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Hattie opened the door and gave a shriek, putting a hand to her cheek.
"Doc! Doc, get out here right now!"
Doc came barreling up behind her, his face grey with trepidation. When he saw TP, he gave a great, gusty sigh and grabbed his friend, hugging him tightly. The three of them stood there a long moment, laughing, babbling incoherently. Doc kept patting TP's arm as if to make sure he wasn't a ghost.
"The beast?" he asked.
"Gone!" TP unzipped his backpack and pulled out the vegetable stone, holding it up triumphantly.
"Ah," said Doc, beaming. "This is more than I dared hope for. TP, you're a walking miracle."
"Stay for supper," said Hattie. "It's almost ready and lord knows you need nourishment."
He'd planned to go right home, but the cooking smells overpowered all but the urge to fill his stomach. He ate four large bowls of stew, embarrassed by his appetite. In between mouthfuls, he outlined what had happened. Later Doc gave him a cursory examination. Satisfied TP's vital signs were stable, he instructed his friend to sit in the parlor while he hitched up his draft pony.
"I'll get you as close to home as I can. I don't want you wandering around alone, especially at dusk."
TP nodded. "I'll not be taking the shortcut past the old mill again, that's for sure." He told Doc about the second chimera attack. Doc pounded a fist on the wall.
"I've been trying for years to get that old ruin torn down. It's just the sort of place chimeras like to inhabit. The owners had some hair-brained scheme to restore the mill, but they haven't got the money and no one wants to buy it. This is the last straw. I'll call a town council meeting and make sure it comes down right away."
While Doc hitched up Spotty to the carriage, TP chipped off a few pieces of the vegetable stone to take home, leaving the rest with Doc. It would provide medicine for hundreds if not thousands of ill people. Funny how things worked out, he thought. If he'd succeeded with the first stone, he may never have come back to Minglemist and produced this second one, which would save many others besides himself.
On the drive home, TP questioned Doc about Glorious.
"His nose...is there nothing that can be done?"
Doc shook his head. "I offered, but he won't let me touch it. Says it keeps him humble."
"Huh. He's an odd fellow. I don't quite know what to make of him."
"You and me both," said Doc. "I think this is where you get off, isn't it?"
Madeline was at the kitchen table when he walked in. She jumped up, knocking over her chair, and flung herself at him, nearly knocking him over as well.
"Take it easy, I'm a tottering old man."
"Oh God, TP." She was sniffling into his shirt. Madeline, whom he'd never seen shed a tear, was crying. She pulled back and gazed at him.
"You look terrible." Now she was laughing.
"Is there anything to eat?" he said.
Over a plate of sandwiches, two bananas, five fig bars and a glass of milk he told his tale once again. Madeline listened raptly, questioning him frequently. He was growing very sleepy.
"Go take a bath," Madeline said, "and shave off that scruffy beard, then I'll trim your hair so you don't look like an ancient gorilla. You can get it cut properly tomorrow if you're up to it."
After the ablutions it gave him great satisfaction to remove the deadbolt from his bedroom door. Tired as he was, he couldn't bring himself to sleep with it still in place. Right before falling into bed he swallowed another tiny chip of the vegetable stone, just to make sure no wisp of darkness remained in him. Then he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, knowing no more until the sun was high in the sky the following day.
It was nearly ten-thirty when he arose, an astonishingly late hour for him to get up. Usually an early bird, he felt disoriented standing in the strong light streaming in the window. In the bathroom, he dared to glance into the mirror, blinking in surprise. His hair had reverted back to its usual salt-and-pepper color. His face, though still gaunt, had lost the sags and wrinkles he'd gone to bed with. Delighted, he examined his arms. The knotty ropes of veins had shrunk, the dark age spots had faded. More importantly, he felt strong and spry.
He strode down the hall, whistling, and entered the kitchen.
"What's that smell?" He stood sniffing like a hound on a trail. Madeline was at the table, her nose in a book. She pointed to a pan on the counter.
"Gladys was by earlier. I told her you'd had a sudden loss and were in shock." She snickered, then eyed him in wonder. "You look like a new man, TP. I can hardly believe my eyes. How are you feeling?"
"Wonderful." Ravenous. He peered into the pan and almost swooned. Cinnamon rolls. One was missing; he assumed Madeline had sampled it.
Tearing one off, he devoured it, then poured a glass of milk and sat down with the pan in front of him.
"What are you reading?"
"Women, Art and Society, by Whitney Chadwick."
"Sounds like heavy stuff for a bright summer morning. Shouldn't you be out rowing?"
"On my way," she said. "I just wanted to hang around to make sure..."
"That I didn't die in my sleep? You can stop worrying about me now, Madeline. Go out and enjoy your life."
There was one cinnamon roll left. "I may as well finish these off," he said, "unless you -?" He held up the pan.
She shook her head. "I have a lunch appointment, so I'll be home mid-afternoon. Do you need anything from the store?"
"No," he said, mouth full of roll. "Go, get out of here."
She put on a cap and pulled her ponytail through the hole in back, grabbed her purse and left with light steps. A moment later he heard the rumble of her green beetle as she pulled out of the drive.
He tinkered around in his lab for a bit, then went out to the garden with some seed packets and tools. First he harvested the last heads of early lettuce, then added compost to the row, raked it in and planted more lettuce seed along with some mesclun mix and curly mallow which could take the heat. He stuck in a few bean seeds, picked worms off the tomato plants, found three cucumbers big enough to harvest and pulled a bunch of green onions.
At two o'clock he fixed a huge salad with lettuce and dill, onions, avocado, cucumber and walnuts and ate it on the patio, watching the birds and butterflies. He still hadn't regained all his strength, but it would come. Soon he'd be able to hike and canoe again. He went inside and sat in his rocker, snoozing a bit. He heard Madeline come in, and shortly afterwards the doorbell rang.
"Thad?"
He looked up to see Gladys in a plaid housedress and her favorite turquoise mules hovering in the living room entryway. "I'm so sorry for your loss."
"What? Oh, yes, thank you."
"It wasn't Evalda, was it, or Harold?" Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"No, no," he said. "A very close - ah - cousin of sorts."
"Thad, you've had a terrible shock, haven't you?" She ventured farther into the room, her eyes watering sympathetically. "I can see you're not eating. You've lost a tremendous amount of weight. You have the kind of constitution that loses flesh at the drop of a hat. I'll have to think of things to spark your appetite."
"I could probably manage a little oat bread," he said weakly.
A loud snort issued from the hallway. Madeline was eavesdropping, but Gladys seemed oblivious.
"Oh, you'll need much more than that. I'm thinking seafood chowder with plenty of potatoes. And cream."
He sighed and leaned back in his rocker, his stomach doing a happy little dance.
"Thad, about the dinner party. We can cancel or postpone if you're not feeling up to it."
"No, let's go ahead as planned. In fact - " He stood up, went to his desk and wrote her out a huge check. "Spare no expense. Let's make it a gala occasion."
He wanted to celebrate - in a big way. It would be a celebration of life. Of renewal. Of Glorious Beginnings. What a wonderful name that was!
"Marvelous!" Gladys rose up on her toes, bouncing a time or two as if preparing to lift off, and clasped the check to her chest. "I think it's very brave of you, Thad, and wise as well. A party will take your mind off the grief. Just leave all the details to me. Do you want me to arrange for the music?"
He'd forgotten about that. "I'll take care of it. It's the least I can do, while I'm, ah, recovering."
He put in a call to his cellist friend, Claire O'Day, apologizing for the late notice, but would she possibly be available to provide a few hours of music for a small dinner party on Saturday, four days from now?
She would be delighted to, and she'd bring two friends, a violinist and a violist.
He smiled into the phone, remembering now what a gracious woman she was. His chest expanded with warmth. How wonderful it was to be planning a party, and to be free of the terrible burden he'd carried for so long. There would be music, and laughter, wine and delicious food. Feeling peckish, he went to examine the contents of the refrigerator.
(Next chapter - twenty-six - is out of place, listed after chapter twenty-nine, so read it next!)
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