Hill of Secrets​

From Chapter 1

 

Christine tried to memorize the route as they turned right, down one unpaved road and left on another. All around, she saw construction sites and flimsy houses scattered like a trail of shoeboxes, their fresh green paint and corrugated tin roofs already dusty. She had never noticed before that dust had a smell. She wondered if there were as many varieties of dust smell as there were of natural Maine mulch. Would she learn to discern them?

 

Women with strollers struggled to push their charges through deep-rutted roads. Others trudged along, looking defeated by the heat, loaded down with net bags of groceries in each hand. The women were all dressed in dungarees and sported neck bandannas, apparently high fashion in these parts. They wore workmen’s boots, sneakers, or sandals; none wore pumps like hers.

 

On a balcony, a cluster of women chatted, laughing over tea or coffee, and Christine was surprised at the flash of longing she felt. Could they be future friends? In her experience with small, remote places, chattiness was cattiness. What were the chances things would be different here?

 

The sound of nails being pounded into clapboard created a sense of bustle and newness. It felt as if, when she awoke the next day, she might find herself in a town constructed overnight by leprechauns.

 

There were telephone poles on the side of the road, but she noticed that no lines ran between them.