Free The Tale of Halcyon Crane by Wendy Webb Page B

“
We
did.”
    I imagined a little girl, that same girl in white I had seen in my mind before, playing with toy horses in the corner. I saw her reading a picture book, sprawled out on her stomach, feet kicking up toward the sky.
    “What do you say we join the dogs in the kitchen and make ourselves a cup of tea—or something stronger?” he suggested. “With this rain, we might as well settle in for a while.”
    “You’re sure it’s okay?” I felt I was trespassing, as though the real owner of the house would come barging in at any moment, demanding to know what we were doing there.
    “It still hasn’t sunk in. This place is yours, Hallie.”
    Right. I smiled. “Onward to the kitchen.”
    He led me back through the living room, the foyer, and the dining room into the kitchen, and I couldn’t muffle the squeal of delight that escaped from my lips. Of all the rooms I had seen thus far, I liked this one the best.
    The walls were painted a muted red; the windows were framed in dark wood. A long counter was topped with wooden cabinets that stretched all the way to the ceiling. An ancient armoire with glass doors displayed china and glass-ware, a rack of brightly colored plates stood in a row over the sink, and a small bookshelf was filled with cookbooks. A butcher-block center island was ringed with bar stools, andthe mammoth stove sat sentinel beneath a set of copper pots and pans. A long rough-hewn table with chairs all around took up the end of the room by the back door and windows. A chaise sat in the far corner. What a perfect spot for curling up with a cookbook and figuring out what’s for dinner!
    “Madlyn had a lot of parties,” Will explained, as though he were a tour guide through the mystery world my mother had inhabited. “She loved bringing people together for informal meals: professors and artists and bankers and grounds-keepers, men and women from all walks of life. She liked the mix of viewpoints, I think. This kitchen got a lot of use.”
    I had always lived in places with cold utilitarian kitchens, long slim rooms with metal cabinets on one side and a tiny table shoved into a corner. This kitchen had a feeling of life to it, a warmth that seemed to envelop me. It was as though the room itself were matronly and loving, ready to offer me a cup of tea or a freshly baked cookie. For the first time on the island, I felt truly at home.
    “All my life I’ve wished for a big old kitchen,” I said, but the words caught in my throat. “Exactly like this.” I looked at Will. “When I was wishing for my ideal kitchen, I was actually remembering this one, wasn’t I?”
    “It’s possible,” he said, reaching up into one of the cabinets. “It makes sense that your memories are slowly taking shape, the more you see of your old surroundings.” He retrieved a couple of teabags, ran some water into a teakettle, and set it on the stove. “Do you want to explore the rest of the house while the water boils?”
    “I want to stay right here,” I said, climbing onto one of the bar stools.
    We sat there for a while, drinking tea and munching on some scones Will found in a tin on the counter, as the dogs circled and sniffed and finally settled back down. We talked a little, about nothing much in particular—where he went to law school, how I liked my home north of Seattle. Mostly we listened to the rain beat on the windowpanes and the thunder growl its warnings . . .
    I woke up, confused. It was nearly dark. As my eyes slowly adjusted, I could make out enough to realize that I was lying on the chaise in the sunroom, covered with an afghan. One of the dogs was on the floor next to me, her great head resting near mine. I shook the cobwebs out of my brain. Now I remembered. Will and I had come into the sunroom with our tea. I fell asleep? How idiotic.
    Rain was still beating against the windows, but the thunder had subsided. Sitting up, I saw a light on in the next room. I padded through the doorway to find