“Megan.”
“Is she a friend from school?”
“Not exactly. She graduated already and she works in town.”
“Then she must be at least eighteen.” This so-called friend was looking less attractive by the minute.
“So?”
“So? She’s older, she’s not in college, and clearly she drinks—she doesn’t seem like a good influence, Cally. Not a good influence at all.”
“Oh? So who’s a good influence in Mudport? The dumb jocks at school? The trampy girls with their boobs on display? Or how about the rest of the mindless, soul-zapped sheep that populate the hallways? Are they good influences, Mom? Are they?” Her voice had scaled up considerably and by the end of her tirade she was practically shouting.
Susannah did not know how to respond. She felt that she was losing her purchase as this girl’s parent. Glancing around the room, she desperately searched for something—anything—that would restore her sense of authority. Her gaze settled randomly on the Doc Martens; there was something stuck to the bottom of one; it looked like hay. Bending down, Susannah detected the distinct odor of horse manure. Where had Cally been? “What’s on your boot?” she asked.
“What are you talking about?”
Instead of replying, Susannah picked up the boot to examine the bottom more closely. Sure enough, there was manure caked around the sole; it had acted as glue for the bits of hay. “This.”
Cally leaned over to look. “Oh, that. It must be from Jester.”
“Jester?”
“He’s a horse. He lives in a barn behind that green house. The one Alice lives in. She owns him and she said I could see him whenever I want. So that’s what I’ve been doing. And in the spring, I’m going to get to ride him.”
“You’ve met Alice Renfew?”
“Do you know her? She’s really great. I like her so much.”
“So you’ve been visiting Alice Renfew and getting to know her horse?”
Cally’s anger of a few minutes before was gone, replaced now with a kind of mild, almost indulgent exasperation. “Yes, Mom. I just explained all this.” And when Susannah didn’t say anything, she added, “Can I get back to my homework now? I’ve got a history paper that’s due tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Susannah left the room and closed the door behind her. The conversation had certainly taken a weird turn; Cally had gone from surly to smiling in a matter of minutes.
Worse, Susannah had just been dismissed by a slightly intoxicated teenager—and had not offered a single word of protest.
TWELVE
As soon as Alice got Emma into the car, the dog began trembling. They were on their way to see Dr. D’Arco, who had very kindly agreed to squeeze her into the schedule, even though she did not have an appointment. Emma’s slight wheezing, which had started yesterday, had gotten worse overnight and Alice was worried. Dr. D’Arco was as deft and gentle as any vet in the state; he had two chocolate brown standard poodles of his own, and he really knew the breed. Yet whenever they drove to Epsom, this was how Emma reacted. “It’s all right,” she told the dog. “Everything is all right.” And despite the frigid day, she cracked the window so Emma could angle her long, tapering snout toward the opening and inhale the enticing smells of the world.
Once they’d reached the vet’s office—a small white house just off the main road—Emma hung back, reluctant to come out even when Alice offered her a biscuit. Finally Alice had to reach and nudge the dog from her seat; with an offended glance at her mistress, Emma jumped down. The wheeze intensified.
Corinne, who functioned as both receptionist and groomer, looked up when they came in. “Someone’s all congested,” she said.
“It does sound pretty bad,” said Alice. “Like she’s struggling for breath.”
“Poor girl.” Corinne patted Emma’s shaggy head. “Dr. D’Arco will make it all better.”
“I hope so,” said Alice. Emma was eight, not a young dog. Who knew what that wheeze might signify?
“You just let him do his job. And if she’s up to it afterward, I’ll bathe and cut her.”
“Thank you, Corinne.” She started moving toward the door and Emma tried to follow.
“She’ll be fine.” Corinne took the leash and held it firmly. “You can go and we’ll call you.”
Alice turned away; she did not want to see the mute appeal that would undoubtedly be visible in Emma’s eyes. Then she left the office, got back in the car, and drove off. What if Emma had some serious condition? The wheezing might indicate a heart problem. Alice’s own heart accelerated at the thought. Even though she knew it was likely that she would outlive the dog, the thought of losing her now felt close to unbearable.
She was grateful she had errands to do. If she stayed at home, she’d have nothing to distract her. After she’d been driving for a few minutes, the windshield grew speckled with moisture. Rain. Or, more accurately, sleet. She turned the wipers on and slowed down; the road already felt slippery. When she pulled into the parking lot behind Bailey’s hardware store, she saw that it was almost empty. Yet as soon as she’d gone inside and put the six-pack of lightbulbs in her cart, she ran into someone she knew: Janet Durbin.
“Good to see you!” Alice said. “Today the library opens at one o’clock, right?”
“Right. Winter hours.” Janet was buying birdseed, duct tape, and a fat roll of insulation.
“How is that working out?” Alice was on the board of the library, so these details were important to her.
“It’s fine. It might be smart to cut back even more; that way, we’ll have more money in the budget in July and August.”
“Attendance is always up then; all those summer people from Boston and New York.”
“I was hoping we could implement more evening hours in the summer,” Janet said. “I’d love to expand the author talks. And maybe add another book club. We have one that meets on Thursday afternoons, but I think we could use one at night too.”
“There’s a board meeting later this month,” said Alice. “I’ll bring it up.” She put a package of sponges in her cart. Though she could have bought them at the supermarket, she liked to patronize Bailey’s; all three of the Bailey children had been patients of Dave’s back in the day.
She had already turned away when Janet added, “Have you met your new neighbor, Susannah Gilmore?”
Alice swiveled back around. So Janet knew Susannah? Interesting. “Yes, actually. I’ve run into her on the pond.”
“Very nice woman. I told her I knew her parents.”
“Yes, I knew them too. At least, I knew the mother. Her father was less . . . outgoing.”
“Did you know that Susannah writes historical novels and is working on one about Ruth Blay?”
“Ruth Blay . . . I’ve heard the name but can’t remember in what context.”
“She was the last woman hanged in the state of New Hampshire. People said she killed her baby, but that was never proved.”
“And they hanged her anyway?”
“For concealment of an illegitimate child. That was a capital offense too.”
“Gruesome.” Alice wondered what drew Susannah to such a grim topic. Surely there were more uplifting events about which she could have written.
“Extremely.” Janet, who, it had to be said, was more than a little overweight, unzipped her jacket. Well, the store was quite toasty and people with more meat on their bones were apt to feel it more keenly. “But history is filled with gruesome chapters and it’s important that they get told. I’m eager to see what she does with it; I said I’d help her in any way I could.”
“And I’m sure you will, Janet. The library—and the town—are lucky to have you.” Privately, she thought Janet a bit dogged and unimaginative, but she did admire her work ethic and her devotion to her job.
Alice continued down the ais
le, plucking an item here and there for her basket. Down at the far end of the store and talking on a cell phone stood Corbin Bailey. He wore a red apron over his jeans and sweater; red was a good color for him. Only men with a certain confidence could wear red well. Corbin was one of them.
Corbin must have finished his call, because he put the phone in the apron pocket. “How are you, Mrs. Renfew?” He smiled as he came toward her. “Finding everything you need today?”
“Yes, I’m finding everything,” she said. “But please call me Alice,” she said.
“Alice.” His smile widened. “Old habits die hard. I’ll always think of you as the doctor’s wife.”
“It’s how I think of myself, even after all this time.”
“Your late husband—he was a great guy. He had a real way with kids.”
“He did, didn’t he?” Too bad he never had any of his own.
“We’ve got a sale on all holiday items—seventy-five percent off. That includes wreathes, ornaments, artificial trees—”
“I would never, ever have an artificial tree,” she said. “Would you?”
“I suppose not, though I haven’t put up a tree since my mother died. But there are plenty of people who like them just the same. They get the feeling of Christmas without all the hassle.”
“Sometimes the hassle, as you call it, is a key part of the pleasure. Anyway, I miss your mother. Since she died, that local history club died with her.” That was where she’d heard Ruth Blay’s name—from Millicent Bailey; she’d just pieced it together.
“Maybe someone will start it up again. I kind of hope they do.”
“What about Susannah Gilmore?”
“What about her?”
Did something in his face change, or was Alice imagining it? That was part of why she had wanted to stop in here today, wasn’t it? Whether she’d admitted it to herself or not, she’d come to gather information about Susannah, because Susannah was Calista’s mother.
“She’s my new neighbor and she’s been looking into our local history. Janet Durbin was telling me about her latest project. She wants to write about Ruth Blay.” Even though just a few minutes ago she could not even recall where she’d heard the name or why, now she spoke it with great authority, as if she was familiar with the story.
“My mother was interested in Ruth Blay,” Corbin said. “There was a library talk with the author of some book about her. My mother was very excited and insisted on having everyone over for a luncheon afterward. She prepared for days.”
“Yes, I remember that now.” And she did. “But I didn’t end up going; Dave and I had a trip planned or something.” She studied Corbin’s face for clues. “Anyway, you might want to get to know her.”
“I’m sure I’ll bump into her at the store or in town.”
Alice wondered if they had met already, but before she could ask, his phone rang. He gave her an apologetic smile as he answered it. Alice took her purchases to the register, where Tiffany, the soigné cashier, rang them up.
The sleet was coming down a little harder now and it was slow going on the road. Without Emma, the house felt empty and even mournful; she called Corinne, but Dr. D’Arco was in with Emma now. “I’ll call you as soon as we have something concrete to report,” said Corrine.
Alice tried to suppress her anxiety, but she was restless and ate her slice of toasted cheese standing up. Then she made a cup of tea that she drank so quickly she scalded her tongue. She put her coat back on and, ignoring the stinging needles of sleet, got into the car. Had she been going anywhere else, she might have postponed her trip and endured the gloomy emptiness. But she was on her way to see Evangeline Toms, and she did not want to disappoint her.
Evangeline lived at the other end of town in a three-story gray clapboard house with eyebrow dormers and three disintegrating stone steps that led up to the weathered front door. It was too big for a single occupant, but Evangeline was adamant about staying put. Alice was part of a local network of women who brought meals to shut-ins like Evangeline. It was worthy work, but altruism was not the only reason Alice spent a day bustling about her kitchen preparing a stew or casserole, baking a loaf of date nut bread or a coffee cake to bring with her. One of her best friends had died in the fall and two others had had their fill of New Hampshire winters and moved away. She was lonely, and cantankerous though Evangeline was, she helped fill the void.
“Hello?” Alice let herself in. “Evangeline?” She didn’t hear anything and the silence felt ominous.
“I’m in here. Where else would I be?” Evangeline’s cranky voice called back.
Relieved, Alice left the parcels of food—today it was baked chicken with saffron rice, string beans, and coconut pudding—on the table and walked into the living room. It was dim and crowded, not only with lamps, crystal pitchers, silver candlesticks, and other bric-a-brac, but also with newspapers, stacks of mail, and shopping bags that held nothing but more folded or crumpled shopping bags. And it smelled bad. Terrible, in fact.
There, in a worn brocade chair and seemingly oblivious to the odor, sat Evangeline. Her white hair was pinned haphazardly on her head and she wore a nubby shawl over what appeared to be a Red Sox sweatshirt. Diamonds glittered on her earlobes. Alice knew that those earrings had been a gift from Evangeline’s father more than seventy years ago; she planned to be buried in them.
“Maybe your daughter would like them,” Alice had ventured. “Or your granddaughter.” Evangeline’s family did not visit often, but, still, they were her flesh and blood.
“No, it will just kill them to see them go into the ground. I only wish I could see their faces as they watch the casket being lowered; they’ll mourn these earrings more than they’ll mourn me.”
“I hardly think that’s likely,” said Alice, surprised by Evangeline’s vehemence.
“Oh, no? That’s because you don’t know them!” She gave Alice an appraising look. “You never had children, did you?”
“No.” Alice tried to keep her voice neutral.
“You’re lucky.” Her fingers crept to the earrings. “Ungrateful, selfish . . .” she muttered. Then her voice got louder. “Screw them all!”
Alice had been shocked by this comment, but as she began to know Evangeline better, she understood such remarks for what they were: a solitary old woman’s bravado.
“What did you bring me today?” Evangeline now asked.
“Chicken with rice.”
“I hate rice,” Evangeline said.
“Then you don’t have to eat it. But I put saffron in it—that gives it a little kick.”
“Saffron!” snorted Evangeline. There was a silence during which Alice wished she could tidy up; it really was a sty in here. But she knew better than to attempt it. “That’s what they use in Indian food, right? I went to an Indian restaurant in Boston once. I liked it.”
“Then you might enjoy the rice. Give it a try.” Alice went back to the kitchen to heat a plate of food in the microwave. The microwave had come from Bailey’s; Corbin had donated it, and several others, to Alice’s network of helpers. Apart from the microwave, everything else in the kitchen was either deteriorating or in wretched taste, like the avocado green appliances and the curtains appliquéd with hideous green and orange flowers. Evangeline had no talent for decorating and clearly never had, but it wasn’t for lack of resources. Alice happened to know that she was well provided for, though it was true she had squandered a lot of her money in the state’s Indian casinos; everyone knew she’d been a gambler.
Evangeline ate heartily, and even asked for a second helping of the rice. Then Alice set up a Scrabble board on a card table—the only surface in the room not completely covered or buried—and they began their weekly game.
Evangeline was still an adept player, and when she placed a seven-letter word, “acquits,” on a triple-word-score square, racking up a whopping
ninety points, she clapped her small, gnarled hands. “I may be old, but I haven’t lost my touch.”
“No, you haven’t.” Alice made her own modest play.
“Dick and I used to play all the time. He was the only one who could beat me.”
“Then he must have been one brilliant player.” Dick was Evangeline’s husband; he had died many years earlier.
“He was . . .” She rearranged her letters in their wooden holder. “I still talk to him. Sometimes I even think he answers.” When Alice did not reply, she added, “Do you talk to your dead husband too?”
“I suppose I do,” said Alice, selecting her next batch of letters. “Though not out loud.”
“Out loud or in your head, it’s all the same. The relationship doesn’t end just because someone dies. And the older you get, the more appealing the dead become. They’re the only ones who understand you.”
“You have a point.” Alice had found herself mentally conversing not just with Dave, but with her long dead parents and more recently deceased friends too. Unlike Evangeline, though, she resisted the pull. She still had plenty to say to the living.
Then Evangeline abruptly dumped all her letters back in the box cover.
“What are you doing?” asked Alice.
“I’m so far ahead you’ll never catch up. Why drag it out?”
“I suppose you’re right.” Alice collapsed the board and sent all the tiles back into the box. Then she helped Evangeline to the bathroom, and afterward got her settled in front of the small flat-screen television that had been her own gift. She covered her knees with a throw made of some awful synthetic stuff and handed the older woman the remote.
“Thank you,” said Evangeline. Her mood had mellowed considerably since Alice had come in. “I’ve got everything I need. I’m fine.”
“Good,” said Alice. “I’ll be back soon.” Next time, she’d bring her a decent blanket and sneak that horrid thing she was wrapped in out with the trash. And maybe she’d manage to get a window open here—air out the place.
The House on Primrose Pond Page 10