Page 27 of Mending Fences
Mandy looked around in confusion, but she would recognize the old walnut tree anywhere. The Crawford Manson.
Mandy’s unasked question hung in the cab of the truck while Daniel unlocked the gate. He should have gone around to the gate with the automatic opener. He wouldn’t lie if she asked, but he wasn’t ready to show her where he was living just yet.
“I thought the pond would be a nice place to share our scones, no trespassers allowed you know.” He drove around the house toward the west side of the property where the fading sun cast a warm glow over the unkempt lawn. He stopped his truck as close to the pond as he could. They would still need to hike a few dozen yards. Her boot—how could he have forgotten?
“Do you think you and your boot can make the hike?”
Mandy pulled her gaze from the window. “Just you try to stop me.” She opened her door and moved to slide out, but Daniel caught her wrist. “Please wait.” Mandy leaned back against the seat.
Before going around to get her, he pulled a flashlight and blanket from behind the seat, then set them on the hood. He should have driven the Lexus because it would be easier for her to get in and out, but that would mean losing the few moments of contact helping her out of the truck permitted.
Mandy cleared her throat once he’d lifted her down, and Daniel relinquished his hold and handed her the crutches. He gathered the blanket and flashlight in one arm.
They had only gone a few steps when Mandy stopped. “The scones!”
Daniel turned back to the truck.
By the time he returned to her side, she had moved several yards down the path. He started to reach for her hand but pulled back. Crutches were not ideal for romance. The last rays of sunshine sparkled off the water. The ducks honked their protests at the invaders, but no doubt they would search for handouts later.
Mandy stopped. “It hasn’t changed much, has it? I used to come here every summer hoping you would come back, but you never did.”
“Every summer?”
“Until I was thirteen or so. I stopped after I saw you in the news—in the procession at your father and grandfather’s funeral. I knew even if you came back, you wouldn’t want to fly kites, so I stopped looking.”
“So, Miss I-Wasn’t-Trespassing, you are telling me you trespassed every summer for the next six—”
“Seven.”
“—seven years?” They’d reached the edge of the pond, and Daniel spread out the blanket.
“I wasn’t exactly trespassing. The old gardener would wave to me. And one year I was sure he took the pole out of the fence so I could get in.”
“Just how often did you come?”
“The first year, I came every day for weeks until I believed Grandma Mae that you were not living here.”
“I was in Tokyo with my father.” Daniel offered Mandy a hand to help her sit down on the blanket. It took her a couple of tries to find a way to sit gracefully in her tight skirt. More evidence this was not one of his well-thought-out plans. “Sorry. I should have thought ahead better. But I love this spot. It’s the reason I am having such a hard time deciding on a buyer. Most of the options will end up destroying this section.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t sell.” Mandy smiled up at him and patted the blanket next to her. “I want to try one of those scones before the ducks realize we have them.”
“Are you still scared of ducks?” He recalled her six-year-old self, sopping wet and screaming for help.“They are going to kill me! Save me! Save me!”Of course he had. He didn’t need to be Hulk to scare them off, but he had carried her away from the pond with superhero-like strength.
Mandy interrupted his musings. “No, but I don’t want them to eat what is mine, either.”
He watched as she took her first bite. Her eyes closed like they did whenever she had eaten one of Cook’s special peanut-butter cookies.
“Oh, these are good. Had I known, I would have skipped the salmon entirely.” She held her hand in front of her mouth to hide the fact that she was still eating.
They ate the scones and shooed the ducks away when they came too close.
Mandy finished the last of her scones. “You would think after all these years they would get weary of humans. They can’t be the same ducks, can they?”
Daniel shook his head. “The average wild mallard only lives five to ten years. So these are grandchildren or great-grandchildren.”
“Good. I would hate it if Hank recognized me.”
“You never know—he might have passed on the story of the girl who tried to steal his sandwich.”
