River’s End

such sedentary activities. She’d have enjoyed a swim even this early in the season, but it was one of her grandmother’s hard-and-fast rules not to swim alone. Olivia broke it from time to time and was always careful to dry her hair completely before coming home.
    Grandma worried, she thought now. Too much, too often and about nearly everything. If Olivia sneezed, she’d race to the phone to call the doctor unless Grandpop stopped her. If Olivia was ten minutes late coming home, her grandmother was out on the porch calling.
    Once she’d nearly called Search and Rescue because Olivia had stayed at the campground playing with other children and forgotten to come home until dark. It made Olivia roll her eyes to think of it. She’d never get lost in the forest. It was home, and she knew every twist and turn as well as she knew the rooms in her own house. She knew Grandpop had said as much because she’d heard them arguing about it more than once. Whenever they did, Grandma would be better for a few days, but then it would start again.
    She moved through the gentle green light and soft shadows of the forest and into the clearing where the MacBride house had stood for generations.
    The mica in the old stone glinted in the quiet sunlight. When it rained, the hidden colors in the rock, the browns and reds and greens, would come out and gleam. The windows sparkled, always there to let in the light or the comforting gloom. It was three levels, each stacked atop the other at a different angle with decks jutting out everywhere to stitch it all together. Flowers and ferns and wild rhododendrons hugged the foundation, then sprawled out in a hodgepodge garden her grandfather babied like a beloved child.
    Huge pansies with purple and white faces spilled out of stone pots, and an enormous bed of impatiens, sassy and pink, danced along the edge of the lower deck. She’d spent many satisfying hours with her grandfather and his flowers. Her hands in the dirt and her head in the clouds.
    She started down the stone walkway, varying giant and baby steps to avoid all the cracks. She skipped up the steps, spun into a quick circle, then pulled open the front door.
    She had only to step inside to realize the house was empty. She called out anyway, from habit, as she walked through the living room with its big, ragged sofas and warm yellow walls.
    She sniffed, pleased to catch the scent of fresh cookies. Only sighed a little when she reached the kitchen and discovered they were oatmeal.
    “Why can’t they be chocolate-chip,” she muttered, already digging into the big glass jar that held them. “I could eat a million chocolate-chip cookies.”
    She settled for the oatmeal, eating fast and greedily as she read the note on the refrigerator.
    Livvy. I had to run into town, to go to the market. Your aunt Jamie and uncle David are coming to visit. They’ll be here tonight.
    “Yes!” Olivia let out a whoop and scattered crumbs. “Presents!”
    To celebrate, she reached for a third cookie, then muttered a quiet “damn” under her breath at the rest of the message.
    Stay at home, honey, so you can help me with the groceries when I get back. You can tidy up your room — if you can find it. Stop eating all the cookies. Love, Grandma
    “Sheesh.” With true regret, Olivia put the top back on the jar. Now she was stuck in the house. Grandma might be hours shopping. What was she supposed to do all day? Feeling put upon, she clumped up the back stairs. Her room wasn’t that bad. It just had her stuff, that was all. Why did it matter so much if it was put away when she’d only want to get it out again?
    Her various projects and interests were scattered around. Her rock collection, her drawings of wildlife and plants with the scientific names painstakingly lettered beneath. The chemistry set she’d been desperate for the previous Christmas was shoved on a shelf and ignored, except for the microscope which held a prominent position on her desk.
    There was a shoe box crammed with what she considered specimens—twigs, dead bugs, bits of ferns, hair, scrapings of tobacco and scraps of bark. The clothes she’d worn yesterday were in a heap on the floor. Precisely where she’d stepped out of them. Her bed was unmade and in a tangle of blankets and sheets—exactly the way it had been when she’d leaped out of it at dawn. It all looked perfectly fine to Olivia. But she marched over to the bed, dragged the covers up, slapped the pillows a