Creature Discomforts

naturally pale and naturally wavy. Her skin was flawless, and although a collection of rags would’ve looked fashionable on her, she was dressed in the kind of voguish, earth-toned outdoor clothes I wouldn’t even know where to buy.
    “My idea of a nice hike,” she purred, “is a drive to the top of Cadillac. And here I am about to be stuck on my father’s trail crew with Wally and Opal, grubbing around in the dirt on the Homans Path. Not that I volunteered. I prefer to limit my contributions to the Pine Tree Foundation to nice, clean legal work. But my father had the sense to ask Steve instead of me, and Steve said yes, so what could I do? All for love!”
    I longed to smack her.
    “I’m just dying to meet your father.” Her tone was confiding, but her expression seemed snide. “I’ve heard all about him. He sounds like quite a character!”
    Before I could say anything—what I had in mind was Oh —the rest of Malcolm Fairley’s volunteer crew arrived: Steve Delaney; Opal and Wally Swan, the developers; and Malcolm himself. With Steve were his dogs, whose names I knew better than my own: India, the shepherd, and Lady, the pointer. Opal, Wally, and Malcolm carried long-handled loppers.
    “Is Anita recruiting you?” Malcolm Fairley asked me. “We could use an extra hand. Zeke, our other volunteer, won’t be joining us today. Dogs are welcome!”
    I offered some sort of excuse.
    Anita, standing safely behind both her father and Steve, made a face. “Leave the dogs,” she told Steve.
    Malcolm said, “If you change your mind, Holly, you’ll know where to find us. Just get on that path and look up into the woods for a lot of felled trees. When the Park Service abandoned the path, they cut them down to block it off, but you won’t have any trouble getting past them, and when you get to the steps, you’ll see that the stonework is in remarkably fine shape. A shame that trail was ever closed! It’s a treasure. Off we go!”
    With that, Malcolm Fairley headed across the parking lot toward the Wild Gardens, with Wally and Opal following. Steve’s face was almost impassive; only a hint of pain showed. Nodding lightly to me, he handed Lady’s leash to
    Anita and then led India toward his van, parked six or eight spaces away from my Bronco. Eager to be with Steve, Lady tried to forge ahead of Anita, who dealt with the behavior by slamming a booted foot on one of the pointer’s forepaws. Lady, of course, yelped. Steve and India glanced back.
    “Is there a problem there?” Steve asked.
    “No,” Anita told him. “I accidentally stepped on her foot, and she’s being a sissy.”
    India, I noticed, was silently lifting her lip at Anita. Steve looked miserable.
    Approaching Anita, I whispered, “I’m warning you. Don’t you ever dare to hurt Lady again when I’m around, because the next time, I’m going to scream bloody murder about it. Is that clear? And let me also warn you that India knows exactly what you’re up to, and she is very protective of Lady, and she won’t tolerate this kind of thing forever. India doesn’t like you, and she doesn’t trust you.”
    Anita’s beautiful face flushed.
    “Neither do I,” I added.
     

Chapter Eighteen
     
    EXAMINING HIS FACE in the cracked mirror above his bathroom sink, Buck Winter endures a hideous, exciting rush of self-consciousness he has not known since adolescence. His literal inability to see himself clearly is his own fault. Buck, however, blames the crack on global warming, a phenomenon he takes not only seriously but personally. Indeed, so serious and so personal is his resentment of the climatic ruination of the state of Maine that one morning last July when the battered, duct-taped transistor radio propped on his bathroom radiator had the gall to forecast temperatures in the nineties for the next four days, he vented his rage by hurling his razor to the floor, grabbing the damned radio, and slamming it into the first object to catch his eye—namely, the mirror. In Buck’s view, a heat wave represents an infernal violation of Natural Order. Maine, for Christ’s sake, is supposed to be cold!
    When Buck believes, he does so with evangelical fervor. Maine is one of his two religions. Whenever he drives north across the bridge from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to the sacred ground, he creates a traffic hazard by bowing his head and intoning loudly, “Entering God’s Country, the beautiful State of Maine!” When heading south on the