A Deceptive Homecoming by Anna Loan-Wilsey Read Free Book Online Page B

in the presence of my parents’ graves, but it was now completely gone. For if I hadn’t known better, the two orderlies described, with the exception of his scar, the now-dead and buried Frank Hayward.
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    With the peace of the cemetery shattered and my mind racing with thoughts about Frank Hayward and the missing asylum patient, I was at a loss.
    Now what do I do? I wondered.
    I stood staring at my parents’ grave, and finding no answers there, I began walking. I’d reached a newly built limestone mausoleum for the prominent Crowther family, which included foundry owners, lawyers, and politicians, when I realized I’d no idea where I was going. I sat on one of the spiral-shaped stones flanking the mausoleum. Should I pack and take the next train back to Newport? No, I couldn’t disappoint Mrs. Chaplin. She was expecting me at the lake. Should I write to Walter about my muddled impressions of Frank Hayward’s funeral, the odd reception I’d received from Ginny, and the memories both joyous and sad I’d relived this morning? I longed to talk to Walter, but writing it all down now would force me to relive it again. I watched as several winged seeds of the nearest maple tree spiraled through the air. I could go hiking again. I sighed.
    If only I had some work to do, I thought. I’d finished all of the tasks set to me by Sir Arthur before I’d left Newport.
    So, with the sun high and nothing productive to do, I brushed myself off, straightened my hat, and retraced a hike I used to take frequently with my father. Little did we know that the dirt country road would be immortalized by Eugene Field, the famous poet and one-time city editor of the St. Joseph Gazette, with his popular poem, “Lover’s Lane, St. Jo.” Being a secluded lane, Mr. Field had courted his wife there, and after living in London to recover from illness, wrote fondly of those days. I remember when the poem came out, years after I’d left home. I’d memorized it immediately, relating to his longing for that peaceful place. It was the promise from my favorite line that drew me there now.

    But I’d give it all, and gladly,
If for an hour or so
I could feel the grace of a distant place—
Of Lover’s Lane, Saint Jo.

    Rochester Road, as it was officially known, was still lovely, with large trees shading the lane, sections of rail fence and stands of willow and alder. I knew it as a remote spot popular with young lovers for that very reason. But no longer. I wasn’t alone in strolling along the shady lane, and several carriages passed me as I went. As always on my hikes, I was aware of the plants that I passed. After my father died, I’d often sought solace and solitude here and it was here that I collected some of the first specimens in my plant collection. My collection had grown considerably since and I wasn’t expecting to find anything new, but I looked about nonetheless. After an hour, I decided to stop. I leaned against a fence post. I was thirsty and tired. Although welcomed, the quiet and serenity weren’t enough to overcome the melancholy that plagued me since I’d arrived.
    Had it only been yesterday? I’d found little peace thinking about Ginny and our lamentable reunion. I’d thought over and over about my mistaking which side her father’s scar was on. Without work to preoccupy my hands and mind, without Walter’s reassurances, I hadn’t felt this alone since the day my father died.
    Why did I come back here?
    And then I saw a small, toothy-leafed mustard plant I didn’t recognize. It smelled oddly like garlic. I readily collected a specimen, folding it several times and then pressing it between layers of my handkerchief. Thrilled with the unexpected pleasure of finding a new specimen for my collection, I felt ashamed of my self-pity moments before.
    â€œBuck up, Davish,” I told myself. I stood up, brushed the dirt and