cruisers all searching for me. Will produced a set of keys from his pocket, unlocked the front door, and held it open as I walked through it into my home.
    I found myself standing in a large square foyer, the living room on one side, the dining room on the other, and a grand wooden staircase ascending in the middle.
    “Where’s the welcoming committee?” Will looked left, right, and up the stairs. “Girls! Tundra! Tika!”
    I heard a clatter of toenails on the wood floor, and two enormous dogs burst through the swinging door separating the dining room from what I assumed was the kitchen. They looked like huskies but were much bigger; their thick white and gray fur, bushy tails, long legs, and dark masks around steely golden eyes all hinted at ancient timberwolf ancestors. One was carrying a twisted rope bone in her mouth; the other had a stuffed rabbit. The dogs wiggled and curled around our legs, their great tails wagging, ears pinned back in greeting. Will was scratching and petting them in return, murmuring, “Good girls! Such good, good girls!”
    One of them, the bigger of the two, jumped up on me, putting one saucerlike paw on my shoulder and the other on the top of my head. I was afraid to move. “They’re friendly, right?”
    “Down, Tundra!” Will commanded, and the dog dropped to the floor and sat in front of me. “She loves visitors. They’re the highlight of her day. And yes, they’re both friendly—but protective, too.”
    I reached down gingerly to scratch this beast behind the ears. “So these were my mother’s dogs.”
    Will nodded. “Tundra and Tika. They’re giant Alaskan malamutes. The breed is traditionally used as sled dogs, though the most work these two do is to walk from the couch to their food dishes. I’ve been taking care of them at home since Madlyn’s death, but I brought them here this morning before going to the office. I knew you’d like to meet them at the very least, even if you don’t end up keeping them. The girls belong to you now.”
    “They’re magnificent,” I murmured, staring into their fierce golden eyes.
    The greeting complete, both dogs settled down, curling up next to each other on the floor. I noticed they didn’t take their eyes off Will and me.
    “We don’t have to stand here in the foyer, you know,” Will said, as he shut the front door behind us. “Take a look around.”
    As I wandered farther into the house, images flashed in my mind like a slide show on fast forward: A little girl dressed in white