Intersections 2021

By Jon Fredric DeFrance

What if humankind were suddenly faced with an alien visitation? How would governments react? How would people react? Would governments deny their existence? Would people reflexively react with fear and/or hostility? Could governments react sensibly? Could people overcome their innate fear of the unknown and dislike of differences to warmly welcome such strangersto greet them with open minds and open hearts? Is it even possible to resolve the conflict between these human instincts and morality? The answers to these questions not only matter in this tale of irony and moral conflict, they also matter to modern society.

This story about humankinds first contact with an extraterrestrial intelligence is in the tradition of hard science fiction. The author strives to build a bridge between classical moral theory and modern neurobiology. It is compelling and provocative, entertaining and informativeand a somewhat different approach to storytelling.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Feb 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781480847453

Jon Fredric DeFrance

Jon Fredric DeFrance is a clinical neuropsychologist and neuroscientist. As a popular lecturer and author of numerous scientific works, he brings humor and a neurobiological understanding of morality to his stories, telling a tale that is informative as well as entertaining. Jon currently lives in Alfred, Maine.

Book preview

1

CLOSE ENCOUNTER?

Wednesday (Evening) October 16, 2019

Mammoth cirques of granite sat above the gauzy fog as a ghostly chill sat below in the glacial-carved valleys. Mount Katahdin, the northern end of the Appalachian Trail, has been the wonder of pioneers and poets alike and has always been slow to reveal its mysteries—if at all.

I N THE FOG AND FAILING light of sunset, Gage Whitehawk of the Maine Warden Service drove his SUV along the uneven gravel road. Roaring Brook campground lay mere minutes ahead. That region, along with most of Katahdin’s eastern side, had been closed to the public for months. Assuming the area to be vacant, however, was just that—an assumption.

The closure order had come from the attorney general’s office in Augusta. That was no assumption. Rumors nevertheless abounded throughout Maine’s Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife that the order had originated in the Pentagon. The exact source of the order was nonetheless more obscure than Katahdin’s horseshoe ring of peaks in a blizzard.

During reduced visibility, potholes and unassuming moose were known hazards of Baxter State Park. The unknowns, however, were mostly responsible for keeping the warden on edge. He knew that well from patrolling the northern reaches of Maine for more than a decade. Indeed, these were the times poachers found almost irresistibly inviting, advantaged by the park’s unspoiled wilderness, empty trails, and nature’s cloak.

Warden Whitehawk was less than two miles from the campground when images off to his left caught his eye: vague outlines of three vehicles. No need for signage to know they were in the small Avalanche Field parking area. As he came to a stop, the warden glanced to his right. Haze hid the trailhead for a popular hiking route, but it had to be there. With a longer look back to his immediate left, he made out a compact car and an SUV, side by side, backed neatly against rustic fencing. His eyes went to the far corner of the clearing, where a third vehicle was obliquely parked without apparent forethought or courtesy. Suspicions bubbled.

Before beginning his rounds, he had stopped at the Togue Pond Gatehouse. Although it was the main entrance to the park, finding the smallish sentry shed unattended was not unusual after the summer camping season, which had ended the prior day for the entire park. A note left for him on the hanging clipboard indicated that the rangers were out checking for lingering overnighters in the western wilderness camps. An updated day-use parking list was underneath. Only a handful of hardy souls had registered for hikes on various trails—and only two vehicles were self-registered for the Avalanche Field parking area. Yet there were three.

The warden quietly slipped into the parking area with headlights and fog lights off. He coasted over and stopped in front of the pair of vehicles: a compact car with a Maine license plate and an SUV from New Hampshire. In both, permits were properly displayed behind the windshields; everything seemed in order.

A quick look ahead at the third vehicle—the oddly parked pickup truck—caused a frown. A tap on the accelerator moved him closer. It was an older, extended-cab model. Warden Whitehawk studied it like a hungry bobcat would study its prey. Another tap on the accelerator. His frown deepened upon seeing the amateurish camouflage paint job. Somehow fitting was the trauma that lavishly marred the driver-side fender and door, along with the multiple areas of rust around the lower fender edges. He then noticed the missing front license plate. That was no surprise—and neither was the lack of an entry permit. Suspicions were brought to a roaring boil. Still, however derelict it appeared, there was no reason to suspect it had been abandoned. More likely, it would be material evidence of ongoing illegal activity.

The warden parked in a way that would stymy any escape attempt. With his passenger-side window lowered, he stretched in his seat to look toward the Katahdin Lake trailhead and listen carefully. He saw little and heard even less. With eyes still wide and ears still perked, he got out and slowly approached the truck. Its side windows were rolled down. A foul whiff brought him to a sudden stop. With a scowl, he took a step closer and then leaned in for a look. He recoiled at an indescribable mix of smells. Disgust replaced the scowl. After trying to wave away the odors while holding his breath, he slid over to look through the back window. Hunting gear was strewn amid mounds of litter. Based on the variety of empty gun cases, small ice chests, jackets, and trash, there was more than one malefactor.

Gage Whitehawk walked to the back to see if there was, by some chance, a rear license plate—blowing deeply to rid himself of the smell. It was from New Hampshire. And the registration was current. After more breaths to clear his lungs, the warden called the automated messaging service of the park office in Millinocket. Nothing unusual had been posted. In fact, nothing at all.

Tracing ownership of the truck was next—a straightforward chore using his SUV’s computer. The warden had just taken a few steps toward his vehicle when faint sounds caught his ear. He swung about in the direction of the trailhead. As he walked slowly to the other side of the road, the sounds grew louder and hurried. Huffing became part of the mix. Then, frenzied shouts of Oh God! came in multiples. People were frantically scrambling his way.

The warden checked the brim of his cap to ensure it was properly positioned, then fixed his eyes and assumed his authoritarian stance—feet apart, hands on hips. No need to add a stern look; one was already in place. Like a rapidly developing Polaroid, shadowy figures emerged within the fog: three humans and a dog. They all were coming his way as if in wild, panicky retreat. The dog, in full stride, was leading the way, nose pointing straight and ears flapping as if about to go airborne. The men, camouflaged-dressed, were but a few tail lengths behind.

At the sight of the stiff-faced officer, the men stopped abruptly. The brindled hound, however, ran past the warden. Warden Whitehawk marveled when the dog jumped through the back window of the tumbledown truck without a change of pace. Its owner would soon be identified.

The warden nodded and turned back to the men. The nearest man—partially bent over, hands on his knees, sweat dripping off his chin, and panting—was looking back at his buddies. They were fully bent and gasping for breath. Gage Whitehawk approached with swagger, hands tightly gripping his heavy belt. Why the rush, gentlemen? He stopped and waited. No answer. Another step closer caused the first man to straighten up. The warden felt the heat of the man’s breath but also smelled alcohol. What’s your name?

Ben.

"Okay, Ben, you know no dogs allowed in the park?"

The man grimaced. Oh? After a hard swallow and some choking sounds, he continued in a croaky voice. Sorry. We saw no signs. Jono didn’t hurt nothing.

The warden gave each man a good cap-to-boot look, quickly noticing three pairs of wet pantlegs. Been setting bear bait on the far side of the bog?

Didn’t know settin’ bait was allowed.

It’s not. You fellows trapping?

Ben went fully bent, coughing almost to the point of gagging. He straightened up with a grimace. Initially, his voice produced only gurgles, but reasonable approximations of words did come after another strong cough. Trappin’? No, sir. Another cough. As you can see, we have nothing with us.

Warden Whitehawk broke into a cynical smile. You gentlemen been drinking? He waited with his tongue bulging out a tanned cheek. Ben glanced back again. His buddies, now only partially hunched over, were still having trouble catching their breath. Ben hesitantly turned to look at the warden out of the corner of his eye. The warden’s smile disappeared. Your friends have names?

With another swallow, Ben pointed with his thumb to the man right behind him. This is Ike. A glance up at the warden was Ike’s only reaction, so Ben pointed to the third man who had begun staring back up the trail. That’s Darrell.

"Okay, Ben, Ike, and Darrell. Warden Whitehawk squinted for a second and third time, and finally barked, Who’s ready to explain?"

Ben swallowed hard. Sir, we heard something crashed by Katahdin Lake. We were just out here to help. Just doin’ our duty, sir.

Oh? The warden’s eyes widened. I’ve heard nothing about a crash.

Ike straightened up, showing a pained grimace. Yes, sir. Just seein’ if somebody needed rescue.

Amused, the warden’s eyebrows arched to where his forehead wrinkles wrinkled. Ben and Ike began to shuffle about fretfully but offered nothing in the way of a better explanation. While staring, the warden closed his stance, stiffened his back, crossed his arms—and waited. Still, the men said nothing, so Gage Whitehawk cleared his throat to show his impatience. Ben? Tell me again. What duty were you doing?

After some barely audible throat clearing and while avoiding eye contact, Ben hemmed and hawed something unintelligible. The warden sighed in frustration. Ben? Again, how much did you have to drink?

Ben’s shuffle slowed, becoming more suggestive of guilt. We might’ve had a little to drink.

"A little? What about a lot? The warden’s tone was nearly equal parts disbelief and frustration. Yes, a whole lot of drinking. Probably some baiting. Maybe some hunting?"

Ben shivered. Huntin’?

I spotted empty rifle cases in the truck. That would make anybody suspicious, even an old warden. Where’d you stash the guns?

Sir, we have no guns.

The warden rocked heel to toe, staring accusingly. Ben pulled an obviously much-used handkerchief out from under the flap of his lower coat pocket and began wiping the sweat off his face. The fully aware Maine Warden, with a wrinkled nose and tightened mouth, defensively stepped back. Ben went on in an entreating tone. Sir, as you can see, we have nothing on us.

The warden took a moment to clear his eyes and focus. You men look like you’ve seen a ghost. Maybe your dog too. Ben said nothing, but his face had every sign of fear. The warden went to study Darrell, who had been staring back into the woods all the while.

Ike followed the warden’s eyes back to Darrell, but he immediately began staring into the woods. After long moments, he turned back to face the warden. Yes sir, something like ghosts. I swear.

After rolling his eyes, the warden glared. Darrell? Darrell?

Darrell finally turned to face the warden. He spoke, but only an incoherent stream of words.

Patience spent and irritation growing, Warden Whitehawk’s tone had a sharp edge. "Darrell! Darrell began trembling, then inexplicably turned to stare back into the fog. The warden shook his head. Well, let me see your driver’s licenses." He beckoned with an outstretched hand. Ben and Ike slowly produced theirs, but Ike had to slap Darrell’s arm to get his attention.

Holding all three licenses in his left hand like playing cards, the warden pulled out a small pad of forms. The men stood stoically while he wrote down Ben’s information. When coming to Ike’s license, he frowned before looking up with a forced smile. Happy birthday.

Huh? Oh, thank you.

Know your birthday, Ike?

Yeah, it’s October fifteenth.

Know today’s date?

October sixteenth, two thousand nineteen. Wednesday.

Know your license expired yesterday?

I do now.

Are you driving?

No sir. Ike pointed. That’s Ben’s truck over there. You can just make it out through the fog.

The warden mumbled something under his breath while recording Darrell’s information. When finished, he frowned from under the brim of his cap. I don’t think it’ll do any good to ask you your birthday. Darrell was still shaking and staring back into the woods. With a tight jaw, the warden shook his head. You men stay here. Don’t move. Minus signs of swagger, the warden headed back across the road.

Warden Whitehawk gave Ben’s truck a closer look—the cab first, saving the covered bed for last. Standing back, holding his breath, and looking away as if preparing for the worst, he carefully held up the tarp. He swept his flashlight back and forth. Satisfied, he exhaled and yelled, Okay, come here! They walked across the road—heads down, shoulders stooped—like prisoners going to the gallows.

The men stood quietly while the warden wrote. Once done, he gave back the licenses, looking each man in the eye long enough to imprint his dismay; he was not happy and wanted them to know it. The warden was generous, however; he gave each only a written warning. Surprised, Ben and Ike each whispered a hasty "Thank you." Darrell did nothing but stare vacantly at his copy.

Okay, Ben. Follow my directions. Have to see if you’re fit to drive. The warden withheld his usual smile after Ben passed the sobriety check. Okay, you can be on your way. That means out of this park. And, no more drinking. The warden gave the panting hound another glance. Your dog needs water. His tongue is hanging down to his paws.

Scowling and shaking his head, Gage Whitehawk started toward the trailhead. Darrell was still oblivious, but Ben and Ike carefully watched him cross the road. Once on the other side, the warden stopped and turned for one final stare. Ben returned a friendly wave while softly saying to Ike, Don’t think he believed us. They watched as the warden disappeared into the thinning fog.

As if drawn by instinct, Ike looked skyward. Stars were seen through the pale wisps. Hey! He pointed. Look up there. He became emphatic. There! There!

Ben strained to see. I don’t . . . Oh! Suddenly, puzzlement. What in the world?

2

GATHERINGS

Wednesday June 23, 2021

Alfred, serene and sylvan, and like most New England villages, cherished its common. Colonial buildings lined this triangular centerpiece. The old parish church and town meeting hall bordered the common’s northern side. Its western side, with a prominent tree-topped ridge in the background, featured a trendy restaurant, a must-visit antiquities bookstore—and the Beehive, home to several small businesses and apartments. Structures abreast the southernmost side included residences, a bed-and-breakfast, and a couple of small commercial buildings—plus the Alfred Country Store.

The focal point of the common was a granite memorial to Maine’s service men and women. A few benches sat apart, well positioned to take advantage of shade given by two substantial red maples. Everything was designed to give people a place for peaceful reflection.

Alfred, indeed, was a Norman Rockwellian picture of an untroubled American village, and like many of Maine’s quintessential settlements, it was an apiary of activity during the vacation months when people from away sought relief from their summer’s swelter. Yet, like most, the village was plain and simple—nothing fancy. Alfred (supposedly named after King Alfred the Great) still had everything that one needed, except a proper alehouse.

N ATHAN RIVOIRÉ, TALL AND TRIM and sporting a fresh apron, had a young lady at his side as he approached four villagers sitting at the table strategically situated in a corner, dominated by two large windows. Morning, Boys. Allow me to introduce my niece, Jeanne. She just finished a degree at Bowdoin, and will be helping me this summer. With an arm proudly wrapped around her shoulders, Uncle Nathan continued with the greetings. Jeanne, let me introduce Mr. Gentry Stubbs.

The distinguished-looking man at once stood and flashed a whimsical smile. I should say, graduating from Bowdoin is an accomplishment. Never mind his five feet two inches, Gentry Stubbs stood tall in the village, known for his wise, pithy pronouncements.

The other men at the table stayed seated but offered congratulatory nods to the newly minted graduate. She returned polite smiles but gave Gentry’s bright Technicolor suspenders an extended second look.

Jeanne? This here is Mr. Boog Cox.

The hungry-looking man offered a second nod and friendly grin, plus a husky Ayuh.

Boog, you’ll find her most agreeable. And this is Mr. Freddy Pharra.

Howdy. Pleasure. Freddy gestured as if tipping some invisible cowboy hat.

His niece’s look invited clarification from her uncle. He’s a transplant from Cut and Shoot, Texas.

The fourth man was eager for an introduction. He had been staring—libidinously—at what had to be the most attractive member of the Rivoiré clan.

And, Jeanne, this is Mr. Tommy Lenz.

Yep, a degree from there is something to brag about.

Because she gave Mr. Lenz only a brief nod, Jeanne may have correctly interpreted Tommy’s interest. Yet she might have been drawn back to Gentry’s bright suspenders. Least likely, she might have wanted another look at his bulbous nose. Gentry is a handsome name.

It’s common enough among my English ancestors. Some, I should say, were privileged by being large landowners.

Freddy interrupted with a witty smile. And what about you, Gentry?

I’m privileged by being born a Mainer.

Another husky Ayuh signaled agreement. Good breedin’.

Jeanne smiled at Boog, while still feeling Tommy’s stare. Despite sensing his niece’s discomfort, Nathan Rivoiré went on nonchalantly. You’ll find the Boys easy keeps.

Oh? She gave each a sideways glance.

No need to take their orders. With raised eyebrows, Uncle Nathan explained, Their breakfasts will be ready soon after we open.

Known throughout the village as the Boys,¹ Gentry, Boog, Freddy, and Tommy gathered almost every morning for breakfast at the Country Store—and they did so in an abiding, ritualistic fashion. The only exceptions were Christmas and New Year’s Day.

The foursome had other notable habits. They would start assembling outside the front door a little before six o’clock. The only exceptions were during various hunting seasons, when the Country Store opened even earlier—the exact time would depend, in part, on customers’ requests. That aside, should one happen to be late, the on-timers would obediently stay outside, waiting—unless weather demanded otherwise—until all were there. Only then would the Boys enter. Usually, their hot breakfasts would be waiting, customized to the idiosyncrasies of each man’s taste. Predictability, in that regard, worked to everybody’s benefit.

Though the food was far better than passable, the morning hours in this village icon were for serious talk. Among the Boys, or between them and any others within hearing distance, the focus could be world affairs, problems at the federal level, or problems within the state. Most often, however, the focus would be on the state of affairs in the village, such as the awful summer traffic or the inconvenience of visitors.

Not infrequently, the personal matters of the citizenry were topics. Many locals, however, viewed these so-called forums as idle-time discussions—if not gossip, then mere fiddle-faddle. Of course, the Boys would react affronted if accused of either. They figured that lacking a daily paper, someone in the village had to gather information and pass on that of enough interest. They thus gathered every morning not only as a duty but also as a benefit to the community; that their wives refused to cook for them was just a rumor.

Things had been slow that week. In fact, nothing of measurable importance had happened since the snow melted last April. Still, there was the ever-present hope the jaunty Ms. Tess Bissonnet would make an appearance. Single and hardly shy around men, she was attractively hefty in places to many a man’s eye and widely known to induce weakness in the knees of some. Indisputably, Tess was a neat and natty woman—flashy in both choices of clothing and carriage. Even if contrary to New England standards, the Boys did enjoy her mincing high-heeled walk. Little wonder they often prayed for at least a brief showing during dull times.

That morning, disappointingly, Ms. Bissonnet was a no-show, and since things were otherwise slow, the Boys decided to finish breakfast quickly and go their separate ways. Boog told his brethren that he was going home to help Deah tidy up. Guests were coming.

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Dr. Cerdercet, madam? Story Morrison began in his usual monotone. Why do they say historians ought to write in pencil?

Aimee Cerdercet took her eyes off the road to glance in the rearview mirror. I haven’t heard that.

A pair of sleepy eyes in the front seat snapped open. Not one to let an opportunity pass for a smart-aleck remark, Iain MacKenzie stretched back with his oft-shown lopsided smile. Hey, Morrison, it means history is created in the eye of the beholder and subject to change.

Dr. Amélie Cerdercet, who much preferred the simpler Aimee, glanced over at Iain. Seeing his smug look, Aimee felt her bright but clownish graduate student deserved a tease. Rainey? She turned the rearview mirror to see the young woman sitting directly behind her. Rainey Montpellier always reminded her of a modish French actress—petite, with short but fluffy black hair and large dark eyes, plus a voice with life and a step with bounce. Befittingly, she enjoyed an incisively sharp mind—and a tongue to match, as Iain often complained. Remarkably, her snappish attitude seemed reserved for Iain only. So, Rainey? I’ve been thinking about summer essay assignments. Might Iain write about the benefits of studying history?

Rainey considered Dr. Cerdercet’s expression in the mirror through simple featherweight glasses. A moment later, she produced a puckered smile and then began gazing out the window with a finger to her lips. Well, let’s see. Iain looked back over his shoulder apprehensively, noticing but not caring how the morning sunlight accented her freckles. She was not above treachery. His eyes darted away as Rainey turned back. Dr. Cerdercet, I think he would need at least fifty pages—single-spaced.

Sounds about right, Rainey. Oops! Wait! Iain, is this where we turn?

Yah, the second house on the left, Dr. Cerdercet.

The silver SUV turned into the driveway of a tidy Cape Cod, just blocks north of downtown Dover. Iain hopped out. I’ll be just a minute. He looked back at Rainey and stuck his tongue out. She feigned surprise. With Iain gone, Rainey turned to her ten-year-old son, sitting between her and Morrison, and gave a brisk He deserved it nod.

Michale had not been following all the interplay, but a question sprang from the youngster’s curiosity and impatience. Mom, is this the bed-and-breakfast?

Rainey nudged her glasses back. No, Michale, this is Iain’s parents’ house. He’s just going to pick up his camera. He wants to document all the fun we’ll have this summer.

Fun? Mom, I thought you’re gonna be working.

I will be working some, but all of us will have fun too. I promise.

Aimee readjusted the rearview mirror to see Michale with teasing eyes. Alfred is the next stop, unless you want to stop for ice cream.

No, I wanna meet Monet.

Rainey reached around his shoulders and pulled him to her. Michale, it’s ‘No, thank you, ma’am.’

Aimee laughed at Rainey’s forthright correction, which continued as a smile when warm visions of Monet flowed through her mind.

With no lack of drama, Iain hopped into the SUV. Slightly pudgy, he struggled to secure the overstuffed duffel bag on his lap. All set. Camera. Clean clothes.

Iain’s mother still does his laundry. Rainey’s verbal jab caused Iain to jerk his head around for a comeback. She was already looking out her window—working to restrain a smile.

Aimee could not see Rainey, but she caught Iain’s frown out of the corner of her eye. And knowing he very much disliked not having the last word, she offered him a sympathetic smile while backing out of the driveway. Iain had a look of unhappy resignation.

Iain and Rainey had worked under Aimee’s tutelage for the past two years and she was genuinely fond of them. Although both were irrevocably fond of ripostes, Rainey could use her words like a scalpel. Iain, conversely, would often use his words more like a hammer. He was Rainey’s opposite in other ways too. Whereas Rainey showed a capacity for steadfast pertinacity, Iain was prone to show lots of motion and intention, but little continuous direction. Because of the potential academic consequences, mentor and student did have several serious talks about the value of maintaining focus and carry through.

And, whereas the ebullient Rainey always showed a good deal of social polish, he tended to be brash and opinionated. Though seldom nasty, Aimee found Iain a little rougher around the social edges than many graduate students. Related perhaps, this young man also seemed constitutionally short on patience: Unjustifiably impulsive was one way Aimee would describe him. Partially due to a lack of forethought, Iain had an unfortunate proneness for faux pas.

Hey, a little while ago, someone might have misinterpreted a comment of mine. Iain’s nervous smile and uncertain tone suggested that he realized the need for some undoing. He held his breath and kept his sheepish smile while looking the driver’s way.

Oh? Am I that someone?

Could be, Dr. Cerdercet.

I had the impression you felt history wasn’t necessarily factual.

Not at all. But for any event, I remember you saying there are always differing perspectives.

Uh-huh, that’s generally the case.

"Well hey, I think you made the point that facts reflect the consensus about what happened, but why something happened typically is much more elusive."

Okay, Iain, I’ll play along. What else did I say?

I remember something like ‘Convergence to the truth involves studying all evidence, both consistent and contrary.’

Okay, Iain, relax. I was only teasing about the assignment.

Whew!

A quiet Phooey came from the back.

Goal-driven but cautious, independent but pragmatic, Aimee was a serious historian with a special interest in the European Enlightenment. Yet despite being in her intellectual prime of life, she had been thinking about early retirement—not because of disenchantment with being a University of New Hampshire professor, but because she yearned for more time to write and hike. Both seemed about as elusive to her as Daphne was to Apollo.²

I told Abigail I’d give her a call when we’re about to leave Dover. After picking up her phone, Aimee gave a quick headshake to move some of her highlighted brown hair away from an ear. Hair, however, did not cause her fumbling at retrieving her sister’s number. Frustrated, she pulled into a parking lot of a small convenience store. She gave Iain a peevish look. I took your advice and bought this so-called smart interactive-communication device. I was impressed by how you guys seemed infatuated with these smart ICDs, but I’m nowhere near as enthusiastic.

Iain replied with a smirk and snarky comment. Hey, intelligent machines are the future. We should be careful, though. If not, they might one day rule the world.

Aimee, still somewhat annoyed, responded in a firm voice. Iain, artificial intelligence is different from real intelligence. If Dr. Walbeck were here, he’d tell you that no matter how fast a machine can serial or parallel process, it wouldn’t have any capacity for generativity. Think of a parrot. It can mimic human speech, but it cannot create new combinations. Iain simultaneously smiled and shrugged. Before he could render another opinion, she made an oral request to her ICD to dial up her sister. Oh, hi, Abigail. . . . Just to let you know, we’re just leaving Dover. . . . Uh-huh, my guys are very excited about meeting you and Boog. . . . Uh-huh. And, how’s Monet? . . . Oh good. . . . Uh-huh. I’ll be sure to tell them. After ending the call, she passed on some valuable information. Guys? My sister wanted me to warn you about the barn. Stay clear. She said it smells like a wallow. I know two roosters sometimes bed out there. I wouldn’t dare say that explains all, but do consider yourselves warned.

Soon, Dover had disappeared from the rearview mirror. They were minutes from Maine and enjoying the smooth ride when jolted. Sorry! Dr. Cerdercet tightened her grip on the steering wheel. The unrepaired frost heave had also caused Rainey’s glasses to bounce down to the tip of her turned-up nose.

Iain recognized Rainey huff of exasperation and smiled, impishly. What’s the matter?

Rainey removed her glasses and looked at them accusingly. So annoying.

Iain turned around. You seem easily annoyed these days.

While Rainey was giving Iain the benefit of a neutral stare, Dr. Cerdercet was looking in the rearview mirror. Rainey, are you okay?

Yes, ma’am. Rainey’s reply caused Iain to snicker.

Well, my sister always said, ‘New England’s winter cycles of freezing and thawing are harder on roads than bears on beehives.’ She has quite a way of making her point. Anyway, Morrison, how are you doing?

Dr. Cerdercet, madam. I am fine.

The third backseat passenger was Story Morrison. He was the newcomer to the group and somewhat older. About the same height as Rainey, he was decidedly less athletic than either Rainey or Iain. Some would add a touch of neglect to his description, not because of any lack of hygiene or self-care but because of his manner of dress. Even so, being careless about one’s dress had never been rare among graduate students.

Even so, Story Morrison did have a somewhat different personality. For one thing, he preferred to be called Morrison. Though he never explained why, people assumed that preference reflected his formal style. Whatever the case, he presented as shy, servile, and self-contained. Yet, he was persistently amiable, not the least bit demanding or demonstrative. Characteristically, too, he was much more disposed to ask questions than to offer opinions.

Morrison had asked to study under Dr. Cerdercet at the beginning of the spring semester. At their initial meeting, she at once took note of his physical appearance. Though she said nothing, he must have sensed her notice because he brought up the childhood accident that had resulted in second- and third-degree burns that covered more than sixty percent of his body. His face had been extensively involved and a long series of plastic surgeries was needed. Although smooth and unscarred, his face was rather mask-like, which—along with a scruffy beard, large dark eyes, and large round spectacles—gave him an owlish look.

Because of all the time lost attending to medical matters, he had mostly schooled himself. He frankly admitted that his education had been piecemeal. Still, Morrison wanted a chance to study with her—if not for a degree, then as a nondegree student. After hearing just little what he had gone through, Aimee was already inclined to give him a chance. Even so, during their lengthy discussion of things of little and great consequence, she recognized his depth of curiosity. She was intrigued. Making her decision even easier, Morrison was independently wealthy due to the significant legal settlement associated with the accident. He had no need for, nor did he ask for, financial support.

Importantly, Rainey and Iain were welcoming. Most probably, Morrison struck the same sympathetic chord in Rainey as he did in Aimee. Doubtless, that was a lesser factor for Iain. He nevertheless respected Morrison’s broad range of interests and motivation to learn, often referring to him as a knowledge sponge. Beyond that, both Rainey and Iain viewed Morrison as socially disabled. They became his means of transport, his guides to shopping—his counselors about life.

Aimee pointed ahead. There’s the church steeple, just across the river in Maine. As you may know, throughout much of New England’s early history, churches formed the centerpiece of culture. Out of respect, no one in colonial America would ever consider building anything taller than a church steeple. So, when one is approaching most small towns in Maine, steeples are, almost without exception, the first welcoming sights.

Shortly, they crossed the waters of Salmon Falls into Maine. We’re almost there. Abigail and Boog are excited to meet you. I do hope you enjoy them and the bed-and-breakfast as much as I do.

Rainey scooted forward. Dr. Cerdercet, didn’t you say you were born in that house?

Uh-huh, I was. I grew up there, too.

We’re looking forward to it. It’s very kind of your sister to let Michale come along.

"Rainey, my sister thinks it will give Boog a chance to practice his manners. My sister, too, unlike moi, has a heart made for caretaking, so I can assure you Michale will feel welcome. She’ll make everyone feel at home. My only worry is keeping our weights down."

Iain, still in a repair mode, looked back. Rainey, I think Dr. Cerdercet must be a bit of a caretaker, too. Otherwise, why would she bother with us students? He looked over at her, solicitously.

Well, you guys might just be my last group of graduate students. Seeing Iain’s surprised look out of the corner of her eye, she quickly added, Don’t worry. I’m not retiring any time soon. I’m committed to seeing each of you graduate. Relief was audible throughout the SUV.

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Boot-cleaning thumps came from behind the mudroom door, along with a distinctive Deah?

Abigail, standing at the kitchen sink, turned around at the clink of the iron latch and the creak of the door opening. Glad you’re back early. I’ve been busier than Monet on a fresh ham bone.

Ayuh. Guess prob’ly go pick up the porch.

The punctilious Abigail Cerdercet-Cox was busily preparing not for the summer rush that every Maine bed-and-breakfast eagerly awaited, but for her sister’s arrival. Aimee’s summer visits were a family tradition: this would be the fifteenth consecutive year of such gatherings. Normally, Aimee would piggyback two weeks of hiking in Maine’s northern reaches on a month’s stay. This year, however, she planned to stay the entire summer at the bed-and-breakfast and bring along her three graduate students for a working retreat. Abigail had plans for the young boy. Moreover, unlike years past, no guests from away would need hosting. That additionally offered the promise of an extraordinary summer.

Older than Aimee by seven years, and though hardly dumpy, there was no question but that Abigail was less physically fit than her sister. Except for gardening, Abigail found little to draw her outdoors. Though never formally enthroned, Abigail nevertheless ruled over almost all bed-and-breakfast activities like a kindly monarch. Despite her firm hand, Abigail still epitomized the essence of a refined hostess. That was another thing that stood her well apart from her sister. Yet another was Aimee’s tomboyishness. Abigail in no way shared her sister’s fondness for wearing jeans and untucked men’s shirts. Long cotton dresses, down to her ankles, were much more to her liking. Certainly, nothing polyester would ever be found in her closet. And, too, she favored wearing shawls around her shoulders to protect against the summer chills, but only ones she crocheted herself. None of this was a family secret.

One well-kept family secret, however, was that Boog was not her husband’s given name. At birth, he had been pinned with the unlikely and hated appellation Nigel. Despite his feelings, it stuck to him throughout childhood and early adolescence. Sometime during the summer before entering high school, he came to insist on using his nickname, Boog, which came from his favorite childhood phrase: "Let’s boogie." Since he always wanted to be on the go while growing up, his nickname did seem fitting.

Physically, Boog had always been a little shorter than average. When standing straight—at five feet seven inches on a good day—it was easy to notice his cobby torso. However, that was not what people typically remembered about him. For most, it was his way of speaking. Boog usually spoke in brief, unvarnished ways. Consequently, an unfamiliar ear might find him rather gruff—quite unlike his buoyant nature, however.

Understandably, Boog was at no little disadvantage when trying to negotiate with Abigail. He had learned over the years that it was just easier to smile and say, Happy to, Deah. If fairly told, things would run smoothly around the house if Boog did as instructed.

When it came to summer guests, however, he was not as restrained. For example, Boog might half-jokingly try to convince them that he was something of an indentured servant. No one ever took him seriously, partly because Boog would often try adding gloss to his image by letting it slip that he had noble blood rushing through his veins. Whenever Abigail heard that fiction, she would corner those thusly informed to correct the record. More likely than noble blood, some kind of adult beverage is running through his veins.

Besides having to manage misinformation, Abigail also had to define Boog’s chores around the bed-and-breakfast. Occasionally, feeling the need to defend her somewhat heavy-handed style, she would declare, If Boog were left to his own motivations, he would manage his responsibilities as he does his hair. Boog’s scraggly grayish-white mane was a frequent point of tension, which Abigail repeatedly described as a mistreated mop. Still, in all, Abigail dealt with him in a mostly lighthearted way, though she needed to be on alert to ensure Boog shows enough social grace to get by. She therefore could be something of a fusspot, particularly when it came to Boog’s misdemeanors. Still, a great part of Abigail’s appeal was her simplicity and levelheaded honesty. As well, she was known to have few indulgences and no bad habits. As easily guessed, nothing similar could be said of Boog. Indeed, a mischievous streak was part of his reputation. Livin’ life with gusto is happ’ness, he would say. Storytelling was yet another part of his reputation.

The arrival of guests always gave him a captive audience, at least initially. Unfailingly, giving a history of the house was always on the agenda. Typically, Boog would lead off with a well-calculated show of New England modesty, letting people know that the bed-and-breakfast was not the most famous or the most fashionable in the area, nor did it set any standard of style. Still, the old place was due respect. Known as the Lord-Dane House, built in 1774, the humble old farmhouse was prototypical of the Big House, Little House, Back House, Barn³ architecture common in New England.

As the story often went, Boog would explain how, after the Revolutionary War, the house had become the home of an officer—a lieutenant—though Boog sometimes gave him a promotion. The officer’s rank would depend on how much embellishment was needed to keep the guests listening. In any event, this gentleman ordered the 1804 addition, the newer part of the house. With examples of fine joinery and molding throughout, it reflected efforts of master shipbuilders who, at other times, built seaworthy vessels for the officer-turned-businessman.

Boog would then explain that the home eventually came under the ownership of a well-known political leader of the state. After that, it became the home of many private citizens. Too many to name, he would say. Still, in all, the old place had been afforded respectful care.

As a rule, he would include other subplots in his orientation. Almost without exception, he would be sure to remind the newcomers that the bed-and-breakfast had been a tavern during colonial times. True, but Boog would often sponsor a certain fiction—namely, Paul Revere had visited the house. Boog figured he had to have visited, in part, because the bell in the village church was a Paul Revere bell⁴ and, in part, because the original bell had turned out to be a clunker of the first order and needed to be replaced. Ergo, Revere must have visited Alfred. In truth, no incontestable evidence had ever been brought forward to show Paul Revere had been in Alfred. This factual nuisance, however, never kept Boog from dropping the name of that famous Son of Liberty.

Typically, Boog would not stop there—not if a guest still had an open eye. He would go on, delighting in letting people know that the house was part of the Underground Railroad around the time of the Civil War. In fact, chambers did exist in the basement, behind fireplaces, and beneath the old barn. Whenever he remembered to do so, he would allude to the similarity between the hidden passages there and those in the famed House of Seven Gables in Salem, Massachusetts.⁵

Boog was indeed proud of the house’s heritage. Though old, it was still mostly modern-day functional. When sensing he might get away with it, he would point out to the women that improvements were made over the centuries—most notably, the two-hole privy out beyond the mudroom versus the outhouse out beyond the north yard. Only once did a female guest become upset enough to refuse to stay. Men typically laughed until they found out it happened to be true. However, if noticing early signs of distress, Boog would readily confess that the plumbing had been upgraded to near-modern standards.

To be sure, Boog’s orientations were well rehearsed. If one were to compare notes, most differences would be in the number of dramatic flourishes. In Boog’s view, if losing accuracy ensured people’s interest, then so be it. Regardless, Boog would generally leave out of the orientation, upon pain of Abigail’s retribution, the rumor that the old farmhouse was haunted. Many unexplained sounds would emanate from the dark reaches of the house. Should anyone ask, he would claim that mice or squirrels had somehow gotten into the walls. If guests were skeptical of that, he would offer that contractions of old wood caused the groaning. That said, Boog did relish the notion that ghosts were in residence. Abigail wanted none of that talk, however. She had the good sense to know it was bad for business.

Once, Abigail was almost sure Boog had told his ghost story after she watched a group of new arrivals run off like scared deer. When confronting him, Boog tried undoing his misstep by claiming he was only tryin’ to give ’em somethin’ to get ’cited ’bout. Unmoved, Abigail refused to cook for her tale spinner for a week. Whenever the need arose after that, she just reminded him of how much he suffered.

The one thing Boog would never omit from his orientation, however, was mention of the upstairs ballroom. Most likely, it had held social and political meetings when the Revolutionary War lieutenant lived in Alfred and afterward when the house served as a tavern. Those had some basis in fact—a fact Abigail knew to be partially to blame for Boog’s constantly scheming for historical retrofitting. Not just for some old grog’ry but for a real gentl’man’s pub. Make us a nonesuch bed-and-breakf’st for sure. Abigail was never much moved by that argument. So, despite all his mighty efforts, Boog has had to carry on without his special gathering place.

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Oh, Boog! Aimee’s here!

A silver SUV was coming up the driveway. Boog was out of earshot, so she hurried out alone to greet everyone. A tight hug for her sister came right after a variety of hugs and handshakes for the others. Abigail then leaned back for a good look at Aimee. As usual, Aimee radiated good health. Her face, wrinkle free and unblemished, had its usual early summer color. I really like your hair. Just the right amount of wave. To Abigail, the soft curls of Aimee’s short, choppy coiffure, along with her splayed bangs, were perfect. And like Aimee, she favored ease of maintenance. But unlike Aimee, Abigail never bothered with hair color; she allowed her hair to gray naturally. Another thing the sisters shared, however, was their bright brownish-gold, hazel eyes.

Once the introductions were done, Abigail reached out and put an arm around Michale’s shoulders. Strolling ahead, they led the group up the stone walk toward the mudroom door.

Rainey hurried to catch up. Can’t wait to see this house, Mrs. Cox. Your sister told us a lot about it.

Abigail smiled politely. Rainey, I’m sure Boog will tell you a lot more.

Your sister told us a lot about Boog too. Rainey quietly giggled.

As the group collected in the kitchen, an approaching voice bellowed from the next room, Ayuh? Aimee, got a new cah? Boog rumbled in with the centuries-old wide-pine planks moaning with his every step. Eyes that twinkled gave each newcomer a quick look before he approached Aimee for an extended hug.

Sure did, Boog. I took your advice. You said I needed one for the mountains.

Rapid clickety-clacks of a long-nailed creature running across wood next drew everyone’s attention. Monet appeared from the gathering room and made a beeline for Aimee. The retired foxhound of the Penn-Marydel type was her dog. As he jumped about on springy legs, Aimee went to one knee. Oh, I’ve missed you. Monet’s long tongue flicked out of the side of his mouth as she rubbed an ear. I hate not having you with me. As she went on, the old hound stretched his neck from side to side to ensure equal treatment.

Boog took the opportunity to explain that Monet had come to live with them only because of the tight restrictions against large dogs in Aimee’s apartment complex. Boog quickly added that Monet wasn’t suffering none, as he had a large yard to patrol and plenty of company. Almost without exception, Monet would quickly befriend each new arrival. While Monet continued adjusting his head to accommodate her hand, Aimee used her other hand to feel his hips. Her expression changed. Oh, Boog, is Monet becoming arthritic?

Ayuh, but still got a wicked good nose. Good lungs too. Can howl above a fire truck. Ayuh, pretty hard to ignore.

Rainey knelt. As she ran her fingers over Monet’s ears, she cooed, He has such expressive eyes.

Ayuh, wicked smaht too. Real clevah for a hound. With a pleased look, Boog beckoned Aimee to follow him to the sink to discuss how Abigail planned to distribute the bedrooms.

Abigail stood apart but tried to listen in until Michale tugged at her arm. Does he drool?

She leaned down with a grandmotherly smile. No, Michale, Monet doesn’t drool, but you might find his kisses sloppy. He’s a gentle, loving soul but I’ll say he tends to be overly pleading. And, I’ll warn you: don’t get between him and his food dish at dinnertime. He’ll head for it like a runaway moose.

Michale and Monet were soon sitting together on the kitchen floor—eye to eye, nose to nose. The boy took over the responsibility of rubbing Monet’s ears. The old dog’s eyes closed in delight as he again offered one ear and then the other. When Michale finally got up to stretch, Monet turned his curiosity to other newcomers. At once, the hound of the house went about his obligatory sniffing, finally coming to thread himself between Morrison and Iain. Monet wound up sitting before Morrison and looking up—waiting. Morrison seemed less than excited about becoming acquainted. Frustrated at Morrison’s restraint, Monet adjusted his sitting position, tensed his muscles, stared up, and waited. Still no response. The old hound scooted closer and stared up at Morrison with his head held to the side. After some seconds, now with the kitchen full of onlookers, Morrison faintly imitated Monet’s head gesture but did not otherwise respond.

Aimee saw that Morrison was a little uneasy at Monet’s initiatives. Guessing that it was due to his germ phobia, she wondered how she could keep Monet off him. Her thinking was interrupted by Abigail chiming in. Oh, Morrison, Aimee said you’re a vegetarian.

Mrs. Cox, madam. Yes. Please, I do not wish to be an inconvenience.

Morrison, you’ll be no inconvenience. Not at all. Our younger daughter and her partner are ardent vegetarians. I’ve conjured up some new recipes for them. I’d like you to try them and give me an honest opinion. They think I’m too sensitive to hear what they really think.

Ayuh? At Boog’s surprised expression, Abigail returned an Oh yeah? look. He glanced away. Ayuh, crittahs might need feedin’. Bettah check. He went to the bay window over the sink to look out into the west yard. At the far end, out in the corner of two stone walls, Boog maintained a pile of food for the wildlife. Ayuh, guess prob’ly all right. Satisfied, he turned to Iain. Ayuh, Aimee said you know ’bout beah.

Well hey, do you enjoy beer?

Ayuh, might say.

Aimee smiled. She knew they would hit it off. Both enjoyed keeping themselves well-nourished so food would be one bond. Just as important—if not more so—both had a strong partying spirit.

Iain? Abigail broke in. Boog used to make his own beer.

Terrific!

That’s past tense, Iain.

Hey, Mrs. Cox? Iain improvised a sad face.

Boog prided himself on a few things: one was staying informed. Not only was he relentless in keeping up with the news, but he also kept himself fervently apprised of all local microbrewery recipes. Though hesitant to brag in front of Abigail, he did have firsthand knowledge of most. As soon as he saw Abigail paying no attention, Boog whispered something to Iain.

Aimee saw that and felt compelled to tease. Now, Iain, don’t be fooled. When it comes to beer, Boog very well might say he’s not an aficionado. That’s just a projection of false modesty.

I can tell Mr. Cox speaks from authority.

Prob’ly not author’ty, Iain. But got my standards and limits.

Abigail had listened while slowly moving her tongue around behind closed lips: a correction was in order. Haven’t seen much of either, Boog.

A large hand waved dismissingly. Ayuh? Nevah mind, Iain. Had Maine beah?

Boog, no! Not any of your homebrew. Abigail’s tone and frown were clear cautionary signals. Think of Iain’s stomach.

Nah, Deah. Thinkin’ ’bout lessah types.

As Boog kept discussing beer, and Iain kept listening, Abigail kept a watchful eye. Sensing that her sister was a little too serious, Aimee slipped over to Abigail to whisper, As you predicted, beer will be the perfect catalyst for their bonding. In no time, they’ll like an uncle and a long-lost nephew.

Rainey, tired of all the beer talk, crept up to Boog. Mr. Cox? Hasn’t the weather been nice all spring?

Ayuh. Gonna be a glad summah too. Could have a whole week of it.

Okay, guys. I think Boog wants to tell you about some of this place’s history. Aimee led her group into the adjacent gathering room—the usual location of Boog’s orientations. Boog followed, walking with a slight limp due to a bad hip.

Rainey started toward the gathering room but decided to stay with Abigail. She offered to help with finalizing plates of quarter-cut turkey sandwiches and German raisin cookies. Mrs. Cox, I hope Michale won’t be trouble. He’s easily bored.

Oh, I expect Boog will keep Michale busy enough. From what Boog told me about his plans, your young man will be as happy as a frog in a cool summer rain. Abigail glanced toward the gathering room, then leaned toward Rainey to whisper, Watching his manners can’t hurt Boog at all. Abigail warmly smiled as Rainey softly giggled. Aimee said Michale was gifted.

I think so. Rainey sighed. "But I’m Mom. Michale dislikes school. It’s so boring."

Abigail handed Rainey the plate of sandwiches. He’s young yet. You know, children are a little like flowers. Some just bloom later. Those that do are often the best.

Thank you.

When Abigail saw moisture building in Rainey’s eyes, she nudged her toward the gathering room. Following with the plate of cookies, she changed the subject when leaning into Rainey’s ear and whispering, Sometimes Boog can be as single-minded as that old hound dog.

Oh?

You’ll see. Still, like Monet, he’s usually well behaved. There may be times, though, when his delinquent side comes out. She peeked into the gathering room to be sure Boog could not hear. Now, Boog’s got it in his mind you young folks can’t wait to hear his stories. Today’s will be only the first of many tales, I’m afraid. Now, you should know, when Boog loudly clears his throat, he’s announcing that he’s about to start.

When Abigail and Rainey arrived with refreshments, Boog was standing between the two dooryard windows and already well into his orientation. A glance at Abigail caused his eyes to widen. Ayuh? Deah has cookies. He grabbed a handful. Wicked good.

Aimee, standing next to Morrison by a dooryard window, had time to look around the room and reminisce during Boog’s time-out. The gathering room, part of the original 1774 house, was a simple rectangular box, but it was an important family place. Such rooms were centers of activity in early colonial homes. This one featured a large walk-in fireplace with a built-in stone oven to offer warmth, a place to cook, and an area for storytelling. A floor-to-ceiling wooden encasement surrounded the fire chamber and oven, with a long mantel built from layers upon layers of heavy molding. It was nothing if not a quiet example of colonial focus on detail.

Aimee glanced halfway up the overmantel and smiled inwardly. Affixed to the cladding was Boog’s favorite piece of art: a bare-breasted lady, which had once served as a figurehead for a ship’s bow. The theme of the room was nautical throughout—a reminder of the state’s rich shipbuilding heritage. The main exceptions were two folksy Will Moses prints, which occupied wall space between the doors of the birthing room and an old bedroom, later converted into an indoor bathroom as part of the modernization. Along the same wall, below the framed prints, was an old tapestry-covered bench seat. Boog’s boots rested underneath.

Nothing had changed for a decade or more. Two oft-used oversized chairs took up the room’s center. Identically upholstered in rich brown leather, both were well cushioned to offer luxurious comfort. Almost a chair-and-a-half each, they sandwiched an old magazine table, which carried its own patina of much use. Along with matching ottomans, they faced the colonial fireplace and its club fender with corner seats. A large rocker sat next to the fender at one end, opposite an old milking stool at the other.

Oooh. Rainey handed the plate of sandwiches to Iain. Please see if Morrison wants a sandwich. Mrs. Cox made some without meat. It tickled Aimee to see how Rainey claimed rights to the rocker as soon as she had put eyes on it. Not that much of a surprise, though. She knew that Rainey would snuggle up to a warm, crackling fire whenever possible.

Morrison forewent both sandwiches and cookies. Curiosity had attracted him to the Indian shutters across the lower half of the dooryard windows. Boog quickly finished his last cookie and joined Morrison, eager to show the newcomers how the shutters worked. With a grunt, he tried pushing a shutter back into its wall pocket. It refused to budge. A quick jab. The hit from his large, callused hand caused the shutter to shake—and so did the two-centuries-old panes of glass. Aimee stood breathless as dread spread over Boog’s face. Abigail escaped to the kitchen. Fortunately, no more cracks appeared. Fortunately, too, the shutter offered no further resistance. Morrison watched all that with owlish calm.

Boog left Morrison sliding the Indian shutter in and out of its wall pocket. He was soon back to his scripted orientation, pausing only when needing to take a deep breath. Meanwhile, Monet roamed the gathering room, sniffing the floor and efficiently dealing with fallen crumbs—his contribution to keeping the bed-and-breakfast tidy.

The orientation was going flawlessly. Yet, Boog was drawn to Morrison. Though he tried not to be obvious, he could not help but occasionally stare. Morrison’s pencil-thin arms and legs, which did not seem to fit his roundish face, had irreversibly aroused his interest.

After mentioning the Revere deposition records at the courthouse, Boog suddenly remembered he was supposed to run an errand for Abigail. Before excusing himself, he told the group in a near whisper to never mind the creaks and moans when walking around the house. The old floors would be complainin’, not ghosts. Ayuh, nothin’ hauntin’ us now.

Aimee rolled her eyes and excused herself to check out her room.

Abigail was at the sink when Boog went to pick up her shopping list. He leaned into her playfully. That lad, Morr’son, walks a little funny. Kinda stiff.

I didn’t notice. But Aimee did say he had been badly burned as a youngster.

Noticed his hair? Little like the old mop out back, doncha think? Abigail’s tight-lipped frown told him of the need for some damage control. Boog offered a sheepish grin while gently nudging her. Not much diff’rent from mine, doncha think? When getting no reaction, Boog continued. Bit weedy in the legs too.

That elicited an audible scowl. You’re talking like that with your bandy-legs?

Ayuh? Bettah be goin’, Deah.

Once Boog was out the door, Abigail returned to the gathering room to huddle with the students. As you must have noticed, Boog has a thick accent. He tries not to show it much in front of guests. Anyhow, at times, you may think he’s blurting out something indecent. I’m not saying it won’t be, but it might not be.

Rainey stopped rocking and pushed her glasses back. Mrs. Cox, I think his accent is charming. Oh, Dr. Cerdercet said Mr. Cox was a UFO buff. Is that true?

I don’t speak of it much. As much embarrassing as silly, I think. But yes, Boog collects UFO articles like some collect stamps. Abigail broke into an expression that blended a smile and a scowl. He thinks I don’t know he stuffs them under his side of the mattress. When I tell him his side of the bed seems lumpy, he tells me he likes it just like that.

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While Boog was busy at the grocery store, Abigail escorted the newcomers to their respective rooms. The house had five usable bedrooms, hardly spacious but nonetheless adequate. As she usually did, Aimee took the main guest room downstairs, the yellow chamber. Formerly the north parlor, it was a good deal larger than the other bedrooms. Rainey and Michale were given the largest of the remaining bedrooms. Upstairs and immediately above the gathering room, it also had windows facing the dooryard. Iain and Morrison had their own smaller rooms. Morrison took the one upstairs, next to the one assigned to Rainey and Michale, leaving Iain the tiny downstairs bedroom—the birthing room. Rainey giggled at Abigail’s exposition of its history.

While the students settled in, Aimee headed straight to the back porch with Monet excitedly leading the way. The covered porch, with four stately columns supporting the balustraded deck above, has always been Aimee’s special sanctuary. Facing the north yard and its large humpback of a hill, it also was much used by family and guests during the summer months.

She gazed off to her left into the west yard and its various flowerbeds. That domesticated section was bounded by a sturdy stone wall that ran along Gore Road, which was more commonly referred to as the gore by the locals. By the porch sat an apple tree—more than a hundred-years-old, generously knotted and twisted—that blocked much her view to the west. Still, well beyond all the boughs laden with maturing fruit, she knew that there were lines of towering sugar maples. The ones that framed the north yard were in clear view. Standing like ramparts of some medieval fort, those trees evoked feelings of not only privacy and quiet in Aimee but also security. Happily, the porch and its surrounds were unchanged.

It was one of those sensuous days in southern Maine; the weather was almost ideal by any standard. Abigail’s lush gardens, fully abloom, offered sweet scents, which always invited extended inhalations. Standing on the steps, Aimee looked under the apple tree’s drooping limbs into the west yard. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the pond and its small waterfall, both completely ringed by stone and