“Could lots of things have slashed the haunch on one goat and carried a second one off over the top of the twelve-foot fencing?”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I was over there myself talking to Connie. She was all torn up about it.”
“People leave their gates open a lot more frequently than they realize they do. That is a lot more likely than something dragging a goat over a fence that high.”
“Connie treats her goats like her own kids.”
“They are her own kids.”
“Very funny. You know what I mean. She wouldn’t forget to do anything that had to do with their safety. She crochets blankets for each of them to coordinate with their fur. She even designed a goat bonnet for the ones she thinks have cold ears.”
“So most of the women in Sugar Grove are crazy by the standards of most other places.”
“I don’t know about that, but Connie is devoted to her goats.”
“Did she actually see anything?”
“She discovered it after the fact.”
“Unless she saw something, I’ve got animals people are actually seeing that need to be rounded up.”
“I remember calling about a mountain lion I had actually seen, but my eyewitness report didn’t seem to convince you I wasn’t crazy.”
“I’m still not convinced. And considering how long it’s taking to round up the rest of those animals, I am not sure I’ll get out to check on the report anytime soon. I’d suggest taking some photos.”
“Which you’ll just say are doctored.”
“Most likely. I’ve seen a lot of those. I’d be thrilled to discover mountain lions in New Hampshire, but there is just no evidence and I don’t think there is going to be any.”
“I think it is safe to bet you won’t be the one to make a discovery. I don’t think you can see things that are right in front of your face.”
“Oh, I’m not so sure about that.” He stared down at me with his deep blue eyes, little laugh crinkles around the edges standing out against his fading tan. I felt flustered and unsure what to say. After so many years of fending off Knowlton and his absolutely clear stance on his interest in me, I didn’t quite know what to think about this. I was out of practice with flirting and out of practice with most men in general. It’s not like I am a pariah, but I don’t leave town too often now that Internet shopping is a thing and eligible men are about as rare as mountain lions in Sugar Grove and about as startling.
“So if I hear about any more mountain lion sightings in the area, you’d want to know about them?”
“Absolutely. If I’m not up to my armpits in missing tortoises and monkeys.”
“At the rate you’re going, you’ll be chasing creatures around this village until you’re ready for retirement.”
“Even after the exotic animals are all rounded up, I may still be chasing around a local creature, a small one with a feisty attitude and a surly disposition.” He smiled at me again. I gulped. I wondered what Celadon told him when she invited him to Thanksgiving dinner. He seemed like he was more interested in me with each sentence slipping through his lips. Had she said I was desperate? Had she told him I was interested in him? Had he decided I was lying about what Knowlton had said and that I was, in fact, very passionate and flexible? The day had been too long and too emotionally exhausting to tangle with him. I needed to get out of there, and even going back home seemed like a good idea in comparison with sticking around any longer.
“I’ve got to go.” I cranked on the window and he stuck his finger in the remaining crack, preventing me from closing it all the way.
“What’s the hurry? Was it something that I said?”
“It’s fine. I’m in a hurry.” There was no way I was going to get into the details of my family life at the end of such a terrible day. Especially not with someone who’d left me feeling as off-kilter as Graham had.
He held up his hands and backed away like I was holding a gun on him. “Until tomorrow.”
Fifteen
Standing in the dining room on Thanksgiving at about two o’clock, I could almost hear the old oak table groaning and gasping for air under the weight of Grandma’s week’s worth of work. I noticed with pleasure the maple cranberry sauce, the yeasted pumpkin rolls snuggled down all cozy into a towel-lined basket, the steaming bowl heaped with mashed sweet potatoes dressed up with butter and maple syrup.
What I was not at all pleased to see was a place card sitting dead center in the plate nearest me. I leaned in for a closer check. My grandmother doesn’t usually worry about place cards, saying people will pretty much sort themselves out in just the way she would have done anyway. This had to be Celadon’s doing. It was definitely her handwriting. I wouldn’t have put it past my mother to be involved, but this had Celadon written all over it. And I think I could guess why.