"Hot baths," murmured Miss L’Hommedieu.
"No outhouse," said Leo in a startled voice. "Or pouring water into the tank of the toilet to flush it."
"Well, Andrew," said Miss L’Hommedieu, looking pleased.
"And we also get Andrew," pointed out Tarragon, beaming at him.
"Yes, me," he said, grinning back at her. "Well, Gussie?"
Gussie turned her back on them. "Leo," she said gruffly, "you haven't lighted the stove, we've no tea for our sandwiches, and here we are, all sitting around like bumps on a log. As for you, Andrew—" She stopped, and when she turned to him he saw there were tears in her eyes. "As for you, Andrew," she said, "we need four tomatoes for breakfast juice, and—and bless you, Andrew."
Immediately she brought out a loaf of bread from the drawer and began feverishly slicing it.
Andrew made a hasty retreat before he burdened them with any more gratitude, and closing the screen door behind him he headed for the tomatoes, quite aware that tomatoes were needed no more than the bread that Gussie was slicing.
Tarragon, following him, said, "Andrew, can you afford such—such generosity?"
"It's not generous," he told her firmly. "I can live here much more cheaply than in Manhattan, you wouldn't believe the rent on a studio apartment. And there'll be a job for me somewhere in Pittsville, it's an investment, that's all."
She leaned over and impulsively kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you," she said, and without thinking, Andrew's arms went around her. Refusing her cheek, his lips fastened on hers, and he kissed her so soundly that when they drew apart both of them were flushed and breathless.
"Oh!" she gasped.
"Should I apologize?"
"Don't you dare!" she told him.
"But I've only known you six days," he said. "You're young—and inexperienced, damn it. With men, surely? "
"You've just given me an experience, " she pointed out. "You kissed me. I liked it."
"Yes, but according to my mother—what I mean is," he found himself stammering, "if anyone should fall in love with you they'd not want to take advantage—"
"For heaven's sake pick your tomatoes," she said indignantly. "You sound like someone out of a Victorian novel, Andrew."
"I feel like one, damn it," he shot back at her. "I can assure you it's new for me, but I have the most ridiculous interest in doing what's honorable."
"By calling me inexperienced? Insulting me? as if I'm a child? How quaint," she said scornfully, and stalked angrily back to the house.
He stared after her, feeling a fool and yet furious that she couldn't understand how many girls he'd kissed without the slightest desire to be protective or—well, honorable. He supposed he ought to explain, except that he was sure that he'd bungle this, too. He turned and saw that his mother was standing at the edge of the path, looking amused.
Strolling toward him she said, "You don't seem to have the savoir faire I expected, Andrew. Your first quarrel?"
"Not a quarrel," he said stiffly.
She linked her arm in his. "You've told them? about the electricity?"
He nodded. "Yes, and we've swept the entire area here with the metal detector today and found nothing, nothing at all."
His mother sighed. "A pity. Harriet would turn over in her grave if she knew. Obviously the letter was lost somehow, telling them where she buried her money."
"But to bury it?"
"I know, I know," she said, frowning. "But you have to understand that she sheltered so many people at different times that I daresay she preferred not to leave valuables in any obvious place in the house. She never cared if they were honest or not but it could have been a temptation to someone, which she would have understood and forgiven, but then she, too, would have been poor."
"There are such things as banks," he pointed out grimly.
"Yes, and some of it was in the bank, enough for the expenses of running the house—your father inherited that, too. But she grew up in the Depression, Andrew. Banks failed, and besides," she added with a smile, "she was a Romantic, and part of her never ceased being a gypsy."
"And gypsies bury money?"
"Bury it or wear it sewed in their clothes—gold coins, of course, because they're portable, easily smuggled between countries and over borders, and certainly they lived precarious lives for centuries, not to mention the nearly million of them in Europe the Nazis shipped off to concentration camps to die. But I bear news, Andrew, I hear from Artemus that you had a great deal of excitement today?"
"And yesterday, but what's the news?"
"Artemus heard it within the hour, told Manuel, and Linda came running to tell me. The police have arrested Calvin Merkle in Pittsville, and they hope to arrest the others soon. It happened two hours ago."
"Well, they did their best to kill our burglar, so I'm glad for him."
Pausing at the porch, she said, "Not coming in?"
"I'm to pick four tomatoes. Told them about our visit to the power company and I'm afraid they'll keep thanking me."
"And your father?" she asked. "Has anything been heard yet from him? I assume he knows by now that he no longer owns Thale's Folly and never did."
Andrew felt a familiar tightening of unease. He said with feeling, "I really dread his reaction. When any cars arrive here—and traffic's been heavy today—I expect it to be him. Of course he'll be furious."
She smiled, and he thought how healthy and competent she looked, standing at the door. "I may have to come out of the closet," she said lightly. "Make an appearance to remind him about blood pressure, ulcers, and hypertension." She thought about it, shrugged, and went inside, leaving Andrew to sit among the tomato plants contemplating the various events of the day—but mostly Tarragon—and to pick four tomatoes.
Late that night Miss L’Hommedieu walked into Andrew's room to accost him. "Well, Andrew?" she demanded, "why are you doing this for us?"
He would have preferred to be flippant, to point out that since he was going to join them at Thale's Folly for a year he preferred hot water, an indoor bathroom and central heating, but while this would have neatly concealed his tenderer feelings it would only insult her.
He said honestly, "Because I can learn more living with all of you for a year than I could possibly learn in New York. Because you all make me feel part of a family . ., because I've discovered a mother again, living just across the pond. And because—" He hesitated.
"Because?" she said sharply.
He said ruefully, "Because there is one unalterable and indisputable fact that I've been learning all week: I love Tarragon."
Abruptly he sat down on the edge of his bed, burdened by the need to find words. "But I don't trust myself yet," he said, looking up at her. "I've lost my book writing, I've lost my job at Meredith Machines—"
Surrendering at last to flippancy, he added, "But it would be a hell of a long trip every weekend from New York to see her. . , the traffic's murder on weekends."
"Ah," murmured Miss L’Hommedieu, nodding, and with regal grace, looking satisfied and very pleased, she left him, closing the door behind her.
Saturday
11
[Basil,] being applied to the place bitten by venomous beasts,.., it speedily draws the poison to it; Every like draws its like . .. Hilarius, a French physician, affirms upon his own knowledge, that an acquaintance of his, by common smelling to it, had a scorpion breed in his brain.
—Nicholas Culpeper, The Complete Herball, 1616
When Andrew came downstairs Tarragon was alone in the kitchen, seated quietly at the long table with her hands folded and her face thoughtful. Glancing up she said, "There was a—a sort of conference last night while you were out looking for Mr. Branowski."
He said quickly, "I didn't find him."
She nodded. "Nobody has found him. The conference was not exactly a happy one," she said. "They've decided to fully accept the fact there'll be no money to keep the woods and the pond." She added politely, "You've made it easier
for them to accept this, Andrew, and they'd like you to know this .. , that at least they'll be comfortable now, with heat and light."
"But comfort," he said, "is small comfort for the loss of the woods and the pond." He sat down across the table from her. "No wonder you look sad," and considerably humbled he said, "Look here, I need to say I'm sorry, Tarragon, about what I so clumsily said yesterday. It isn't true, either, because you have experience in the one thing I know least about. And the most important."
She frowned. "What's that?"
"Love," he said. "You live with it, whereas I grew up full of anger and resentment and missed that." He reached out his hand. "Friends again?"
"Of course," she said, "but you do seem inarticulate at times."
"I write better than I talk," he told her. "It's why I write . . , or used to."
She laughed and reached across the table and grasped his hand, and then, "Tea," she said, releasing it and jumping up.
"Chamomile?"
"No, Saint John's Wort. It was an ancient belief that Saint John's Wort was so obnoxious to evil spirits that a whiff of it would cause them to fly away."
"We have evil spirits?" he quipped.
She didn't smile. "There's more," she said. "Your mother's just left, she came to tell me that everyone's worried now about Mr. Branowski. On his mail deliveries Artemus has been asking everyone if they've seen him, and he seems to have just disappeared. Your mother came to say that Manuel's wife Linda is going to begin calling hospitals this morning."
Andrew frowned. "But his knapsack still hangs from his tree?"
She nodded. "Untouched."
"You said he drinks," he pointed out.
"He's what Manuel calls a binge drinker. Remarkably sober for weeks and then a binge, but always in Tottsville, where people can find him. Yet nobody's seen him, drunk or sober, since Wednesday. He could have been hit by a car, or have had a heart attack and be lying somewhere in the woods."
"But you've searched the woods," he said.
"Every day, but there are other woods." She sighed. "He's such a dear old man, even the summer children are fond of him. Manuel swears he chose the kind of life he lives, just got fed up and took to the road."
"Where does he go when he leaves Tottsville?"
"He always leaves the first of September, like clockwork. We think he heads to Georgia for the winter. Linda likes to think he has a son or daughter there, or grandchildren, or someone. But no one knows."
Andrew said, "I was going to take the metal detector back to Pittsville this morning, but if I can help—"
"You might as well go, you don't even know what he looks like, except from the rear," she reminded him. "Manuel's garage is closed on Saturdays—"
"I know," he said with a smile, "I arrived on a Saturday." Only a week ago, he thought, and shook his head at how preposterous that felt now.
"—and he's rounding up some eager teenagers to search. Tottsville has two other ponds back in the woods where the summer people live. And lots of woods."
"Then I won't volunteer," he admitted. "Especially since there's a bank in Pittsville that's open for three hours on Saturday and I need to cash a check. Need anything from town?"
"Only Mr. Branowski," she said ruefully.
With a glance at his watch, "I'll have breakfast in town. If I hurry I can catch the seven forty-five bus and be back to help later." He resisted a longing to kiss her good-bye; the electricity between them when he'd kissed her yesterday had been exhilarating but unnerving in its intensity.
On his way down the path Andrew stopped a minute to check Mr. Branowski's knapsack and bedroll, but nothing had been added or removed. After reaching the pond he took the shortcut to the highway, carrying the metal detector first in one hand and then the other; he was relieved when he could place it beside him on the bus.
Pittsville was a pleasant town, with elm-shaded streets and a town square with a lofty monument occupying its center. He returned the metal detector, produced enough identification to cash his check at the bank, and found Dina's Boutique just off the square, amused to see that one of his mother's very handsome sweaters was still displayed in its window. She had told him that Dina was in need of an assistant, preferably a man, and although he didn't go in, he could see Dina through the window: a plump, comfortable-looking woman with bright red hair. She looked easy to work with . ., a possibility, but nevertheless he bought a Pittsville newspaper for its want ads before climbing on the bus again.
Miss L’Hommedieu was seated in her usual chair on the porch when he returned. "Well, Andrew," she said kindly, "you missed the morning mail delivery. We received a card notifying us that our electricity is to be restored late Tuesday afternoon."
"Great! No termites, then. Do we run a contest for who gets the first bath?"
She bowed graciously. "We believe that you should have that honor, since it is your gift to us."
He bowed in turn. "I defer to you, Miss L’Hommedieu."
"I confess it will be exciting," she admitted. "Almost as exciting as the arrival of the Stephanovitches."
Startled, he said, "The who?"
"The gypsies. They should be here soon for two or three nights."
"From where?" he asked. "And where do they go?"
"They head north," said Miss L'Hommedieu, "and who knows where they come from in July, but in the winter Drushano and his brothers play music in restaurants. In New York City."
"Gorgeous music," said Tarragon eagerly, walking out of the kitchen. "Gypsy music—Rumanian—wait till you hear it! And during the winter Zilka and Tekla and the other women collect clothes, fascinating old clothes and jewelry—vintage stuff—for the summer, when they travel. They take booths at state fairs, or rent space at big flea markets to sell what they've collected, but every year in late July they start north for a big reunion with other members of the family on August first. New York state's just over the mountains"—Tarragon nodded westward—"and they meet at a campground somewhere in northern New York state where the owners are friendly . . , not being welcome everywhere," she added.
"Because they're gypsies?" said Andrew.
"Only when people realize they're gypsies. That's how Miss Thale met them . . , tell him, Miss L’Hommedieu."
Miss L'Hommedieu graciously obliged. "The police in Pittsville—this was many years ago—arrested them for camping south of the town. When Harriet heard of this she was most indignant, drove at once to the police station, where she interviewed the Stephanovitches, and then told the police they must come here to pitch on her land."
"Pitch tents?"
Tarragon laughed. "Pitch is just a word. Now they come in motor homes—four last year—and even have cordless telephones in them. And no, they don't steal," she said, seeing Andrew's face. "Why should they? You'll see!"
"Gold coins?" he said dryly.
"Lots. Earrings, necklaces . .."
Miss L’Hommedieu smiled her ironic smile. "Most interesting people. Gadjakani once confided to me that in the early thirties, when the government ordered all American gold coins and bullion to be turned in for dollars—paper money to them—his father simply found a way to trade their American coins for Mexican gold pesos. One must," she said meditatively, "admire such ingenuity."
"I think they're going to interest me very much, especially since one of them witnessed my aunt's will," Andrew said, smiling. "And any sign of Mr. Branowski yet?"
She shook her head. "Your mother and Linda and I combed these woods all morning, even Bald Hill. We're going to let the others deal with the woods across the road now. I came back to go fishing so we can have trout tonight. Care to come?"
"Love to," he said.
"There's a sandwich for you in the kitchen," she told him. "I'll dig some worms while you have lunch." And picking up a bucket and trowel, she was gone.
Miss L’Hommedieu's story that evening seemed to match the ominous sounds of thunder and the flashes of lightning as a storm violently cooled and cleared the
heat of the day.
" 'I dreamed that night of Elizabeth,' " she began, " 'and she was laughing. She had just stepped off the stage, it was the night they were performing Lady Windermere's Fan, and as she made her exit a shadow dimmed her face, her laughter dying, and she reached out her arms to me, but I was helpless. She looked at me with terror, as if she knew she was about to die—and then I woke, shivering.' "
There was an unhappy silence and then, "I hope," said Gussie in her practical voice, "that wherever Mr. Branowski may be, he has a roof over his head tonight."
Sunday
12
The root [of the Comfrey] boiled in water or wine and the decoction drank, heals inward hurts, bruises, wounds and ulcers.. . . The roots being outwardly applied cure; fresh wounds or cuts immediately .., for broken bones, so powerful.., to .., knit together.., it will join them together again.
—Nicholas Culpeper, The Complete Herball, 1616
After helping Leo pick huge leaves of comfrey in the morning, to be tied in clusters and hung to dry from the parlor ceiling, Andrew chose a book to read from Leo's well-stocked bookshelves and removed himself to the shade of the tree on which the birds perched to wake him each day. All of Leo's books were old and well thumbed. Andrew, avoiding those on unions, labor, politics, and philosophy, had brought with him Christopher Morley's Parnassus on Wheels, which he soon found delightful in spite of being unaccustomed to reading novels written eighty years ago. Presently, sensing movement in a landscape empty of human beings, he glanced up to see his mother emerging from the path carrying a basket.
"I've come with four eggs to swap for mint from the garden," she told him.
"Any news on Mr. Branowski? You said Linda was going to try the hospitals."
"She did. No Mr. Branowski. And Artemus has checked out all the summer people but one: new people, renters with a house in Pittsville that caught fire, so they've decamped to deal with the damage, but they'll be back."
They walked together toward the house, his mother giving him a few quick furtive glances that led him to ask what was wrong.
She smiled. "Just admiring you, Andrew. You've already acquired a tan, and you've surely lost a few pounds—"
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