“That’s a bit judgmental.”
“I only mean that they’re used to getting their hands dirty. It’s a good thing,” she snaps.
Whatever you say...
I take the bottle and jar from her, realizing that Anders is probably already on his way back to Indianapolis.
Not that I care what he thinks of my appearance, I lie to myself.
I was fullof hope when I unlocked the Airstream, but swiftly came down to earth with a bump. Itreeksof mold and damp. Its former owners laid down a carpet that’s now rimmed with black mold and curling at the edges. When I lifted up a corner, I found rotting floor tiles underneath. The original fixtures and fittings remain, but they’re in bad shape. Moths have been at the curtains, mice have shredded the faded yellow bench-seat cushions, and something else has been eating away at the woodwork.
I’m gutted. It’s far too big a restoration job for me to tackle in the short time I’m here, but I can’t quite bring myself to replace the tarp yet.
One of the cool things about the caravan is its door within a door—there’s a solid metal outer door and an inner mesh one that keeps out creepy-crawlies. I leave the outer one open so it can air out.
The Fredrickson farmis about half a mile away, separated from Dad and Sheryl’s property by their pumpkin patch and a field. The big red barn comes into view in the distance first, even though the farmhouse is closer, but the house is obscured behind the tall stalks of maize that I’m walking beside.
The barn is a stunning piece of historic architecture, painted a deep red and built almost entirely out of wood with a mansard roof. I think they call mansard roofs Dutch or gambrel roofs here—they’re symmetrical in shape, with two slopes on each side of the roof to give added height and storage space.
At the end of the maize field is the narrow track Anders rode along yesterday to get to the storm shelter. It butts up to a white picket fence that also runs adjacent to the main track. Behind this fence is a lawn and the farmhouse.
Yesterday, I noted that the house mirrors the design of the barn, but only now can I take time to appreciate it. It’s red, like the barn, but much smaller and more decorative, with white window surrounds breaking up the weatherboard facade and a central gabled dormer built into the terra-cotta-tiled roof. The windows are rectangular and symmetrical, but below the roofline at the sides and at the top of the dormer are small triangular-shaped windows.
As I unlatch the gate and begin walking up the garden path, I notice that there’s a dark gray BMW with its boot open parked on the drive to the left of the house. Climbing up the three steps to the central front door, I reach for the doorbell and pause at the sound of raised voices coming from around the side of the house.
“You’re being stupid!” Patrik exclaims, and a side door to the house opens and closes, making a rattling noise. “There are a million and one ways to kill yourself on a farm!”
“Yeah, well, this is the easiest,” Anders replies as he appears in my line of vision.
“Do what you want, then,” I hear Patrik snap before the side door bangs shut again, causing Anders to flinch.
He shakes his head resignedly and places three long riflesor shotguns—I wouldn’t know, but they areguns—in the boot and closes it. Then he sees me on the porch and freezes.
“I brought these for your parents.” I dazedly lift up the bottle and jar.
“Ma!” he shouts. “Wren’s here!”
Footsteps approach from behind the front door and Peggy opens it up with a slightly frantic smile on her face.
“Hello, Wren!” Her tone is imbued with warmth, but she’s visibly on edge.
“Hi! I wanted to give you these from Sheryl and my dad. And me!” I pass her the peach puree. “I’m not sure if you like Bellinis, but if you add peach puree to this sparkling wine, they make a good cocktail. You’re supposed to use prosecco, but I don’t know if they sell that in town? This was the only bottle we had in the cupboard. Just a little thank-you gift for saving us yesterday.”
I’ve come over all wordy.
“Well, you didn’t need saving, as it turned out. Tornado didn’t come close.”
I laugh nervously. “We might not have been so lucky.”
Glancing to my left, I see that Anders is still standing there, watching us.
“Anyway, thank you again!” I say overly cheerfully. “I’d better get home for dinner!”
I hurry down the steps and along the garden path.
“Anders could give you a lift?” Peggy calls after me. “He’s just leaving.”
“No, no, it’s okay!” I reply hastily. “I’m happy walking.”
