A House by the Side of the Road (15 page)

Instead, she supplied the necessary documentation to receive a library card, checked out an Angela Thirkell, so she could see what it was Christine liked so much, and the only comprehensive guide to gardening that was on the shelves, and drove home. She passed John Eppler, driving to town, and he honked and waved at her out his open window.

*   *   *

She worked all afternoon and into the evening, pushing everything out of her mind except the word lists. She completed a rhyming phrase match and wrote a set of short poems. She took a break mid-afternoon to call her parents.

“Thanks for the letter last week, Mom,” she said. “It was my first mail! I went out to the mailbox, not actually expecting anything since there had never
been
anything, and there it was. It sounds like you're busy.”

“As always,” said her mother. “You know your dad. But you're the one who must be busy, dear. How's the house? I've been waiting to find out. We haven't heard a word since you called to say you'd made it there. You can't be too busy to write once in a while to your own parents.”

“Yeah, actually, I am,” said Meg. “That's why I'm calling. I
am
calling, you notice.”

“At unnecessary expense,” said her father, breaking into the conversation. “Not that we're not happy to hear from you. But what's wrong with the U.S. mail?”

“Gosh, Dad, you sound just like Jack,” said Meg. “I've met this guy here who writes letters. I thought letter-writers were a dying breed, that you and Mom were the last ones still kicking, but I guess not. And he has the same reasons you do.”

“Now, Margaret,” said her mother. “Don't get involved with a stingy man.”

“Ha! Look who's talking!”

“Your father is not stingy! He's just careful. Like I am. We're just careful. And you would be more so, if you'd spent your early years poor like we did. Your friend didn't grow up in the Depression, did he?”

“Heavens, Jeanie!” said Meg's father. “What would Meg want with a tottering old man?”

“No, Mom,” said Meg. “He didn't grow up in the Depression. I swear. He's in his mid-thirties. And he's not stingy; he's just careful, like you. He's puzzled about why ‘Thou shalt not waste money' was left out of the Ten Commandments. Figures it was a printer's error.”

“Well, then, he sounds lovely,” said her mother. “Now tell us about Louise's house. I was there only once, and I barely remember it.”

Meg spent a happy twenty minutes describing the house, the fence, the yard, the dog, her baseball team, and the neighbors.

“This Mike fellow sounds all right to me,” said her father. “And it seems you've made quite the impression.”

“I wouldn't say that,” Meg replied. But when she had hung up and returned to work, she wondered again at her change in fortune. Three years as one of several girlfriends, and now seemingly pursued by two men. It was a pleasant, if disconcerting, change.

The dog lay contentedly on the rug behind her until seven-thirty and then got up, stretched, and nudged Meg's elbow with a cold nose.

“Okay,” said Meg. “I'm getting hungry, too. But let's take a walk first and eat fashionably late.”

The dog's ears pricked at
walk.

“You're a smart one, aren't you?” said Meg. “Or was there somebody else who used to say that, and you've just remembered what it means?”

She switched off the screen and got up and they went out into the cool evening. “Want to go say hey to Harding?” asked Meg. “That'll stretch our legs and make him blissfully happy, all at once. And I can see if Christine has a pot big enough for pasta for when they come to dinner tomorrow.”

“Rarrph,” said the dog.

“The field's still wet,” said Meg. “So we have to go by the road, which means you need your leash.”

The dog reared up on her hind legs while Meg snapped on the leash. They walked facing oncoming traffic and moved to the edge of the ditch whenever a car approached. Few cars approached. Meg felt lucky to live on a largely untraveled road. The air was soft and fragrant and, even when she thought about Jack, her mind was easy. No clutching feelings in her stomach. This, she told herself, was a good sign. She wasn't falling for him, after all.

The downstairs front of the Ruschman house was dark but lights were on upstairs.

“Kiddies are doing their homework,” said Meg. “Let's go around to the kitchen door.”

Harding met them on their way up the long driveway, barking with delight and rearing to crash his chest against the smaller dog.

“You two run off and play,” said Meg, unsnapping the lead. “But stay away from the road.”

The dogs ran off into the field and Meg remembered, too late, that there would be muddy paws to clean again when she got home. She walked on the smooth concrete of the drive around to the back of the house, her gym shoes silent. The kitchen door was open; only the screen door was closed, and she could hear Dan's and Christine's voices. Meg started to call out, to keep from startling them with a sudden rap at the door, but just then Christine spoke again, and the savagery in her voice stilled Meg's own.

“I won't live with a man who lies to me,” Christine said. “I tell you, I won't!”

“I'm not lying to you,” said Dan. His voice held no anger. Neither was it light. It sounded, to Meg, as if he was close to tears.

“Well, you might as well be,” said Christine. “You're not telling me anything. Something's going on, something that involves money I don't know anything about. I don't know where it came from, don't know who it went to, or why. Something that involves secrets, Dan, secrets you're keeping from me. From
me!
For God's sake! What's the story?”

Meg started to creep away, backing up. She bumped into Dan's truck and froze, frightened unreasonably by the unexpected barrier.

“I
will
tell you the story, Christine,” he said, “as soon as I know how it ends.”

Now it was Christine's voice that trembled, and no longer with anger. “Just tell me one thing, Dan,” she said. “And tell me now. Will I be in the story at the end?”

“Oh, God, I hope so,” said Dan. He paused. “You don't think…? Christie! You don't think…?”

Meg slid sideways along the truck and hurried down the driveway. Nearing the road, she whistled for the dog, spoke firmly to Harding to discourage his company, and started home, feeling awkward and guilty.

*   *   *

When the phone rang, Meg lay
The Brandons
upside down on the bed next to her so she wouldn't lose her place and answered. It better be Sara, she thought. If I have to leave Pomfret Madrigal to talk to somebody, it better be Sara.

No one replied to her hello. She waited a second and tried again. “Hello?”

Silence. And then there was a click and the line went dead.

“Same to you,” said Meg and picked up her book. She had read a paragraph without understanding a word of it before she realized how disconcerted she was.

“Don't be a dip,” she said out loud. Why should she get jittery over a simple disconnection? Not everyone who dialed a wrong number was polite enough to apologize.

Lavinia was waiting, with her endearing absentmindedness and entertaining life. Christine had been right about Angela Thirkell novels, at least in this case. But Meg could not make her way back into the diverting fictional world she had been occupying before the phone rang, and Mrs. Brandon had to wait for half an hour while Meg walked through the house and checked the doors and windows and ate a bowl of cereal and managed, finally, to shake off the feeling that someone had been trying to find out if she was home.

Twelve

Between the driveway and the kitchen window, Meg had put a bird feeder, driving the post solidly into the ground. It was more for her pleasure than, at this time of year, the birds' survival. The birdhouse from Jack stood farther away. It had gone up too late, it seemed, to be used this spring. Meg grinned, thinking of Seymour and his feathered bride and how they'd had to make do with a cruder home. Maybe next year …

She stood gazing out the window at the feeder while cutting strawberries onto the top of her cereal. A tufted titmouse, several chickadees, and a goldfinch shared the perches, flickering on and off until Christine drove up, scattering them. She jumped out of the station wagon and bounded inside, letting the screen door slam behind her.

“Isn't it a gorgeous day?” she said. “Hey, pooch!”

The dog, who had not risen from where she was lying on her side under the kitchen table, thumped her tail twice on the floor. Having learned the sound of Christine's engine, she no longer broke into a paroxysm of barking at her approach.

“Yes…” Meg looked curiously at her friend. “It is.”

“Here,” said Christine, ignoring the unasked question. “I've brought sticky buns. I made them this morning. They're the best things you ever tasted.”

“You need to work on that false-modesty thing you've got going,” said Meg. “When you're good at something, just admit it.”

“Let's play,” said Christine, sitting down at the table and stretching luxuriously. “Let's oh, I don't know, go shopping. Or have a picnic. Or go put our feet in the creek.”

“You must have forgotten that I'm entertaining tonight,” said Meg. “The Ruschmen are coming to dinner, and I need to impress them. Mrs. Ruschman is the
snottiest
old bat. So, I've got to make the pâté for the Beef Wellington and whip up a few soufflés. And before I can start on that, I have to finish one last worksheet and find an envelope to put this batch of work in. And before I go into town to mail it, I really want to paint the
last three pickets.
And after all that, I have to start on the stuff for the next deadline, which I will never, ever get done on time because we have nine hundred and sixty-four baseball practices scheduled. I am
behind.
”

“Speaking of behinds…” said Christine. “The PTA president, who is one major ass, roped me into making brownies for some do. I'd forgotten. I guess I couldn't play much either.”

“Wrong kind of ass,” said Meg. “If someone is an ass, she's a donkey. A fool. A stupid or silly person.”

“You're right,” said Christine. “I forgot I was speaking to a wordsmith. Talking with you, the term that should have come to mind is ‘butthead.'”

“I'm glad we got that cleared up,” said Meg. “There was what I think was an indigo bunting here earlier. I can't believe it. Chicago's got birds, but if you try to encourage them with a feeder you spend most of your time looking at pigeons.”

“Mmm,” said Christine dreamily.

Meg glanced at her. “And I'm probably wrong, but I'd swear there was a flutter-winged dimwit out there last week.”

“Mmm,” said Christine again.

“You're not listening,” said Meg. “What's with you?”

Christine started. “What?”

“I was talking about birds,” said Meg. “Beautiful birds. Amazing varieties of birds, to go along with all the green and the clean smells and the late-April breezes.” She gestured toward the window. “It's a miracle.”

“No,” said Christine. “It's Pennsylvania. Now eat a sweet roll with me before I go put on a fetching gingham apron and you get on with your piddling concerns.”

She left a half hour later, reminding Meg never, ever to slam the oven door on a soufflé.

*   *   *

The fence was neat and sturdy and, best of all, finished.

“You've increased your property value at least fifty bucks,” said Mike, gripping a picket and shaking it gently. “You did a nice job. But it makes the paint on the house look even worse than it did before.”

“Shut up,” said Meg. She had been on her way back from a walk to the creek when she saw his car turn into the driveway.

“I just got through a half hour ago,” she said. “Haven't even cleaned up yet.” A closed can of paint, with a brush resting on top of it, still sat on the grass. “What are you doing away from the office?”

“Longing to see you,” he replied. “Actually, I'm on my way down to Doylestown to take a deposition. Want to come? It's a beautiful town.”

“I should have known you were doing something that required you to look like a lawyer,” said Meg. “You've got on a tie. I can't go, but thanks. A woman's work is never done. I have to mail stuff and grocery shop and teach doggies how to do as they're told.”

Jane and Harding were coming over when Jane got home from school, to start Harding's obedience lessons. When Meg mentioned the need to work with her own dog, Christine had jumped on the subject and begged her to work with Jane and Harding too, to save Christine from driving them to town for lessons. Meg was happy to acquiesce. She hated to see a dog that hadn't been civilized, and working with Jane would be fun.

“Have you decided what we're betting?” asked Mike.

“How about painting my house?” suggested Meg. “If I win, you paint it; if you win—ha, ha, ha, fat chance—I paint it.”

“You missed your calling when you didn't go to law school,” said Mike. “Keep thinking. How about hitting the Main Street Cafe with me tonight? Or someplace else, if you're getting tired of homemade pie.”

“Can't tonight,” said Meg, a little surprised at a feeling of regret. The idea of sitting across the table from him for an hour was appealing. “But soon.”

She waved as he drove away, then picked up the paint can and brush and headed for the toolshed. She had taken the lawn mower out a few days earlier to see if it functioned and knew there were shelves where she could store paint—at least until it got cold again. She dropped the paintbrush near the kitchen door so she could take it in and clean it.