A Gala Event (27 page)

“That may be the best we can do for him,” she said softly. “He couldn't have done anything to help his family. But that's not the same as causing their deaths.”

“So we should tell him that.”

“You have any idea how long the other Eastmans plan to hang around?”

“Didn't Kevin say something about leaving Monday? I don't think Lori plans too far ahead. And Aaron? Hard to say. He's doing good work on the fence, but that's not a long-term solution to anything. You want to ask them over tomorrow night and get it over with?”

“That's probably the best idea. And then we can get back to our lives, right?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Meg refused to entertain the Eastman tribe at every meal. The evening before she had called the three siblings and invited them to come to dinner the following night, Saturday, pointedly saying nothing about that night. They were grown-ups, if a motley crew of them, and they had at least two cars among themselves plus a working kitchen at Seth's house: let them figure out where to eat. She and Seth had far too much on their respective plates to deal with everyone at once. Meg's parents were due to arrive sometime early the following week—they were being uncharacteristically vague about their plans, but maybe that just meant they were mellowing with age. Her father, Phillip, had always been almost aggressively driven professionally, and had thrived on it, but maybe he had finally realized that it was time to slow down and smell the roses. Or, given the time of year, the apples.

Her mother had had a rather odd experience the last occasion she had spent time in Granford, and since it had
involved a death and a murder accusation, maybe she was dragging her feet about coming back, consciously or unconsciously, despite having accepted the invitation to Thanksgiving dinner at Lydia's. It was kind of Lydia to have invited them to stay at her house for Thanksgiving, but Meg suspected that her parents would prefer the comforts of a fine hotel. She hadn't heard the final arrangements. Meg admitted to herself that she felt she was acting childish, putting her own needs and wants ahead of her parents', but hers were definitely legitimate: planning a wedding, finishing a bathroom or two, and fixing Aaron's life. She still wasn't sure how that last had crept in. At least the bathroom construction did not involve dealing with the stew of personalities of the unfamiliar people who were wandering in and out of their house, but rather focusing on putting sticky stuff on surfaces and laying out tiles. Lots of tiles. Why was it she had decided to go with tiny tiles? She could have chosen big ones, a foot or more per side. But no, she wanted authentic, or sort of authentic. To be consistent with the eighteenth-century nature of her home she would have to have chosen chamber pots and an outhouse. No thank you.

Over breakfast she asked Seth, “So, where are we in the construction project?”

“All pipes roughed in, and the inspector will stop by any minute now,” he replied confidently. “I'll need you to tile the bathroom walls and floors, in that order, before I can set the fixtures in place.”

“Can I do it in a day?” she asked.

“We'll see. I have every faith in your innate abilities,” Seth said with a wicked gleam in his eye.

“Gee, thanks,” Meg muttered. “Have you found anyone to haul the bathtub in?”

“Aaron might be able to help out. Kevin probably wouldn't
be able to handle it with me, and there's no way to fit three adult males and a bathtub in the stairwell, not without taking the balustrade apart, and I assume you don't want to do that.”

“I don't want to undo anything in the house. Keep things moving forward, please,” Meg said emphatically. “You sure everything will fit?”

“I've measured everything more than once. Don't you trust me?” Seth asked, helping himself to jam for his bagel.

“Of course. I'm just deflecting my anxiety.”

“Onto a bathtub? Why are you anxious?”

Men are so clueless
, Meg thought. “Plenty of things. That unfinished list of tasks for the wedding—I don't even know what I'm wearing yet. My parents' looming arrival. Having to face the dysfunctional Eastman clan with less-than-stellar news. Take your pick.”

Seth's expression softened. “Hey, you know I'll back you up. And you've done your best for Aaron. Better than he had any right to expect, given how long ago all this happened.”

Meg finished her toast and took her dishes to the sink. “Actually, right now I'm looking forward to doing something manual, so I don't have to think. Will we be able to talk to each other through the floor? Or walls?”

“Sure.”

Meg drained her coffee mug. “Okay, I'm good to go.”

A knock at the back door signaled the arrival of the town inspector, whom Seth greeted like the old friend that he was. He said a quick hello to Meg, then the two men disappeared upstairs to look at the changes there. They ended up downstairs again to check out the powder room. “Looks good, Seth,” the man said. “Like there was ever any doubt. I'll be on my way. Congrats, you two, by the way.”

“Thanks for stopping by so quickly,” Seth replied.

“Wow, that was fast,” Meg said, when the inspector had left.

“We work together a lot. Besides, I got it right.”

“What happens now?”

“You start tiling.” Seth grinned at her as he ticked the steps off on his fingers. “The walls are prepped, and I've cleaned all the construction dirt off the floor. In case you don't know, there's a plywood subflooring, then a layer of cement backer board glued to the plywood with construction adhesive. I'll put in an antifracture membrane, since old houses tend to shift and you don't want anything to crack. You're going to check your layout for the tiles, and line things up so they're square. Remember, the level is your friend—keep checking to make sure things aren't sliding downhill. Then we mix up some thin-set mortar and away you go. Don't worry: I'll be around to give you pointers.”

“So, mortar and set, then repeat 'til the walls and floor are covered? How long does it take to set up?”

“You'll have to let it set overnight, then clean up the joints. Then you can grout. That doesn't take as long to set as the mortar.”

“So at least one bathroom could be done by the end of tomorrow?”

“If all goes as planned.”

“Does that ever happen?” Meg asked, smiling.

“Now and then.” Seth smiled back.

“But I still have to deal with dinner for the crowd this evening. I suppose I could have suggested tomorrow night instead, but I really want to get this over with and move on.”

“I can understand that, Meg. Aaron has waited a long time for some answers. You may not have them all, but he doesn't need to wait any longer. He should get on with his life, too.”

“Exactly,” Meg said. The problem was, she didn't see any clear path ahead for Aaron, whether or not he could accept his reduced guilt in the death of his parents. He'd been so young when he'd been sent to prison, and whatever skills—professional and social—he had learned had come from inside prison walls. How would he cope in the “real” world?

Upstairs, Seth patiently explained once again the steps in laying out the tiles. Meg knew she wasn't stupid, but this was a whole new skill, and since she was going to have to live with the results, she wanted to get things right. Finally Seth said, “Okay, now fly, little bird. I'm going to go downstairs and work on the powder room.” He left, and Meg wavered, unsure.

“I can do this,” she said. And so she began, picking a starting point and calculating out from that. Seth had mixed the mortar for her, to a soupy consistency, and with her heart in her throat, Meg spread a small amount on one wall, carefully distributed it with her notched trowel, took a deep breath, and started. Spread, set, space, repeat. The larger wall tiles went up easily and had built-in spacers; the smaller tiles she'd chosen for the floor came in manageable sheets. In a fit of daring she had decided to add decorative border moldings at the tops of the half-high wall tiles. But even that turned out to be no problem.

Why had she been so worried? Or was tiling really just the object of her transferred anxieties? It didn't matter. The work was happily mindless, and Meg was pleased as the floor grew quickly. She remembered putting together jigsaw puzzles with her mother, when she was a child. She wondered briefly if her mother had kept those. Maybe she should ask her mother to bring a few along with her when she visited. She tried to envision sitting with Seth in front of a
crackling fire and putting together little pieces of cardboard and wood, and almost laughed out loud. They were always so busy, and most of the time their activities had to have a tangible product, like a building or a barn full of apples, not just a pretty picture that would be broken down again shortly. But it had been fun . . .

Solving the puzzle of the Eastman fire was less easy. No one had looked very hard at the time of the fire, and too many years had passed to find much tangible evidence now. Aaron had paid his debt to society, as the saying went, and no doubt he'd paid a psychological price as well. But he'd been little more than a child then, and a stoned one at that; was he a different person now? A better one? Hard to say. Meg's heart ached for him: the man she knew now had no violence or hatred in him, or so she thought. Or wanted to believe.

After a couple of hours, the walls and floor of the largest bathroom were finished, and Meg stood in the doorway admiring her handiwork. The lines were straight, and she hadn't slopped too much mortar on the tiles. It looked good: simultaneously Victorian and modern. She felt a spurt of pride.

Seth came up behind her. “Nice,” he said, and sounded as though he meant it. “You up for starting the master bath and shower? I've installed everything essential.”

Giddy with her success, Meg said, “Sure, why not? It's smaller than the other bath, right? Oh, but does that mean we'll be taking sponge baths in the kitchen sink?”

“It is smaller, and yes to the latter. But only for a day or two. Just grit your teeth and think of our forebears.”

“Uh-huh,” Meg replied, unconvinced. “I'm not convinced they bathed at all.”

After another hour, including some jiggering with fitting
corners and edges, aided by Seth, the shower walls and floor were done as well. Meg checked her watch. “Shoot, I'd better start cooking. I told the Eastmans to arrive around seven. Is the house clean enough for company?”

“Don't worry about it,” Seth said. “Blame everything on construction dust.”

“Right, including the clumps of dog and cat hair creeping around the floor.”

“I don't think our company will complain. You want a bucket of hot water to clean up with? You, not the bathroom. Mortar is definitely not your color, and you're wearing quite a bit of it.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Once more or less relieved of mortar spatters, Meg went downstairs to start a hearty chicken stew for dinner; luckily Bree had volunteered to refill the bare pantry and fridge. As she chopped, she wondered what they all could talk about without walking through any minefields.
Aaron, what are your plans for the future?
No, that wouldn't work. Maybe they could talk about the alpacas, which were cute and funny—and safe.
Will the three of you keep in touch now?
Equally perilous as a topic of conversation. Lori had barely managed to keep Aaron informed of her address; Kevin had apparently not made any effort at all to reach out to him. But they were family—didn't that count for something? Hadn't Robert Frost said, “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in”? But where was home for the fractured Eastmans?

Aaron was the first to arrive, walking across the fields from the alpaca farm. “Meg, Seth,” he greeted them as he walked into the kitchen. “Smells good in here.”

“I hope it tastes good, too,” Meg told him. “How are the alpacas?” Oops, she'd already blown that topic.

“I'm getting kind of fond of them. The way they look at you, it's like they think you're acting silly, no matter what you do.”

“Are they friendly?”

“I'd say they're not unfriendly, if you know what I mean. But they keep a distance. Works out fine.”

Meg had run out of easy questions, so she looked at Seth in mute appeal. He fell back on the tried-and-true male option: “Want to see how the construction's coming along?”

The two men went upstairs, and Meg gave a small sigh of relief. Then Lori knocked at the back door, and Kevin followed her in, having apparently offered her a ride over. “Come in and get warm,” Meg said. “Just hang your coats on the pegs there. Can I get you something to drink? I've got cider, hard and soft, wine, beer . . .”

“Cider's good for me,” Lori said. “Is it from your own trees?”

“No, but it's from Granford—this year's crop.”

Lori nodded. “This is a terrific room here, especially after dark. So welcoming. I love all the wood.”

“I refinished the floor myself. It was the first thing I did to the house, after I moved in.”

“Looks great.”

Meg handed Lori a glass of fresh cider. “Kevin?”

“A beer sounds good. You've got a lot of history with this place?”

Meg handed him a bottle of beer. “You can have a glass if you want. Yes, this place was built by my seventh great-grandfather. At least I think it was seventh—I always get confused with the numbering. Anyway, a direct ancestor. It stayed in the family, but not my line. My mother inherited it from two maiden sisters a couple of decades ago. I moved in going on two years ago. And I've probably learned more
about the people who lived here since then than my mother ever knew.”