In my current emotionally wrung-out state, I had to agree with my inner voice. I wasn’t sure what I’d seen. Or if there had actually been anyone there at all.
I sighed and picked up my latte, and then just as quickly set it down. A newspaper on my table was open to the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle.
I frowned at it and tried to remember. It hadn’t been there when I hung my coat on the chair, had it? No, because I’d admired the vintage postcard from Greece and another from Ibiza clearly visible on top when I first chose this table.
I grabbed the newspaper again, held it up to the light, and scrutinized it. Both Cyril and I were crossword fanatics, and I was sure I recognized his spidery capital letters.
Seeing as I’d already solved the puzzle at home, I suddenly saw that one clue was deliberately filled out incorrectly to say canary instead of yellow. Why did he fill it in that way? Was there some kind of clue in the clue?
Was Roos a whistleblower, like a canary signaling the presence of methane in a mine, for something unsavory that was going on in Millbury?
I was relieved to think that Cyril was alive, but why was he hiding?
* * *
On Monday morning, when I set out with Jasper for our walk, it was still cold, but it was a bracing, energizing cold, not the biting chill of the past week.
Jasper and I walked down the length of Main Street and then headed south on Grist Mill Road, past the church, toward Glory Farm. I tried to imagine what this road approaching Millbury would look like with the fields gone, the country lane widened, the earth churned up, and a slew of ugly Cassell townhomes replacing the unspoiled vista.
I paused while he peed against a pile of snow pushed to the side of the road by the plows, the wavy yellow slash looking a bit like the mark of Zorro.
He was experiencing snow for the first time this winter. Earlier this week, I’d laughed at his look of surprise when he took his usual launch from the back step and landed in the unfamiliar stuff. He recovered quickly, though, burying his face in it and eating it.
I’d slept well last night. Catching a glimpse of Cyril had helped ratchet the pressure down a notch. I was still worried, but there was hope. I hadn’t told Martha that I thought I’d seen Cyril in town, though. Perhaps Serrano’s mantra of verifying cold, hard facts had worn off on me, but before I toyed with Martha’s emotions, I wanted to be absolutely sure.
A red fox ran onto the road in front of us, and I held my breath at the unexpected sight. Jasper nearly choked himself to death on his leash trying to pull me closer, but the fox paused for a moment, staring at me.
“Go! Go! Don’t get run over,” I urged.
He disappeared through the undergrowth into the unmown fields. I kept him in sight as we walked along the side of the road, watching as he leapt, almost rabbitlike, as he toyed with some small prey in the grass.
After we passed the farm, we veered off the road onto a path that led toward the woods. The landscape was a rusty patchwork of orange and brown splashed with yellow, and sunlight falling on the leaves of trees made them almost glow.
I let Jasper off the leash and threw snowballs that he dove for and came up puzzled at their disappearance, his nose covered in snow. Blood surged through my muscles, and I almost felt like I was a teenager again, tramping over the fields, cheeks flushed, strong and confident, my whole life ahead of me. When I got home, the aches and pains of an older body would set in, but for right now I didn’t care.
“Let’s go, boy!” I yelled and broke into a run, laughing with the sheer joy of being alive. Jasper danced alongside me, catching my mood, his eyes bright and mouth open in delight
We passed a waterfall and I stopped to catch my breath, watching the water rushing around and over the stones. Like the ebb and flow of life.