Here I Stay (8 page)

There was only one contretemps, when the foursome returned from their auction spree on Saturday evening—hot, tired and disgruntled because prices had been higher than they expected—to discover that the air conditioner in the Johnsons' room had unaccountably quit functioning. Since two of
the guest rooms were unoccupied, the problem was easily solved; Andrea simply moved them to another room. But Johnson waxed loud about the inconvenience, despite the efforts of his twittering little wife to calm him.

It may have been sheer coincidence that Greenspan chose to join the other guests in the green parlor for tea. Andrea served that beverage in Cousin Bertha's fragile Haviland
cups,
along with a plate of skimpily but artistically arranged cookies; one day, after she had learned to make scones and clotted cream, she hoped "afternoon tea" would draw in the lady shoppers and enable her to raise her prices. Now it was in the main a euphemism for what less couth establishments referred to as Happy Hour, and most male guests preferred to mix their own drinks, using the ice and glasses she provided. She had no liquor license and did not want one; she had not needed the warnings of colleagues to know the hazards involved in that.

Mrs. Whitman took tea and nibbled delicately at the cookies. Mrs. Johnson joined the men in a scotch and soda. Johnson was still grumbling about the air conditioner when Greenspan made his appearance.

They knew who he was. His name had been the only one in the guestbook, which they had taken care to inspect when they signed in. They had been lying in wait for him. He was unquestionably a social lion, not of the highest caliber, but well up in the second rank. Smiling and urbane, he accepted a drink from Mr. Johnson and sat down, prepared to be roasted.

The political opinions of the others ranged from far right to extreme far right. Why they bothered to read Greenspan's column Andrea could not imagine, but Johnson seemed to recall every word Greenspan had ever written. He got purple in the face when he quoted some of them.

Though Greenspan was outnumbered, the contest was not onesided. Andrea had to admire the way he held his own, without losing his temper or raising his voice. By the time Mrs. Johnson reminded her husband that they were late for their dinner reservations, Johnson's good humor had been restored. He seemed to feel that he had won the debate, though Andrea couldn't see that Greenspan had yielded an inch.

She had been too busy during the day to think of her nightmare, but when she stood outside her door it came back to her, with a vividness that made her hesitate to turn the knob. The hesitation was only momentary; she couldn't afford to yield to that sort of weakness, not now. Nor did she leave the light on, though greatly tempted to do so. Sheer exhaustion finally brought slumber, and when she woke in the morning to face another hot sticky day, her rest had been undisturbed.

The two couples left late Sunday afternoon, after a day of antiquing and a substantial dinner at Peace and Plenty. They had enjoyed themselves, they told her.

"Think I set that young fellow straight on a few things," Johnson boomed. It took Andrea a few seconds to realize he was referring to Greenspan.

Mrs. Whitman, the tea drinker, only smiled sweetly. Later, however, while the men were packing the van in which their weekend bargains had been stowed, and Mrs. Johnson had gone upstairs for an unspecified but readily comprehensible purpose, Mrs. Whitman took Andrea aside.

"We've had such a lovely time. This beautiful old house..." Mrs. Whitman's voice dropped to a whisper. "And the presence—so warm, so beneficent..."

'Presence?" Andrea repeated.

"Oh, you needn't be shy with me, my dear; I've always been sensitive to such things. I don't talk about it in front of Harry, he is too worldly to sympathize; but I felt it from the moment I walked in the door. An invisible presence, loving and welcoming..."

When Andrea grasped the meaning of Mrs. Whitman's ramblings, it was all she could do not to swear. She had been warned about this too. "For God's sake, my dear, don't let the psychic nuts take over. That's always a problem with an old house, they look for spooks and phantoms and old murders. Sure, it brings in some trade, but it scares off more, and you never know when some idiot is going to have a seizure and sue you."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Mrs. Whitman," Andrea said coldly.

Mrs. Whitman was not so easily discouraged. "Not everyone can sense it; only those attuned to the spiritual world. It was not until last night that I was sure. I lay awake for a long time feeling them hover over me—angel presences, touching me with their wings...Oh, dear, Harry is calling, I must run. Thank you again, Miss Torgesen."

The single harmless word hit Andrea like a blow in the diaphragm. Coincidence, she told herself. Pure coincidence. Angels and spirit forms and angelic presences—the conventional jargon of the trade.

Summoning a smile, she went to speed the parting
guests.

When the van pulled away Andrea returned to the kitchen and dropped limply into a chair. Kevin, who had helped the men load the van, followed her. Grinning, he displayed his spoils.

"Half a buck. I knew that guy Johnson was a big spender."

"You should have returned it, with a lordly sneer," Andrea said. "Thanks, Kevin. I owe you."

"No, you don't. I'm collecting material for my book."

"Where's Jimmie?" She kicked off her shoes and wriggled her toes.

"Out back." Kevin gestured.

"Not in that old graveyard? Go tell him to come in. We ought to have supper. Though right now I'm too tired to care."

"We're going for pizza," Kevin said. "No cooking for you tonight, lady."

"Could you get one for me?" Greenspan's head appeared around the door. "Everything on it except anchovy. I hate anchovies."

"Me, too," Kevin exclaimed. "I hate anchovies. How about olives? Right. Great. I'll go get Jim."

Greenspan hovered uncertainly in the doorway. "Come in," Andrea said, reaching for her shoes.

"Not unless you promise to leave your shoes off and slump to your heart's content. Can I get you anything? Tea, beer, milk, champagne?"

"But you're my guest, Mr. Greenspan. I should be waiting on you."

"Make it Martin—please."

He had a very attractive smile. The austerity of lips almost too narrowly cut was warmed by a
crooked tooth and overshadowed by a strong Roman nose as impressive as George Washington's.

"I didn't realize you wore glasses," she said, looking at the pair he had pushed up onto his balding head.

"Just for reading. The curse of middle age."

"Are you hungry? I expected you would have dinner at Reba's."

"I was afraid I'd run into the Moral Majority."

"But that's terrible. I can't have my guests inconvenienced because of other guests."

"For the love of heaven, woman, stop thinking you're responsible for the entire universe," Martin said forcibly. "It won't hurt me to skip a meal. I'm putting on too much weight anyhow."

Andrea wished he would go away. She sensed that he had something in mind beyond idle conversation, but it was not until the boys had come and gone, heading for the pizza parlor in nearby Frederick, that he got to the point.

"This is probably a rotten time to bring it up, when the very thought of guests makes you gag, but I've got a proposition to put to you. You can always turn it down."

"What did you have in mind?" Andrea asked warily.

"Nothing like that." He smiled.

"I didn't mean—"

"No, of course you didn't." He began folding and unfolding the stems of his glasses. "For a professional writer, I am less than glib, aren't I? It's simple enough. My apartment in D.C. is going condo. I've always hated the place anyhow—boring, jerry-built little trap...So I wondered—you see, I've got a book due; I'm already behind schedule, and my publisher
swears he'll boil me in oil if it isn't finished by March first..."

"You don't mean you want to stay here!"

"What's so surprising about that?"

"Why—I don't know. It's just that—I don't know."

Martin continued, more fluently. "This part of the country has always appealed to me. As you can see by my girth, I enjoy regular meals; Peace and Plenty is one of my old hangouts. I hate motels. Your house has a certain atmosphere—"

"What do you mean by that?" Andrea sat up.

He gave her a startled look. " Quiet, gracious surroundings, the charm of an old house... What did you think I meant?"

"You haven't seen anything—felt anything?"

"Are you trying to tell me, my dear Miss Torgesen, that the house is haunted?"

They stared at one another in mutual consternation. Andrea was already regretting her impulsive question. If she weren't so tired, and if that stupid old woman hadn't upset her...

Martin smiled. "I haven't seen anything or felt anything."

"Go ahead and laugh, I don't blame you."

"Have you? Seen or felt—"

"No. I don't believe in that nonsense. And I'm sure you are too intelligent to fall for it."

"Well." Martin scratched the fringe of hair over his left ear. "I try to keep an open mind..." Seeing her expression, he laughed somewhat sheepishly. "I know what you're thinking—my mind is too damned open. You can't put me off that way, Miss Torgesen. And don't forget, you won't find too many customers who are willing to sleep with a large,
pushy black cat."

"Oh, my God." Andrea covered her face with her hands. "I forgot about Satan. Did he—"

"He did. He's pretty good company, as a matter of fact. The affinity between writers and cats is well documented; with his help I may be able to produce a masterpiece. You don't have to decide this minute, Miss Torgesen. Think it over. Consult your brother."

She knew what Jim would say. And she knew the advantages of the plan. Advantages? It would be a godsend, nothing less—income she could count on during the lean winter months. Not to mention the publicity value of Greenspan's patronage. The advantages were all on one side. On the other...Alone with Jim, working and planning together. Long winter evenings by the fire in the kitchen while sleet hissed at the windows, reading, talking, watching television, getting to know him again. She had seen so little of him since he started college, even though campus was only an hour away...

The balance dipped, but common sense sent it swinging up again. The home comforts she wanted to create for Jim depended solely on whether or not she could make a success of the business. All her savings had gone into the inn. Times were bad; if the inn failed, she might not be able to find a job that paid enough to give Jim the things he was going to need.

"I don't need to think about it," she said. "Assuming, of course, that we can agree on terms..."

Against all her forebodings the arrangement seemed
to work out. Greenspan was an ideal guest. He hardly ever left his room except for meals and his morning run. To her secret amusement he soon began to appear in regulation jogging suits, so new that the price tags still dangled from the back of the pants. Business improved; she began to get midweek trade, from giggling housewives escaping from their families and from grandparents who needed a peaceful night's sleep and a leisurely breakfast before they plunged into the maelstrom of loving family life.

Kevin stayed on—and on. Andrea knew she should be grateful to him for keeping Jim busy and entertained. She wasn't the best of company herself; a faint preoccupied frown was her normal expression, replaced by a bright artificial smile only in the presence of guests. All the same, she could hardly wait till Kevin left for school, and she was secretly pleased that he had picked a midwestern university instead of a local college. There would be no weekly visits to interrupt the idyllic companionship she looked forward to—as soon as she got the inn running smoothly.

Some of the things the boys did would have driven her frantic with worry if she had had time to think about them. They explored every foot of the thirty acres surrounding the house, and came up with endless impractical schemes—diverting the stream to make a swimming pool, bulldozing nature trails through the woods, laying out a nine-hole golf course. They dragged Jim's weights out of the attic and fitted out one of the sheds as a gym. They searched the barn and the other outbuildings looking for Bertha's electric car—to no avail—but found pieces of rusting farm equipment, including a tractor, which they took to pieces and tried to repair.

Unbeknown to Andrea, a good deal of their time was spent in the abandoned graveyard. She didn't realize how much work they had done until, the day before Kevin was due to leave, he and Jim invited her to view the results.

"No, thanks," she said, "if I'd known what you were up to, I'd have forbidden it. I can't imagine what you find so fascinating about a horrible place like that."

Martin was eating lunch with them that day. For an exorbitant additional fee, Andrea had agreed to let him forage for sandwiches and soup when he didn't feel like going out.

"Am I invited?" he asked. "I didn't know you had a cemetery on the premises. How convenient."

"Sure you're invited, Mr. Greenspan," Jim said. "I didn't think you'd be interested."

"I'm interested in practically everything. That's why I'm always behind schedule."

"You don't want to see it," Andrea protested. "It's all overgrown with weeds and poison ivy—"

"Not now," Jim said. "What it is, Mr. Greenspan, is the old Springer cemetery. That's the name of the family that owned this property in the eighteenth century. Back then there were a lot of private graveyards. Most of 'em were abandoned as the population grew and travel was easier."

His elbows on the table, Greenspan listened with the absorbed attention he always offered Jim and Kevin, even when they told him something he already knew.