Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [37]
She pretended to brush away a spot of dirt and then pushed past him, lengthening her stride and not stopping until she reached the top of the hill. “The berry patch is that way.” She pointed and hurried off down the other side.
She came to a halt by an area of low scrub and with growing anticipation dropped to her knees and reached into the woody undergrowth. Gently she lifted the clusters of tiny glossy leaves, exposing the deep red berries. “Here.” With her fingertips and thumb, she gently began to rake a little pile into the palm of her hand. She knew it was best to wait until after the first frost before picking these particular berries but she wasn’t about to tell him that. The berries were not important today. She held out her hand for him to taste.
“Tart.” She laughed as he made a face. “But good for jam.”
They worked together in quiet companionship, moving apart, drawing close, ferreting out the good patches, pausing from time to time to stretch their aching backs. The berries were plentiful this year and the brin bags filled rapidly.
“The light is fading, Matt, I think we should be getting back.”
They walked up over the hill a little way to where she knew there was a sheltered hollow that looked out across the water to the far headland, to the place they called Larry’s Hill. On a night like this you could watch the moon as it climbed along the brow of the hill right to the top, and then like magic it would lift off and float up into the night sky.
“Let’s sit here a minute. Shortly you’ll see the moon climb up over the hill.”
She set down the bag of berries, propping it carefully between two stones and suggested he do the same. Then she sat down on the grass, easing her aching back against a rise in the ground. “Nature’s own daybed,” she laughed, “just like home.” Her hands settled behind her head and she stared up at the darkening bowl of the sky. There was a slight breeze off the water but the night was still warm. Night came in a hurry at this time of year. She looked around; he was nowhere to be seen. She closed her eyes, anxious, willing herself to relax.
“I’ve found some blueberries.”
She looked up. He was standing directly above her on the rise, his face white against the dark sky. She thought he looked beautiful, like an apparition. He came and sat next to her, holding out a small mound of berries.
“These taste better,” he said, “less tart.”
“They’re a bit puny looking, just about done for this year.” She sat up and picked one off the top, taking care not to touch his bare hand, but then she laughed, threw caution to the wind and scooped up a little pile, threw back her head and tossed the lot into her mouth.
A fleeting smile crossed his lips as he tipped back the remainder of the berries. She watched his jaw move up and down and his throat contract as he swallowed. He suddenly appeared clownish, with his lips and tongue stained with the purple berry juice.
“Look,” he said.
Her eyes followed his across the water. A white disc edged over the base of Larry’s Hill.
They watched, spellbound, as the moon slowly rode the dark edge of the hill, rising gradually and finally lifting off, full and unfettered, into the darkening sky.
“It’s beautiful,” she said dreamily.
The pale light cast