There are mysteries in this life-things we can’t see that entice and beckon. This guest post by Patricia Ann Bowen tells the story of a woman intrigued by the unknown.
The True Value of Land
My daddy advised me that land was the best investment there was because no one could make any more of it. I finally put my name down on a deed and now, much later, as I reflect on Daddy’s counsel, I realize there is more to land value than money.
I found the place I didn’t even know I was looking for. But really, I think it found me. It became the perfect escape from a bad marriage, one of many addictions I thought I could leave behind with a dramatic change of scene. Where I’d be just me. Self-sufficient. Meeting my basic needs.
I named my property Nine Acres, a moniker I flaunted in conversation. Technically it was only 8.67, but that didn’t have a good ring to it so I rounded up. Who would know but me and the surveyor?
I bought it dirt cheap, no pun intended, because the couple who lived there before me came upon a nest of writhing snakes in the attic of the house. The wife was terrified; there was no calming her down and she couldn’t move out of there fast enough, even though they’d only finished building little more than a year ago.
The husband openly warned me when I came to look at the property. I told him I could put up with snakes; it was the two-legged varmints that bothered me, and even those I could deal with pretty well. That was four years ago.
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My work took me on the road a lot, and I could never spend as much time as I longed to on those Nine Acres. One of my pastimes on days I was home was walking the perimeter of my property, tying little pieces of yellow plastic tape to trees so I could visually delineate the expanse of my landed holding. Sometimes, when I sat down to rest on one of the trails I’d made and take it all in, a family of turkeys might cross my path, or the nesting pair of pileated woodpeckers that lived high above me might exude their raucous chorus. And yes, I’d see the occasional snake slither away under the fallen detritus. It wanted nothing to do with me.
So, not to drag this out too much, one autumn Saturday afternoon when the sky was painfully blue, and oak and poplar and maple leaves were crunching under my hiking shoes, and I was replacing some of the faded tapes, I was startled by a man crouching next to one of the poplars and fingering a piece of tape that had fallen to the ground. “This yours?” he asked, looking up, his sky-colored eyes examining mine.
He looked a lot like Brad Pitt, the mature version. Like the version I fantasized about. Younger than me, but not so much younger to be unseemly for a woman my age. My breath quickened.
“Yes, it’s mine, and this is my property. I’m Delia, by the way,” I added, not wanting to scare off this handsome creature, knowing full well how deceiving looks could be. “What’re you doing here?”
“Sorry. I wandered over from my Uncle Garland’s place, looking for one of his horses that’s gone missing. You haven’t seen her, have you? Dappled quarter horse. Real friendly.”
“Seen lots of critters, but no horses.” I’d read in the local news that my neighbor Garland Headly had passed away a few weeks ago. I’d met him a couple of times. Nice old man. Eccentric. Real private. Lived in a shack on three times as much land as I owned. Rumor was he’d just installed indoor plumbing in the recent past. Anyway, who was this guy and what was he doing on Garland’s land… and mine?
The man stood up, almost a head above me, and put out his hand. I took it in mine briefly, instinctively. “Arthur Porter. Art. Well, again Delia, sorry for trespassing. I’m here closing up my uncle’s place. Should probably just burn it down instead, it’s such a mess. Neighbor girl’s been taking care of the horses, and she did her best to mend the fences but they’re so far gone it’s a lost cause. I guess you know all that, living right next to him. I have to round up all four of them ponies and be on my way.”
I didn’t want him to go. I hadn’t been one-on-one with a man in so long, outside of business situations that is, and my mind was already dancing around naked in these woods with the charming Mr. Arthur Porter. I couldn’t help myself, so I babbled, “Would you like to hike back to the house with me and have some apple cider? It’s fresh pressed from North Georgia. Just bought it this morning along with a huge wedge of cheddar. I could never finish the whole piece by myself.”
“I’d like that, but I have to find Pepper before it gets dark. Would you give me your number and I’ll update you when I do? And this time I’ll come down the driveway instead of through the woods.”
I did, and he did.
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We sat on the deck with cider and cheese and crackers until the mosquitoes came out followed soon after by bats looking for dinner. It rained hard a few days ago and the creek near the house was rushing by at just the right timbre to provide ambiance, as if we needed more. I had only the faintest recall of what we talked about. Like meeting someone new in a bar you’d never been to before, except I remember he did tell me he’d found the horse. I couldn’t turn my eyes away from him.
I’d left the porch doors open to air out my bedroom. As I rose toward it he followed, no doubt about our destination. Even indoors the night was full of sound. Some coyotes, regular visitors, were calling their pack together in the dark woods causing night birds to sound their alarms. Art paused. “Did you hear that? Reminds me of when I stayed at my uncle’s place as a kid. I’ll bet those are descendants of the same pack.” I appreciated his sensibilities, that all things are connected in some way. Then he lifted my chin and kissed my forehead, my nose, my lips.
When he took off his clothes I had an illusion in the candlelight that he was transparent, tinged with slowly swirling colors I could see right through. His cool pulsating greenish fingers moved over me, his throbbing lavender limbs seemed weightless on mine despite his muscular frame, endearments flowed from the soft liquid ocher of his lips. I was afraid to share my impressions with him, afraid he was a fantasy and would go poof, afraid he might stop. Afterward, I told myself that my fear couldn’t be anything more than long suppressed desire… or maybe it was just those cheap colored candles. After all, he’d drunk my cider and eaten my cheese and touched me all over. I’d touched him. He was real enough for me.
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The minute his taillights receded in the distance, I sat at my laptop and googled Garland Headly's obituary. No nephew was mentioned. Just some deceased brothers. Then I googled and Facebooked Arthur Porter. Dead end there too. Well, that didn’t mean much. I’d do more searching tomorrow when I felt fresher and more grounded.
I ambled back to my bedroom where a few candles still burned, now down to nubs, and leaned against the door jamb, looked out into the woods, let my thoughts wander. A Luna moth alit on the screen door, large as my hand with a face that I swear looked like Tinker Bell’s. No magic wand sprinkled pixie dust, no leotard, no hands. Just a big naked moth come to call. I grabbed my phone to get Art back here to see this, but by the time I found his contact info the spirit bug was gone. All that remained of the evening were some iridescent green trails on my arms, my thighs, my belly.
Patricia Bowen's writing career began directly out of college. She graduated with degrees in English and Psychology and has certifications in grief counseling and personal coaching. She applies her knowledge of the mind and the world to fiction writing. Patricia resides on a small island in South Carolina and writes about her travels and life experiences. Patricia's work can be found at https://patriciabowen.com/