Page 21 of Nothing Less than Magic
I make out the name Hart on the mailbox, and the address matches the one the woman gave me. Apparently, I’m in the right place, but I don’t see a house or anything that looks remotely like a farm. Just green rolling hills dotted with oak and pine trees. It’s quite pretty, but there’s no sign of life, not even a lone cow. Or a goat. Didn’t Knox say it was a former goat farm?
I pull away from the mailbox and keep going, hoping I’ll eventually reach some form of civilization. The dirt road is bumpy and windy, and I’m still unconvinced that I’m in the right place. By now, I’ve driven at least a few miles. If this is all Knox’s land, it’s vast.
Up ahead, on the top of a knoll, I spot a structure. I’m too far away to tell if it’s a house or a barn or some other kind of outbuilding, but it seems promising. Halfway there, a polar bear jumps in front of my car, and I slam on the brakes to keep from hitting it. That’s when I realize that it’s not a bear but a very large, white dog. Knox’s Great Pyrenees.
I roll down my window a crack. “Good doggy. Please move.”
But he just stands there, staring at me with big, inquisitive eyes, eyes that say, “Who the hell are you and why are you here? And if you don’t leave soon, I will eat you.” He may even be growling.
“Nice doggy.” I quickly roll up my window, because the doggy doesn’t seem so nice. In fact, I like my chances better against yesterday’s fox than this behemoth. And I can’t move until he does.
I tap my horn, hoping that does the trick. But he doesn’t budge. I’m about to give up, when I see Knox coming down the drive in some kind of an all-terrain vehicle. It looks like a cross between a dune buggy and a three-wheel motorcycle. Heavy on the Mad Max vibe.
He pulls up alongside me, so I roll down my window again. “Call off your beast.”
“Bailey come!”
The dog trots over to Knox, his tail wagging so hard I fear it’ll do damage to my car.
“He’s a gentle giant,” Knox says.
“I don’t know how gentle he is. He looked as if he wanted to rip my throat out.”
Knox rolls his eyes. “Are you lost, or are you pissed that I’m playing hooky?”
“Not lost and not pissed if you’re working on your book.”
He grins. “I was feeling inspired. Wrote two thousand words without breaking a sweat.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“So if you’re not lost and not pissed, what brings you out to the farm?”
It’s a valid question, one I should’ve asked myself before I came. I guess I’ve come to enjoy his company and missed it. “When you didn’t show this morning, I wanted to make sure everything was okay. The florist lady in town gave me directions to your place.”
“Which one? Ginger or Sadie?”
“Uh . . . Sadie, I think.”
“Great,” he says, heavy on sarcasm, but I get the sense that it’s mostly for show. That in his own gruff way, he’s happy to see me. “Come on up to the house.”
Before I agree, he takes off in his dune buggy, as if it’s been decided. Bailey shoots off after him, and I slowly follow behind, taking the rutted dirt road up the hill. The structure on the top of the knoll is indeed a home, a weathered old farmhouse that could use a sanding and a paint job. At one time, though, it was probably quite stately, with its deep wraparound porch and copper cupola.
He waits for me at the front door as I stand in the driveway, shielding my eyes from the sun, taking it all in. “Nice place you have here.”
I join him at the top of the stairs, and he ushers me inside, which is in even more disrepair than the outside. Yet, it holds a certain charm that only an old house can. The floors, some kind of oak, and the millwork and high ceilings are spectacular. And everywhere I look are windows with views of the rolling hills and the Cascade Mountain Range in the distance. A place like this in the Bay Area would go for a mint. Even here, it’s probably worth a small fortune.
He leads me to the kitchen, an airy room that hasn’t been updated since the 1920s. Even the stove is one of those vintage Stewarts with gas burners and a separate baking oven and broiler. As far as cabinetry, there are a few Hoosiers with built-in bins, and that’s it. Despite its datedness, it’s homey. And unlike the other rooms I walked through to get here, neat as a pin.
“You want tea, coffee, or milk?”
“Tea, please.” I’m not a tea drinker, but it feels appropriate in this house, in this kitchen. I can somehow visualize white lace tablecloths, dainty porcelain cups, and ladies serving cake off a green carnival glass stand after church.
Knox, not so much. For him I envision something more rustic. A log cabin, a Craftsman, even a treehouse. I think about tattooed Katie and her flaming red hair and can’t see her here, either.
Knox puts a kettle on the ancient stove and pulls two mugs out of one of the Hoosiers.
“So you had a good writing day, huh?”
