First of May
When Giselle Becker woke that chilly, rainy morning on the first day of November and looked out her window at Alcatraz prison across San Francisco Bay, she had no idea that her life was soon to be drastically altered. The change, when it came, was not exactly unwelcomed. For more than two years, she had been feeling restless not only with her job but also with her social life. She and Tyler Margate, her boyfriend of seven years, shared a one-bedroom, third-story apartment on Telegraph Hill, but lately their relationship was more that of roommates than of lovers. With her thirtieth birthday fast approaching, she had been feeling the urge to branch out and seek new horizons; the problem was in knowing in which direction to go.
Giselle poured herself a cup of coffee, buttered a slice of whole wheat toast and turned on the television, hoping to dispel the gloom in the silent apartment. With Tyler away on a business trip, she felt isolated, cut off from all human contact.
I wish I had a cat or a dog to keep me company, she thought, but the landlord would not allow tenants to keep pets.
With CNN playing in the background, Giselle performed her weekly housekeeping chores. Normally, she hated to waste a Saturday morning on such mundane activities as vacuuming floors, dusting furniture and washing dirty laundry, but given the nasty weather, she had nothing better to do. Once the apartment was clean, she made herself a sandwich and sat down in front of the television.
Let's see what new movies are on Netflix, she thought, reaching for the remote.
She was scanning through the streaming service's recommendations, trying to decide what to watch, when she heard a knock on the door.
Who can that be? she wondered.
Giselle answered the door and was surprised to see her mail carrier on the stoop.
"I'm not expecting any packages," she said.
"I have a certified letter that requires a signature," the carrier announced.
"If it's for Tyler Margate, I'm afraid he's out of town on business."
"The letter is addressed to Miss Giselle Becker."
"That's me."
After scribbling her name and date on the receipt, Giselle glanced at the return address. It was from a law firm in Boston.
What do they want with me? she wondered. I don't know a single person in Massachusetts. Hell! I've never been east of the Rockies.
Like many people who receive correspondence from lawyers, she feared the worst.
Oh, God! I hope I'm not being sued.
She quickly ripped open the envelope and read the letter. To her astonishment, she learned of the death of a grandmother she never knew existed. Furthermore, according to the attorney whose name appeared at the bottom of the letter, an eighty-five-year-old woman named Lorelei Becker, her maternal grandparent, had named Giselle the sole beneficiary of her estate.
Her mother, Clarissa Becker, a young woman of the Sixties, had left home at an early age and moved to Haight-Ashbury during the so-called Summer of Love. Eventually, she tired of the nomadic hippie lifestyle. She got a job and worked her way through school, graduating from Berkeley with honors. Although she never married, a brief romance with a computer programmer in the Eighties resulted in the birth of her only child: Giselle.
The young woman never met her father, but Clarissa showed her photographs and answered all questions asked about him. The same could not be said of Giselle's grandparents. Her mother never willingly spoke of her past and whenever her daughter inquired, she always received the same answer: "You don't want to know."
That wasn't true, Giselle thought as she stared down at her grandmother's name typed in the letter. I wanted so badly to know.
Still, after years of unsatisfactory answers, she stopped asking her mother questions.
By the time Giselle watched her DVD of Stephen King's The Stand in its entirety, it was time for dinner. She wished she had a group of close friends she could phone and schedule a girl's night out, but the people she normally socialized with were coworkers, not friends. They were all married with children and would not want to spend their Saturday evening having drinks with someone they saw all week at work. With no better options available, she took a dinner-for-one frozen meal out of the freezer and popped it into the microwave oven.
I wish Tyler were home. At least then I'd have someone to talk to.
At eight o'clock, she heard the familiar ringtone that signified her boyfriend was calling.
"When are you coming home?" she asked after the customary pleasantries were out of the way.
"Not for another two or three weeks, at least. I know I said I'd only be gone for a few days, but that's the job."
She was so disheartened by his reply that she forgot to mention the letter she had received concerning her grandmother's estate.
"What about you? How are things at work?" Tyler asked.
"Slow. We're waiting for word on Apple's new operating system before we proceed with our next big project. Until then we're just tweaking a few of our existing programs."
It was a typical conversation between the two. Neither of them was prone to displays of affection, either verbal or physical. There were no tender expressions of love, no kisses blown over the telephone. Tyler might as well have been talking to his secretary for all the warmth he exhibited.
There was a frown on Giselle's face when she ended the call. Lately, there were few smiles and rarely was she moved to laughter.
Something is missing from my life, she realized.
But what?
* * *
Work was unbearable. At one point, Giselle sat at her desk and watched the minute hand make a 360-degree revolution around the face of her watch. She turned to her computer, and her fingers danced lightly upon the keyboard.
I'M SO BORED. I'M SO BORED. I'M SO BORED.
She typed the three words over and over again.
I've got to get out of here, she thought, her fingers finally coming to a stop.
A workaholic, she had accrued several months of unused vacation time since starting with the company. Now would be the perfect time to take a week or two off.
But what will I do? Where will I go?
A recent memory flashed in her mind. She opened her briefcase and took out the letter from the Boston law firm. After scheduling an appointment to meet with her late grandmother's lawyer, she spoke to her immediate supervisor. In light of the current workload, she had no difficulty getting his approval to take some time off.
Once decided on a course of action, Giselle wasted no time in making preparations. She booked a flight with United that left at 11:37 that night and arrived in Boston at 8:14 the following morning. Through the same travel website, she also booked a rental car and a hotel reservation. She looked at her watch again. It was only 3:45. There was plenty of time for her to go home, pack a bag and take the BART to SFO in time to make her flight. There was even time to grab a burger at the airport—a blessing since she had not taken the time to eat lunch.
The eastbound flight was uneventful. Shortly after takeoff, she closed her eyes, but despite the lateness of the hour, she could not sleep. Instead, she ordered a cup of coffee from the flight attendant and watched two in-flight movies: a comedy that was not very funny and a horror movie that was not at all frightening.
I should have bought a book or magazine at the airport, she thought with hindsight. Oh, well, maybe on the return flight.
Luck seemed to be with her that morning. The plane touched down slightly ahead of schedule, and there was no line at the car rental desk. Furthermore, since the only bag she brought was a carry-on, she did not have to wait for luggage to be loaded onto the carrousel. Thus, she was forty minutes early arriving at the law office.
"Come right in," said the attorney, a middle-aged woman with hair dyed a bright orange color.
"I'm sorry I'm so early. I thought it would take me longer to get to your office."
"No problem. You're my first client of the day."
Since Giselle was Lorelei Becker's only living relative, no one was present to contest the will. Once the formalities were taken care of, all the paperwork signed, witnessed and notarized, the carrot-topped lawyer handed over the keys to the house.
"I can't wait to see the place," Giselle declared. "Is it far from here?"
"It's about a two-hour drive, the first half hour of which is highway driving, but then the rest is all back roads. Thankfully, we haven't had any snow yet, so they should all be clear."
"Snow," Giselle echoed wistfully.
The word seemed to magically conjure up images of horse-drawn sleigh rides, white-frosted trees and snowmen. A wistful smile came to her lips.
"I've always dreamed of an old-fashioned white Christmas."
"Really? I've always dreamed of spending the holidays on a Caribbean island," the lawyer laughed. "Lying on a lounge chair on a sandy beach, sipping a daiquiri. I promise myself every year I'm going to go, but every December 25th I'm stuck in my kitchen roasting a turkey and entertaining my in-laws."
* * *
As she navigated the winding, hilly roads of rural Massachusetts, Giselle imagined what she would find at the end of her journey. What kind of house had she inherited: a Cape Cod, a Victorian, a ranch? Of more importance than the building itself was what she hoped to find inside. Were there photographs of family members she had never met, mementoes from her mother's childhood or, hopefully, an explanation as to why Clarissa Becker and her mother remained estranged all those years?
When Giselle entered Wycombe, she was struck by the beauty of the picturesque New England village. Although the trees were bare, she had no difficulty imagining what they must have looked like a month earlier when in their autumnal glory.
It's like stepping back in time, she thought when she spied the well-kept eighteenth-century buildings along Main Street facing the village green. Not a cell phone tower, strip mall, fast-food restaurant or gas station in sight.
After driving past the village green, she was instructed by her navigator to "turn left onto Covenant Road." Five minutes later, the robotic voice informed her, "Arriving at destination on right."
Having expected a small house, quite possibly one in need of repair, Giselle was amazed by the sight of her grandmother's home. The two-story colonial looked like one of Bob Vila's masterful renovations on This Old House.
"Talk about curb appeal!" she exclaimed as she drove her rental car up the driveway. "I wonder what the inside looks like."
The new homeowner walked up the brick walkway, climbed the front steps and placed her key in the lock. Upon opening the front door, she stared in admiration at the interior. She took one step, then two, her eyes drinking in all the wonders of the décor: wainscoting, crown molding, mahogany Queen Anne period antique furniture.
"Obviously, Grandmother wasn't relying on her social security checks to maintain a place like this," she decided, mentally estimating the market value of the house and its furnishings.
Giselle realized she ought to have more closely examined the papers the orange-haired lawyer put in front of her before she signed them. Eager to see the house, she had not bothered to read the financial details in the will. The attorney had told her that besides the home, there was a bank account and a number of investments, but she had foolishly assumed they could not amount to much.
I guess I was wrong.
Perusing the second-floor rooms, she noticed her grandmother's clothes and personal belongings had been removed from the closet and drawers of the master bedroom. The house was literally move-in ready as though it were waiting for her to take up immediate occupancy. Although she had made a reservation at the Hilton near Logan Airport, she could not resist the inviting four-poster bed, the handmade double wedding ring quilt or the wood-burning fireplace in the room.
After bringing her carry-on bag into the house, she decided to walk to the center of the village to purchase a few groceries. In less than twenty minutes she crossed the threshold of the Wycombe General Store. A white-haired woman who appeared as though she was in her eighties or possibly nineties was buying loose leaf tea. She turned and looked at the newcomer to town, and a smile stretched across her deeply wrinkled face.
"You must be Lorelei's granddaughter!" the old woman exclaimed. "Why, you're the spitting image of her!"
"Yes, I am. So, you knew my grandmother?" Giselle replied, hoping the woman could give her some insight into the Becker family history.
"Of course! Wycombe is a small village. Everyone knows everyone else."
"My name is Giselle Becker, by the way. I live in San Francisco, but I'll be staying at my grandmother's house for a few days."
"Roland!" the old woman suddenly called toward the rear of the store. "Come look and see who's here."
While she waited for the shopkeeper to emerge from the stockroom, the old woman introduced herself as Frieda Wagner, formerly the village schoolteacher.
"Oh? What subject did you teach?"
Frieda laughed, her green eyes twinkling with amusement.
"In my day, dear, Wycombe had a one-room schoolhouse, and I was the only teacher. I taught all ages; all subjects."
"That's incredible. I never ...."
"What are you hollering about, Frieda?"
Giselle turned at the sound of the male voice behind her. It is difficult to say who was the more surprised of the two: she or the shopkeeper. For the latter, it was the shock of recognition. He saw a face from his past, one he apparently cared for a great deal. For the former, it was a pronounced sense of déjà vu. The young woman could not possibly have ever seen him before, yet there was something eerily familiar about his features.
"Hi," she introduced herself. "I'm Giselle Becker. I assume you knew my grandmother, too."
"I was ... very fond of her."
"This is Roland Bauer, the owner of our general store. He and your grandmother were once quite the item."
Despite his advanced age, the shopkeeper was still a handsome man. Giselle imagined when he was younger he would have been downright gorgeous.
"To be honest," she admitted, "I never even knew I had a grandmother. That's one of the reasons why I came east, not just to see the house I inherited but to learn about my family. I would be extremely grateful for anything either of you can tell me about her."
"I'll tell you anything you'd like to know, and I'm sure I speak for Roland as well as for myself."
"Naturally," the shopkeeper concurred.
"Why don't the two of you come to my house for dinner tomorrow night?" Frieda offered. "We can take a nice, long stroll down memory lane together."
"I don't want to impose."
"Nonsense! It's no trouble to put a roast and some potatoes in the oven."
"And I'll bring one of Johanna's homemade pies for dessert," Roland offered.
"Is Johanna your wife?" Giselle asked.
"No. I'm afraid I never married. Johanna Winter is my neighbor, and the best baker in Wycombe."
* * *
No sooner did Giselle return to the house with her bag of groceries than the slate-colored sky made good on its promise of rain. What began as a drizzle soon turned into a steady shower and then a heavy downpour. Forced to remain indoors by the worsening storm, she decided to put the time to good use and explore the interior. Working from the ground up, she began her search in the cellar.
"Please don't let there be any spiders," she prayed as she cautiously opened the door at the bottom of the cellar stairs.
Expecting to find a dark, damp, cavernous area, she was delighted to discover a light, clean, finished living space that included a laundry room with an energy efficient washer and matching dryer. Even the maintenance room, which housed the furnace, hot water heater and electrical fuse box, was free of dirt, cobwebs and insects.
Whoever removed my grandmother's belongings from the bedroom must have given this place a thorough cleaning. That will make my job a lot easier when I go to sell it.
A sudden mental anguish akin to grief descended upon Giselle at the thought of putting the two-story colonial on the market.
"I'm being ridiculous," she chided herself. "I have to sell it. Why would I keep a house in Massachusetts when my life is in San Francisco?"
Having turned up no family records or heirlooms in the cellar, she tried to maintain a positive attitude as she headed back toward the staircase. There were two floors and an attic still to be explored.
The rooms on the first floor, although exquisite in their décor, were useless to a woman in search of answers. She found nothing but appliances, cutlery, dishware, pots, pans and glassware in the drawers and cabinets. The dining room held only a set of good china, silverware and table linens in the hutch. Both the living room and powder room also proved disappointing. Only the library seemed promising, but upon closer examination Giselle discovered it held only her grandmother's collection of books and a supply of stationary in the desk.
"Shakespeare, Hawthorne, Dickens, Poe, Hugo, Dumas," she read aloud the names of the authors on one of the bookshelves. "Someone obviously liked good literature."
Her search of the second story was a swift one. The three secondary bedrooms were as empty as the master had been, and the two upstairs bathrooms held nothing but towels, tissues and basic toiletries.
Perhaps my grandmother's things were put in a storage unit, she speculated. Or maybe they were donated to Good Will.
Realizing the attic might possibly be her last hope of connecting with her past, she mentally crossed her fingers, climbed up the staircase and opened the door. When she turned on the lights, she was delighted to see dozens of boxes and plastic storage bins piled three- to four-feet high.
I only hope they're not all filled with clothes and old magazines.
None of the boxes or bins was marked as to its contents, so each one was essentially a grab bag. The first was filled with blankets, bed sheets and pillowcases. The second contained a set of children's books, building blocks, a pair of roller skates, a vinyl baby doll and a little girl's tea set.
"Were these my mother's toys? They must have been. This doll doesn't look old enough to have belonged to my grandmother."
Excited as she was by the discovery, it paled in comparison to what she found in the third box: a family photo album. Given the poor quality of the attic lighting, coupled with the cold temperatures of the unheated area, she took the book downstairs to the living room. After lighting a fire and making herself a cup of hot cocoa, she curled up on the sofa and opened the album.
On the first page was a large photograph of a young girl, approximately five or six years old. Both the style of her clothing and the age of the picture itself indicated that the child was not Clarissa Becker.
This must be my grandmother.
She turned the page, and then another and another, and watched the child age into young adulthood. When she turned the next page, all doubt she had as to who the girl was vanished.
The resemblance is uncanny! If I didn't know any better, I'd swear I was looking at my own face.
The identity of the man standing beside her in the photo was no mystery either.
I was right about one thing. When he was younger, Roland Bauer was absolutely gorgeous!
* * *
After several hours of bending, lifting and climbing up and down the attic stairs, Giselle decided to soak her tired, aching muscles in a hot bath. Her quest to unearth her roots could be postponed to another day. Immersed in soothing, fragrant bubbles, she was reading The Scarlet Letter when her cell phone rang.
"Did you have any plans for the holidays?" Tyler asked, still unaware of the recent developments in his girlfriend's life.
"I assume we'll celebrate them just like we do every year by going to your mother's for Thanksgiving and then to your sister and brother-in-law's for Christmas."
"Well, I'll be down here in Texas for another two months at least."
"You can't fly back for a few days?"
"I'd rather not. You know how hectic the airports are at that time of the year."
"What do you want to do then?"
"Would you mind if we spent the holidays apart? Just for this year," he quickly added.
A vision of an old-fashioned white Christmas came to Giselle's mind. If she put off selling the house until spring, she could spend the holidays in Wycombe.
"Giselle? Did you hear me? Hello? Are you still there?"
"I'm here."
"Would you be mad if I stayed here in Texas over the holidays?"
"No. In fact, there's something I've been meaning to tell you, but I haven't had the opportunity. I'm not in San Francisco right now."
"Where are you?"
"Massachusetts."
She then proceeded to fill him in about her grandmother's death and her inheritance.
"Do you have any idea how much the place is worth?" he asked.
The question struck the wrong chord with Giselle. He showed no interest in any emotional impact the old woman's death might have had on her; he saw only the possible monetary gain.
"I haven't decided if I'm going to sell it yet."
She had meant to say when, not if. Was the statement a simple slip of her tongue or had her subconscious mind considered keeping the house?
"You'd be crazy not to!" Tyler exclaimed.
Another wrong chord and Giselle felt her anger build. Before she said something she might later regret, she ended the call and went back to enjoying Hawthorne.
Throughout the morning and early afternoon of the following day, Giselle examined the contents of the remaining boxes in the attic. Nothing she found thrilled her as much as the photo album. She found no birth, death or marriage certificates; no old letters; no journals or diaries. There was not even a family Bible where baptisms, weddings and funerals were recorded. What she did find were boxes of baby clothes, toys and small pink knitted blankets and booties.
I wonder if my grandmother saved these things for me, she mused, feeling resentment toward her mother for denying Lorelei access to her grandchild.
Perhaps if she knew the reason for the estrangement she would not take umbrage with her mother's behavior. Much to her dismay, however, there were no answers to her questions to be found in the attic. Her remaining opportunity of discovering the skeletons buried in the Becker family closet seemed to be the two elderly people she was to have dinner with later that evening.
"I hope neither of them has a faulty memory!"
* * *
Frieda Wagner's house could best be described by the adjective cozy. It was a Cape Cod, roughly half the size of her late friend's two-story colonial. Like the other homes in Wycombe, both the building and the yard were well-maintained.
Giselle had just handed her hostess her coat when the doorbell rang.
"That's Roland," Frieda announced. "I can't wait to see what he brought us for dessert."
The scent of fresh-baked apple pie wafted in as soon as she opened the door.
"How is my Yankee pot roast going to compete with that?" the retired schoolteacher asked. "Maybe we should skip the main course altogether."
"Are you kidding?" Roland laughed. "You know what a meat-and-potatoes man I am."
Giselle helped Frieda carry the food from the kitchen to the dining room where the owner of the general store was seated at the head of the table. He removed the cork from a bottle of locally bottled wine and poured the fruity vintage into their glasses.
For close to forty minutes Frieda and Roland kept Giselle entertained with anecdotes of their youthful friendship with her grandmother. As much as she enjoyed the conversation, she was eager to obtain specific information. Still, she waited patiently until Roland stopped talking about early courtship rituals to inquire if anyone wanted more wine.
"I'll have another," Frieda replied.
While Roland was refilling the glasses Giselle jumped at the chance to take a more active part in the conversation.
"Was my grandfather from Wycombe, too?"
The two elderly people at the table exchanged a furtive glance.
"I'm not sure this is a conversation fit for a dinner table," Frieda said uncomfortably.
"No need for secrecy," Roland argued. "This is Lorelei's granddaughter. She's family. She has a right to know."
"Know what?"
Face red with embarrassment, Frieda explained, "I'm afraid no one knows who your grandfather was. I'm not even sure Lorelei knew."
"Did my grandmother sleep with that many men that she couldn't narrow down the candidates?"
Roland immediately came to his former sweetheart's defense.
"Certainly not! She was a good, decent woman."
"Well, what was it then? A one-night stand with a good-looking stranger during a moment of weakness?"
"Not exactly," he answered.
"Was it rape?" Giselle asked, finding it hard to believe that such a violent crime would happen in so peaceful a village as Wycombe.
"I'd really prefer it if we changed the subject," Frieda said, distressed to the point of tears.
"I'm sorry," her guest apologized. "I didn't know. In fact, I never even knew who my grandmother was until I spoke to her lawyer regarding the will. My mother never spoke of her and refused to answer questions about her family."
"How terrible for you," the old woman sympathized.
"You can see why I'm so curious. I was an only child being brought up by a single mom. When she died, I felt all alone in the world."
"You needn't feel that way anymore," Roland said. "You have us here in Wycombe. We'll be your family."
The shopkeeper reached over and grasped her hand. It was a simple gesture of compassion, but his touch had a peculiar effect on Giselle. A deep sense of contentment and wellbeing enveloped her, and all the questions she had wanted to ask about the relationship between her mother and grandmother flew from her mind.
"I don't know about anybody else," she announced cheerfully, "but I'm ready for a slice of that delicious-smelling apple pie!"
* * *
It snowed during the night, but there was not much of an accumulation, nothing at all like the blizzards that would strike in January and February—just a few inches to coat the lawn and trees in white.
"It's beautiful!" Giselle exclaimed, as she gazed outside through the bay window in the living room.
The snowfall cemented her decision to remain in Wycombe during the holiday season.
If I'm going to be here until after New Year's, I'll need to buy some more clothes. I can't wear the same three outfits for the next month and a half.
She remembered passing a mall on her drive from Boston. She ought to be able to find everything she needed there. Yet when she tried to put an address into the rental car's navigator, she discovered it was no longer working.
I shouldn't have too much difficulty finding my way, Giselle thought optimistically. I'll just go down Covenant, turn onto Main, go past the village green and continue driving until I find the entrance ramp to the interstate.
Not long after passing the eighteenth century buildings that faced the green, she encountered a number of sharp bends in the road and wondered if the snow would present any problems.
Does this car have snow tires? she thought, wondering if she should postpone her shopping trip for a day or two.
The roads, however, had been plowed, so Giselle decided to continue on her journey. Ten minutes later, expecting any moment to see a sign for the interstate, she saw Wycombe's general store on the right.
How did I get back on Covenant Road?
She did not remember turning off of Main Street much less driving around in a circle.
"Let's try this again," she said, driving past the village green.
Since hers was the only car on the road, she drove slowly, never taking her eyes off the road in front of her. Although she had passed no side streets and there were no forks in the road, she soon found herself back on Covenant Road again in sight of the general store.
"What the ...?"
Giselle pulled off the road, parked her car and entered the store. Roland Bauer greeted her with a warm smile.
"What can I get for you today?" he asked, in his pronounced New England accent.
"I don't suppose you sell navigators?"
"No," he laughed. "There's not much use for them in this small village."
"A local map?"
"Sorry."
"How about some verbal directions, then?"
"Sure, where are you headed?"
"I passed a shopping mall on my way here from Boston. I thought I could just stay on Main Street, and it would lead me to the interstate."
"Normally it would, but it snowed last night."
"So?"
"The local plow truck pushes the snow down Main Street and then stops at the village border. You'll have to wait for the county trucks to plow their portion of the road. During a bad winter, the street can be closed for days at a time."
"Is there any other way out of here?"
"Not unless you have a horse-drawn sleigh."
"What do you do in case of an emergency?" she asked, flabbergasted at the idea of being cut off from civilization.
"We've been lucky enough never to have one, but I suppose we would just radio the hospital. They would send a chopper to medevac us out."
"I can't very well call a medical helicopter to take me to the mall."
"Anything you would want to buy at a mall, I can order for you and have it delivered here to the store in a day or two."
"How, if the road is closed?"
"You're not in San Francisco anymore, my dear," Roland laughed. "Supplies have been brought overland into Wycombe by sleigh for years."
After thumbing through a mail-order catalog, Giselle made a list of essentials: sweat pants, sweaters, heavy socks, boots, wool hat, gloves, scarf, flannel nightgowns and a heavy winter coat. She took out her Visa card and handed it to Roland with her shopping list.
"You hold onto that," he said, returning her credit card. "You can pay me when you pick up your order."
"You're right," she declared, putting her card back into her wallet, "I'm not in San Francisco anymore."
* * *
Once Giselle learned that along with the house her grandmother had left her a considerable amount of money, she tendered her resignation and ended her relationship with Tyler Margate. She did not miss San Francisco. Even though not one of the residents who lived on Covenant Road was under the age of eighty, she had a satisfactory social life. Frieda Wagner taught her to knit and to play a simple tune on the piano. Roland Bauer routinely showed up at her house for a game of checkers, chess or backgammon. Johanna Winter welcomed the young woman into her kitchen where she gave her cooking and baking lessons free of charge.
As the Thanksgiving holiday approached, the weather worsened. The only road into and out of Wycombe was frequently closed, which did not bother Giselle since she made no further attempts to leave the town. In fact, Roland had been kind enough to store the rental car in his barn.
"When the road opens, I can have someone take it back to the airport for you," he offered.
"Thank you," she said. "Sometimes I wonder what I would do without you."
Despite the difference in their ages, the kindly shopkeeper had become her closest friend. He frequently went out of his way to make life in her new home as pleasant as possible.
On Thanksgiving Day, the people of Wycombe gathered at the old church next to the town hall. It was not like any house of worship Giselle had ever seen.
"Where is the altar? And the pews?" she asked.
"I guess you're not familiar with the old New England meetinghouses. Buildings such as this one were the focal point of the community where all the residents could not only conduct religious worship but also discuss local issues and engage in town business. Here in Wycombe, we hold our annual Thanksgiving feast here because it's the only place in the village large enough to hold everyone."
No sooner did Giselle place two pumpkin pies on a table reserved for desserts than Frieda Wagner and Johanna Winter entered, followed by nearly fifty other people—most carrying food and all well-advanced in age.
"Are there going to be any children coming?" she asked Roland.
"I suppose that's a polite way of asking if you're going to have to suffer through dinner with a bunch of old geezers."
"No, I ...."
Roland spared her further embarrassment.
"It's all right. I'm sure you must have noticed an absence of people under seventy in our village. That's because there aren't any. You see, Wycombe doesn't offer much in the way of excitement, jobs or even education. The young people began leaving back in the Sixties. Your own mother left and settled in California. Others have gone to Boston, New York, Chicago. No doubt it won't be long before you decide to sell your grandmother's house and move on."
The look of sadness in the old man's eyes touched her, and she reached out and took his hand.
"I've grown to love Wycombe," Giselle admitted, "and the house, but most of all the people. I can't image ever leaving here."
* * *
The winter proved to be a bad one with frequent heavy snowstorms. Thankfully, there was no loss of heat or power since the house had come with a surplus of fuel and firewood, and a generator to supply electricity. Never a social butterfly, Giselle had no difficulty adjusting to life in the small, insular community. Despite her hi-tech background as a computer programmer, she soon began to enjoy a simple existence without Internet access and cable television. As the months went by, she did not even bother to charge her cell phone.
"It's funny," she told Roland one snowy March evening when the two of them were playing a game of Chinese checkers in front of her fireplace. "I'm living here like one of the Amish—no Facebook, no Netflix, no Starbucks—and yet it doesn't bother me. I actually enjoy it."
"I'm glad," the elderly shopkeeper replied. "But a woman your age ought to be married."
"I don't think I'm cut out for marriage. Back in San Francisco, I was living the so-called American dream. Tyler and I both had great jobs with generous salaries and lots of opportunity for advancement, yet I felt ... empty. There was something missing in my life, but I didn't know what it was."
"And now?"
"I'm still not certain what was missing, but whatever it was, I found it here. I've never been so satisfied with life."
"Wait," Roland said softly. "Come spring, you'll find a whole new world here."
"What do you mean?"
"You arrived in the late autumn, after the harvest was brought in, when life in the village slows down to a crawl. Now it's winter, and we're all practically hibernating. Spring brings with it new life from the ground, and everyone feels rejuvenated."
"I didn't realize agriculture was so important around here."
"Did you think it was a retirement community? Except for me and Frieda, nearly everyone in Wycombe works the land."
"I'd like to plant a few vegetables out in my back yard although I've never been very good with houseplants. I must have been born with a black thumb."
Giselle found his warm, masculine laughter comforting. Not for the first time, she wished the shopkeeper was fifty years younger.
"That's ridiculous!" he said. "You have a gift for inducing life out of the ground. Trust me; I know the ability when I see it."
March came in like a lion, but it did not go out like a lamb. There were snowstorms on both the first and the thirty-first of the month. April, on the other hand, was much warmer and brought with it the long-awaited thaw. As Roland had predicted, the people of Wycombe were infused with new energy. The village bustled with activity.
During the third week of April, a group of men began setting up wooden tables and benches on the village green.
"What's going on?" Giselle asked Johanna Winter during her weekly cooking lesson in the latter's kitchen.
"The village is preparing for its annual May Day celebration."
"Is it some kind of picnic?"
"Not exactly, but food will be available. There are also baked goods and crafts for sale. I'm having a table of jams and jellies I canned."
"I've never actually been to one, but it sounds to me a lot like a state or county fair."
"It's similar to one, but our celebration is much smaller and not nearly as commercial. There are no mechanical rides or games of chance. But we do have music during the main event of the day."
"Oh? What's that?"
"The maypole."
"Sounds like fun. I hope I'll be able to attend."
"You had better be there," Johanna said. "As Lorelei's granddaughter, you're to be the guest of honor."
* * *
The first of May was warm and sunny with temperatures in the low sixties. Giselle dressed in a corduroy skirt with a hemline below her knee and a woolen sweater.
I'm even beginning to look Amish! she thought with amusement as she gazed at her reflection in her grandmother's antique cheval mirror.
With her rental car long gone, she walked to the village green. She was surprised when she saw that everyone in town turned out for the occasion, and all reminded Giselle of figures on a cuckoo clock! The men were garbed like German peasants, and the women wore dresses that resembled dirndls.
"No one told me this was to be a costume party," she said to Frieda. "If I'd known, I would have dressed accordingly."
"Don't be silly! You can wear anything you like. We old-timers like to use the May Day celebration as a time to honor our German heritage, so we dress up like Hansel and Gretel."
"Is everyone in the village German?"
"Yes. We're all descended from the same group of settlers from the Rhineland area."
"Including my grandmother?"
"Of course. That makes you one of us."
"I suppose I'll have to get a dirndl, too."
"You ought to look good in one," Roland declared as he crossed the street toward the two women. "Not that you don't look great in what you're wearing."
"Thank you. You look dashing yourself."
Giselle took the arm of the older man, and he escorted her around the village green, occasionally stopping by a table to browse at the goods being offered.
"Want to try my homemade pickles?" Johanna offered. "The cucumbers are from my garden, and the pickling recipe is an old family recipe."
"These are great. Do you think you can teach me to make them?"
"You know my kitchen is always open to you."
"Johanna tells me you're becoming quite the baker," Roland said as they followed the scent of grilling sausages. "And that your pies are every bit as good as her own."
"And to think that this time last year my diet consisted of take-out, fast food and frozen dinners heated in the microwave!"
"See. Didn't I say you were a girl of hidden talents?"
The day passed pleasantly. The celebrants, although all octogenarians—and up—knew how to have a good time. Giselle idly wondered how they managed to avoid the geriatric health pitfalls of most senior citizens. They all seemed to be in good physical and mental health. No one walked with a stoop or shuffle. No one was bound to a wheelchair, walker or even a cane. Most importantly, there was no hint of dementia in the community.
Must be the simple living and clean air, she thought.
When the sun began to set, the musicians—two men with wooden flutes and one with a fiddle—began to play. On cue, a group of women gathered around the gaily decorated maypole, each taking the free end of a colored ribbon. Frieda and Johanna both took part in the dancing, but neither invited the young guest of honor to join in.
"Don't men participate?" Giselle asked Roland.
"No, only women. You see, May Day is based on an old fertility rite, and the maypole represents the male."
"You mean it's a phallic symbol?"
"Yes."
After the first dance came to an end, the dancers sought refreshment. Johanna opened a bottle of wine.
"From my own grapes," she boasted.
"Mmmm. It's sweet," Giselle announced after sampling a glass.
She did not have the heart to tell the kindly old woman that there was a distinct and unpleasant aftertaste. In fact, she had to force herself, at Johanna's coaxing, to drink a second glass. Thankfully, she was spared having to drink another when the two bonfires were lit and the musicians signaled the start of another dance. This time, Frieda and Johanna pulled Giselle into the circle and invited her to take hold of a ribbon.
Two dances later and the young woman felt a wave of dizziness wash over her.
"I'm not feeling well," she moaned and put her hand to her head.
"It must be Johanna's wine," Frieda theorized. "It tastes mild but it has quite a kick if you're not used to it."
"Come sit down," Roland said soothingly. "You'll feel better in a few minutes."
She took a seat beside him, closed her eyes to keep her head from spinning and promptly passed out.
* * *
The dream was more vivid than any she had ever had before. She was dressed in an old German costume similar to the dirndls the women of Wycombe wore. The fiddle was silent, but the music of the flutes played loudly as the dancers made their revolutions around the maypole, stepping faster and faster.
For old women, they're awful spritely, she thought.
A misstep and she tripped, but her body never hit the ground. Instead, she fell sideways, her back pressed against the oak maypole. Meanwhile the old women continued their ritualistic dance, and as they circled the pole—some clockwise and others counterclockwise—Giselle became entrapped in the braid of brightly colored ribbon they wove.
"Help me!" she cried weakly. "I can't move my arms."
The dancers suddenly stopped, but no one came to her aid.
"Don't worry, my dear," Frieda said. "It will all be over soon."
Someone put a glass to her mouth, and she could taste the bitter wine. The heat from the bonfires, coupled with the strong alcohol, made her swoon, but the ribbons kept her bound to the maypole.
Something else grazed her lips, but it was not a glass. It was a human mouth. A man was kissing her. It was but the first step in a fertility ritual that predated Christianity. Giselle could not see the man who made love to her, but she recognized the voices of the women on either side of her.
"You were born with a special power," Frieda whispered in her right ear.
"One you inherited from your grandmother," Johanna added in her left. "Not only are you able to create life, but you are also able to restore youth to those who have lost it."
"Many years ago during Walpurgisnacht, when the Beltane fires were lit as they are now, your grandmother conceived a child: a daughter, your mother." Frieda explained, finally banishing the skeletons from the Becker family closet. "But the gift skips a generation, making you the heir to her power. Clarissa foolishly believed her mother's gift was a curse that she never wanted to pass to her own child. That's why she left Wycombe."
"But it didn't do your mother any good," Johanna added. "Lorelei knew she would have a granddaughter someday. And that's why she wrote her will, leaving everything to you, even though it would be years until you were born."
"Your grandmother died willingly, knowing she would pass the gift onto you with her death. Now it is your turn."
"My turn for what?" the dreamer asked, trying to concentrate on what the two women were telling her and not on the sensations that were coursing through her body.
"To restore youth to those who have lost it."
Frieda's reply was nearly drowned out by the eruption of sensation in Giselle's body as she received her grandmother's "gift."
* * *
Giselle woke on the second of May with the sun shining through her bedroom window. She sat up too quickly, and the room seemed to spin around her.
"My head! What was in that drink Johanna gave me? Wine never affected me like this before."
She stumbled, barefoot, to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet.
"Oh, great! No aspirin."
After a quick cup of coffee, she dressed and headed for the general store. When she entered the shop, she heard the owner unloading supplies in the stock room.
"Roland?" she called to him, careful not to speak too loudly. "Do you have any aspirin? I've got a hangover from Johanna's wine."
"I'll be right there," he replied.
"You wouldn't believe the dream I had last ...."
Giselle's words died in her throat.
"It wasn't a dream," Roland said, now looking not a day over thirty.
"Frieda? Johanna? And the others? Are they ...?"
"Yes, my dear. Everyone in Wycombe has been rejuvenated."
"I really am gifted," she observed and then winced from the pain in her head. "About that aspirin?"
"I'll have Johanna bring you a cup of herbal tea for your headache. You shouldn't take any medication in your condition."
"What condition?" she asked naively.
Roland's only response was a knowing smile.
* * *
The handsome couple with the lively toddler got out of the taxi and entered the office of a Boston law firm. Everyone in Wycombe agreed that the child looked like her father, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that the granddaughter—decades away from being conceived—would look like the little girl's mother. It had been that way for centuries.
It was the same lawyer with the bright orange hair who had written Lorelei's will, but now she looked much younger than Giselle remembered her.
"I've been expecting you, Miss Becker. Won't you come in?"
Roland volunteered to remain in the waiting room with his daughter.
"You're here because you want me to draw up your will," the lawyer said; it was a statement, not a question.
"Yes."
"And you want to leave everything you own to your granddaughter, as yet unborn."
"You seem to know everything."
"That's because I've been through this before—many times. You see, I'm originally from Wycombe myself."
Salem once took part in a maypole dance, but he had some trouble with the ribbon.
