Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69895 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Bram’s shoulder was warm and solid against Zachary’s.
“I think they’re wonderful,” Bram said.
“Undeniably,” Zachary said. “What do they mean?”
“I don’t want to shock you,” Mrs. Lundy said.
Bram and Zachary leaned in. Bram smelled like wood shavings and sunshine and something sweet like peaches.
Mrs. Lundy leaned in too.
“They’re how I communicate with my home planet.”
Zachary’s heart fell. Mrs. Lundy wasn’t an artist or a witchy crone. She was an old, mentally ill woman without a support network.
Bram seemed, for the first time, to have nothing to say in response to that either, and the silence grew uncomfortable.
“Oh good lord, I’m just kidding. I swear, your generation has no sense of humor at all.”
Zachary’s mouth fell open.
“Also no manners. What are your names?”
“Oh jeez, so sorry.” Bram stood and held out his hand. “I’m Bram Larkspur, recently arrived to Casper Road. Lovely to meet you.”
“Zachary Glass,” Zachary said.
“Imelda Lundy,” she said, inclining her head graciously. “Lovely to make your acquaintance. Now. I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. I don’t come from another planet. And I wasn’t an enfant terrible in the New York art scene. Nor am I an evil witch who dines on the flesh of children who wander onto my property and uses their bones in her autumn sculptures. Alas.”
“Seriously,” Zachary muttered. That would be an awesome contemporary retelling of Hansel and Gretel. Way better than the horrible 2015 remake.
“What are you, then?” Zachary asked. “I mean, what are they?”
“I grew up here. Garnet Run. When I was a little girl, my father was a hunter. He made piles of stones—or, when there weren’t stones, sticks—to mark his path, to measure rising or falling water levels in streams he needed to cross, to mark a campsite he wished to return to for the night. Sometimes to communicate with other hunters or trappers.”
Mrs. Lundy’s eyes took on a faraway look.
“He used to bring me home a stone each time he returned from a hunt. Stones worn smooth by the river. I painted on them. Drew faces.”
She smiled.
“When Marcy Hannity first proposed the idea of a Casper Road Halloween decoration corridor and asked me to participate, I found myself out in the yard, stacking stones. I think they’re beautiful. And I’m certainly not going to spend my money on a lot of plastic decorations at Walmart.”
Zachary winced at her mention of the hated place.
“You’d know all about that, Zachary Glass, six-time winner of the Casper Road Halloween Decorating Contest.”
“You know who I am?”
“Of course. You don’t miss a young man who works from home dressed in a suit all year-round. And I’ve certainly appreciated your compelling approach to the holiday.”
Zachary glowed with her praise.
“Thank you.”
“I assume you’ll be starting to decorate soon?”
Zachary’s stomach knotted. He was behind in his planning and his execution. Work had been unusually busy the last two months. He should really catch up this weekend. He had a title to defend.
“Yes, very soon,” he said coolly.
But the joy of solving the mystery of Mrs. Lundy’s sculptures was swiftly giving way to the anxiety of starting work late. He really needed to get home.
Chapter Five
Bram
The chainsaw screamed and Bram winced.
“Can I give you a hand there, Carl?”
The older man was sweating and heaving. Bram moved behind him and pulled the cord to turn off the saw, then took it out of his hands.
“I borrowed this from my brother. He never uses it. Just wanted to clear this stump.”
“I got it,” Bram said, and went to work on the stubborn wood.
Twenty minutes later, he’d excised the stump and was working on the roots.
“Thank you so much,” Carl said. “I thought I was gonna chop my leg off or something.”
“It’s not great to use a chainsaw with no training,” Bram said gently. He forbore from telling Carl that he’d seen someone drop a chainsaw on their foot and the cuts the rotating blade made were nothing so clean as chopping. “What are you going to do with the wood?” Bram asked instead.
“Nothing, just put it out for trash pickup.”
“Any chance your brother wouldn’t miss this for the weekend?”
“Oh, he won’t. He told me to take it for as long as I needed.”
“Well then, I know just what to do with the stump.”
The first time Bram had carved with a chainsaw had been five years ago, at his sister Moon’s woodshop. Chainsaw carving was like whittling on steroids and Bram had enjoyed it immediately, even though it left his shoulders and back aching and his hands with the juddering sense of vibration long after the tool was turned off.
And this was the perfect chance to put those skills to work.
Hem slunk off to lie at the side of the house—she did not appreciate the sound of the chainsaw—as Bram and Carl pulled, rolled, and kicked the heavy stump over to Bram’s lawn. It felt so good to do something with his hands. To feel the sweat of exertion along his spine and at his hairline. It never felt like work, using his body. It felt like freedom.