"I, Harriet Marie Thale . .."
"When did she write it?" Leo asked gruffly.
"A year before she died, in the summer. That year we tried Jerusalem artichokes, and they rotted." Her eyes scanned the document—there was a growing suspense now—and suddenly Gussie's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, how lovely," she gasped.
"What?" asked Leo.
"She leaves the house—the house and twenty-five acres to 'my dear friend Gussie Pease.' To me!"
Andrew felt a disconcerting and very illicit pleasure at this. "You mean my father doesn't own Thale's Folly after all?"
A radiant Gussie was turning the page. "She writes, 'I bequeath my remaining wealth thus: To be equally divided, one half to Miss Gussie Pease, to whom I entrust the support of all occupants of Thale's Folly for so long as they live, my funds being in the form of gold, the currency of the Rom, whom I respect and hold dear (I append a separate letter explaining where this has been buried), and one half of my funds to Tarragon Sage Valerian, and dear Tarragon, be wise about this.' "
"There's money, too?" gasped Tarragon. "So that we can keep the house?"
"And the will," concluded Gussie, "has been witnessed by Abraham Branowski and Zilka Stephanovitch .., one of Miss Thaïes gypsy friends," she reminded them.
"Well!" exclaimed Andrew, happy for them. "It certainly sounds legal. Do you know of a good lawyer in Pittsville?"
Miss L’Hommedieu, in her long flannel nightgown, had listened intently to Gussie's reading and now, turning her penetrating black eyes on Andrew she said sternly, "Well, Andrew?"
"Well what?"
"I told you so."
Thoroughly puzzled he said, "Told me what?"
"That it would be you, after all. You have not taken thought of the sequence of events that led to this?"
They were all staring at Andrew now. He said, "I haven't the slightest idea what you mean."
"The raincoat," she said impatiently. "You don't see it? You left your raincoat in a restaurant—"
"Pure mindlessness," he put in.
"—and when you returned for it you snatched the coat of a stranger, and this madman, for reasons unknown—"
"—surely the keys," broke in Tarragon eagerly.
"This madman burglarized the house tonight, tore apart the furniture in your room, as well as the mirror, and because of this—"
"—and your mindlessness," breathed Tarragon, nodding.
"Because of this, Harriet Thale's will—behind that mirror all these years—has suddenly been found."
He supposed that it made a sort of cockeyed sense, at least to Miss L’Hommedieu. He thought that soon she would be telling him that if he'd had no nervous breakdown, had not fallen out of the sky in a plane he would never have come to Thale's Folly. And then he was stunned by the thought that no, he would not have driven here at his father's request, he would not have been writing a newsletter for Meredith Machines, and there would have been no crack-up, no writer's block, and no—oh God—no Tarragon?
At the look on his face, Miss L'Hommedieu nodded, satisfied. "Now where is the letter she left?"
Gussie turned over the two pages and frowned. "There isn't one."
They stared at her blankly. "No letter? She said a letter," pointed out Leo.
"It must be upstairs—the mulch pile," said Andrew, pushing back his chair and rising, but he was remembering that mulch pile: he had searched it for something to read— anything—but he could not remember a letter.
"I'll go too," said Tarragon. "You finish your tea, Gussie, you've done enough rushing about."
Upstairs, he and Tarragon approached the small pile of papers, sat down on the floor, and began sorting. "A real antique, that mirror," he said. "They padded the backs of their mirrors with anything available, and here's a scrap from a newspaper dated 1898."
"But this wasn't part of the backing," she said, showing him a ten-year-old tax receipt.
There were several other receipted bills, and Andrew began to have a good idea of what Gussie, Leo, and Miss LHommedieu had been deprived of since Miss Thale's death. There had once been electricity, hot water, a car that Manuel had serviced, books bought, a furnace that burned oil. But there was no letter.
Andrew sat back on his heels and shook his head. "No letter, Tarragon."
The glow had gone from her eyes. "Not here, Andrew, no, but surely somewhere else in the house?"
He said dryly, "Behind another mirror? But this was her room."
'A simple letter," she said stubbornly. "Or a map, showing where it was buried. Without it—without it we'll lose the house after all, Andrew."
"We can dig," he pointed out.
"Twenty-five acres?"
"We can dig," he said firmly.
"'We, 'Andrew?"
"Yes, we. Until the gypsies come, remember?"
"But your job!"
He ignored this and said instead, "We'd better go down and tell them that tomorrow they begin a new search of the house."
Andrew awoke at dawn exhausted and in a cold sweat. íí* With a glance at his watch he saw that he'd slept for only three hours, and he had spent those three hours descending in slow motion to the earth, over and over, not knowing if he'd live or die; he could only hope that he'd not screamed. It was six o'clock, and outside the crickets had stilled. The house was silent; he pulled on his jeans and walked barefoot downstairs through the kitchen and out into the garden. The grass was silken and cold with dew, the sky suffused with blush pink, but although a dark closet would be kindest for him he knew a place among the cornstalks where he could hide and pull his ragged nerves together. It seemed a pity, he thought savagely, that only yesterday there had been a happy trip to a thrift shop, but it felt an aeon ago, and this morning his generosity struck him as patronizing. Darkness had settled on him, and like beads on a rosary he counted over his failures and mocked himself. A hero last evening, he thought scornfully? This had collapsed almost at once, for there was no promised letter, and being more worldly than the occupants of Thale's Folly he knew that in this case the will was meaningless without money; Gussie would at once be liable for the five years of property tax his father had paid, she would have no money for lawyers or for the estate tax, and his father could still win the house and twenty-five acres.
His great-aunt's eccentricities struck him this morning as capricious, maddening, thoughtless, and bereft of reason.
So much for that, but there was more, of course, because today was Wednesday, and Meredith Machines would be no more forgiving than his father, and there was no question but that he was now among the unemployed. His second and last book had been published almost two years ago, and the royalties from it were dwindling while other young authors were filling the bookstores with equally as sophisticated mystery novels, whereas he brooded here among the herbs and vegetables, his emotions and imagination bankrupt. It was doubtful that he would ever write another book. Ever.
The futility of it all, he thought bitterly.
A slight breeze stirred the cornstalks among which he had taken shelter. At the end of the row he could see Miss L’Hommedieu's chair of sturdy oak that Gussie placed there every day; on the other side of him a row of green beans marched down to a profusion of huge zucchini plants with their bugle-shaped yellow flowers. He wanted to lie down on the earth between all this growing and ripening, and lose himself in the healing earth, hiding and burying himself, too depressed to go on, unfit for human company, even Tarragon.
He lay down, pillowing his head on his arms.
A pair of pointed black shoes interrupted his black thoughts: old shoes, worn. He looked up to find Miss L’Hommedieu standing over him.
"Well, Andrew?" she said.
He sat up. "Well, what?" he asked crossly. "How did you know I was here?"
"I saw you from the upstairs window. Are you going to spend the morning feeling sorry for yourself?"
"Is that what I'm doing?" he growled.
"It can be very seductive," she
told him. "Tarragon tells ma the cause of what she referred to as a 'crack-up' was due to a plane accident. I insisted upon inquiring, and she explained the circumstances."
"She shouldn't have done that," he snapped.
"Nonsense. A little older and wiser, she would know that you only learned how fragile we all are, we human beings, 'mere souls bearing up corpses,' as Epictetus phrased it, and it frightened you."
"It's that simple?" he said sarcastically. "Is that what I learned?"
Her glance was severe. "I find sarcasm very immature," she said coldly, "and my breakfast is waiting. Of course it's not that simple. What it brings with it—" She hesitated. "What follows such a crisis is a depressing and distressing disillusionment. "
Startled, he said, "With what?"
"God," she said, and with her ironic smile and a flutter of chiffon she was gone.
"God?" he thought. "God?"
She was, of course, a little mad, she had to be. He lay down again, and the sun, inching its way through the towering stalks of corn dissipated the shadows and warmed the earth beneath him; presently he fell asleep, this time without dreams.
Whether it was the sense of a presence, or the sun that woke him, when he opened his eyes again it was to see a woman standing down near the zucchini watching him: salt-and-pepper hair pulled sternly into a ponytail, a handsome tanned face, baggy pants, and an old sweatshirt.
Andrew sat up in astonishment. "You?" he gasped.
She left the zucchini to join him, and seated herself companionably on the earth beside him; he couldn't remember her ever doing anything so spontaneous before. She said, "You've entered my territory now, Andrew, so if your father learns we've met, you must—absolutely musí—remind him the agreement applied only to New York." She smiled at him. "Welcome to Tottsville, Andrew."
"Agreement?" he stammered. "Tottsville?"
"Well, you see," she said in the tangential way that he remembered, "your father acted so very embarrassed and secretive about a relative named Harriet Thale that early in our marriage I simply had to find out why."
Andrew suddenly laughed. "You're serious?" It struck him as a joke of cosmic proportions. "You actually met her, then, the shocking aunt Harriet Thale?"
She beamed at him cordially. "Met her and sneaked away from Manhattan as often as I could, and when I left your father, where else would any sensible fugitive come for solace?"
"Orange marmalade!" he cried. "It was you. And you live—"
She nodded. "Across the pond."
This was almost too much to absorb at once; he supposed he was in shock at finding his long-gone mother here, of all places. "Pond," he repeated blankly.
"The Bide-A-Wee cottage."
He said incredulously, "Does my father know?"
"Good heavens, of course not!"
He stared at her wonderingly. He blurted out, "You look happy—you never looked happy before. I remember when I'd come home from summer camp or boarding school you were always knitting. Like Madame Defarge at the guillotine."
She laughed. "And still knit," she told him. "I design and knit outrageous sweaters that sell for outrageous prices in several boutiques in Pittsville, and when they're not selling I paint houses."
"You've become an artist!"
She looked amused. "No, Andrew, I climb up a ladder carrying a bucket of paint and a spray gun and brushes, and paint a house. Manuel's wife and I are partners."
When he looked stunned by this she smiled. "I thought it time to see you, Andrew, and Miss L'Hommedieu said I'd find you here."
"I've been here four days."
"Yes, but when I learned on Saturday you were here I didn't expect you to stay."
He said ruefully, "I didn't expect to stay either."
"Aha," said his mother, "Gussie's worked her magic, has she?"
"Not at all," he said stiffly. "I had a fight with Father, and I'm out of a job now."
"You can't be, I read your books," she told him. "Both of them. Eagerly."
He felt inordinately pleased at this and waited to hear her say that she had been very impressed, or had at least enjoyed them. When she only looked thoughtful, he said accusingly, "You didn't like them."
"I was tremendously proud of you," she said warmly.
"But didn't like them. You can be truthful, I can take it," he said.
She laughed. "No author means that, Andrew. You're good, you wrote two very literary and erudite mystery novels, and you certainly caught the Manhattan life that your father gave you—heaven only knows I'm an expert on that—and you solved the murders brilliantly." She hesitated. "It was the people, the characters in your books—" She frowned. "I can't easily explain it but—"
He said uneasily, 'All that, but what?"
"The people in your books were sophisticated but so—so brittle," she said. "They seemed very much alike, and I didn't like any of them. I worried about you, Andrew, that your life might be full of people like that, clever and witty but not real. People who cast no shadows."
Cast no shadows!
He realized that he ought to be indignant, hearing this, ought to defend his lost career and certainly mention the three reviewers who had found his books so clever—the word virtuoso had even been mentioned—but he was remembering the one maverick review that described his characters as "thin," as having emerged from the author's pen "like cardboard figures given tiresomely flippant remarks to speak."
He said ruefully, "I've been feeling lately that I cast no shadow myself."
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Nonsense, you were the most affectionate and loving child anyone could have had. Do forgive us both, Andrew—but especially your father, because it's not you he's angry at, you know."
"Then who?"
"Me," she said simply. "Given the evidence that's in front of me—you!—I begin to see that you'll never be another Horace Thale. In fact I suspect you take after me, which must frustrate him terribly." She shook her head and sighed. "And once we were quite happy, you know."
"In those bicycle-repair-shop days," he said dryly.
"He doesn't like that mentioned," she reminded him, with a glance at her watch. "I must go, Linda and I are painting the Witkowski shutters this morning, but Miss L’Hommedieu has promised to show me the will that you miraculously found last night. They're becoming very fond of you, Andrew, and I'm not surprised in the least."
They both rose, but as they passed the zucchini, he said pointedly, "And what was the agreement you mentioned?"
She sighed. "I hate talking about that, it reflects so very badly on my maternal instincts—which I do have, Andrew, truly—but you have to realize I was growing quite desperate."
"The agreement," he repeated firmly.
She nodded. "It was the price of leaving. To allow him to— well, guide you without interference."
"Or mold me?"
"Whatever. Not see you. That and no alimony because I was the one leaving."
Aghast he said, "Not even a dime?"
"Oh no, there was a lump sum of five thousand dollars."
"My God, only five thousand?"
"Quite understandable," she said. "He assumed I would have to come back to him."
"But how did you manage?"
She smiled. "For a year I was one of your great-aunt Harriet's strays. She refused any money, bless her. And then one day the Bide-A-Wee cottage came on the market for the precise sum of five thousand dollars. No insulation, no heat except for a fireplace. But two bedrooms. I bought it. Leo installed a space heater—"
"No doubt stolen from Hobe Elkin," he said, nodding.
"—and Manuel and Linda helped me to insulate it." Stopping by the sunflowers she said, "Do you like Tarragon?"
Taken aback by this abrupt change in direction he said, "Of course, but I think it downright insulting, their advertising for a young man in the newspapers for her."
His mother said with interest, "Do you really? I thought it innocent and very touching."
"Touching!"
"Well, yes. All through high school, you see, Tarragon had a job as a waitress after classes ended—they needed the money, Miss Thale having died. No time for teenage dates there! After that she spent a year at the community college in Pittsville on a scholarship—still waiting on tables—and this past winter she was a kindergarten aide in town. Most people overlook Tarragon and assume it's Gussie who holds things together—as she does, in many ways—but Leo and Miss L'Hommedieu and Gussie know better. I thought it very sweet of them."
"Oh," he said, thinking what a bloody narcissist he'd been, talking so much about himself.
"And if you don't like her," she said crossly, "I will never speak to you again."
Andrew grinned. "I more than like her," he admitted.
He thought his mother chuckled. "Gussie will no doubt take credit for that, of course." She looked up at the sunflowers towering over them. "She really has powers, that woman! Just look at them, they'll soon be as high as the house!"
They sat around the kitchen table, Leo, Tarragon, Miss L'Hommedieu, and Andrew, while his mother brewed tea for them. "Rosemary for remembrance," she said, distributing the cracked china cups.
Gussie was absent, but no one questioned this but Andrew.
"She has gone to the woods," Miss L'Hommedieu told him in a kind voice.
Turning to Leo she said, "Was it Anatole France, Leo, or was it Balzac who wrote that 'Chance is the word that God uses when He wants to remain anonymous'?"
"It was Anatole France," Leo said. "You've got the meaning but the words aren't quite right," he told her. "You'll have a story for us this evening?"
Miss L’Hommedieu bowed graciously. "I shall, of course, yes."
It was in this manner that Andrew, without asking, knew that no letter had been found in their search of the house.
His mother, sipping her tea, was scanning the will. "You’ve looked everywhere?" she asked of them. "She wanted you to find her money, I don't understand why the instructions weren't stapled or clipped to the will. Or included in it."
"I suppose we begin digging now?" said Andrew.
She ignored this, frowning. "I think you must take this to a lawyer—never mind the missing letter—so that Horace, Andrew's father, can be notified that he's not, after all, the owner. A matter of putting first things first." With a last glance at the will she said, "I see that Mr. Branowski witnessed this. That's interesting, don't you think? Is he still in the woods?"
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