The House on Primrose Pond

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  But when Susannah got upstairs to the space designated for the meeting, she saw that every single wooden folding chair that had been set up was occupied. She recognized the manager from the supermarket, Gilda Mooney’s parents, Alice Renfew, and a few other people she’d seen in town. Draping her parka over her arm, she resigned herself to standing. Janet was also standing, though not close enough for Susannah to talk to her. A lectern had been set up by the windows, outside of which the dark night sky could be seen. It was only six thirty, but every last trace of daylight was gone.

  “Here, you can take one and pass the rest down.” Susannah turned to see a woman handing out stapled packets of material. Taking the one on top, she passed along the rest of the stack and began to read. There was a statement from the Wingate Paper Company claiming the dyes posed no environmental threat, along with statements from a local environmentalist who opposed the dumping. Several xeroxed newspaper articles were also in the packet, and at the end there were photographs of the pond’s shore, bright with clusters of foamy pink bubbles.

  Susannah looked up. While she’d been reading, more people had filed into the room and were trying to find places to stand. Janet had mentioned that a local politician, Brad Bollender, was scheduled to attend and he was now standing near the lectern, adjusting his tie and speaking rapidly to an assistant. It was twenty to seven now; when would the meeting get started? Jack was at Gilda’s, but Cally was home alone. Even though Cally claimed not to mind, Susannah didn’t like leaving her alone for too long; she was worried about what trouble she might get into.

  Then Corbin Bailey marched over to the lectern, breaking stride only briefly to shake Brad Bollender’s hand. Susannah’s lips parted involuntarily. Dressed in pressed black jeans, a white shirt, and a moss green sweater vest, he moved like a leader—swift, sure, and full of purpose. And when he turned his strong blue gaze on the audience, they seemed to feel it too; an appreciative murmur arose from the crowd.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he began. “It’s great to see how many of you turned out tonight, because it confirms my belief”—he looked out at the room—“my deeply held belief that it’s the small things, the things closest to our lives and hearts, that are the most important of all. And why? Because they help us to see the bigger issues and connect us not just to people we know, but to people everywhere. Yes, tonight we’re here to talk about Primrose Pond, and to tell the folks at Wingate Paper that we don’t want their dyes in our water. But Primrose Pond is just the start, and if we can succeed here, we can succeed other places too—Portsmouth, Maine, all over the Eastern seacoast, all over the country and even the world. Water contamination is a major issue that ultimately includes the ocean and all the marine life in it—fish, coral reefs, that whole fragile and perilous ecosystem under the surface.”

  Susannah sat very still watching him. He spoke well, and he seemed to be trying to make eye contact with the audience; when that dark blue gaze locked on hers, she felt a distinct and immediate connection. This was followed instantly by guilt. Yes, she was caught up in the rhetoric of Corbin’s words, and she wanted to do what she could to stop Wingate from polluting the tranquil pond she remembered from her youth. But she was also responding to Corbin on some primal, sexual level—she remembered that from her youth too.

  Up at the lectern, Corbin had asked for the lights to be dimmed while he showed a PowerPoint presentation that featured images of Wingate’s factory spewing indigo-colored waste—if she hadn’t known what it was and what it represented, she would have thought it pretty—into a nearby river, a river that ultimately fed into Primrose Pond.

  “Excuse me, where did you get those pictures? You weren’t authorized to photograph on our property!” A heavyset man with a blond crew cut stood up and began walking toward Corbin. “Turn that thing off. Turn it off right now!”

  “Hey, we have a right to see those pictures! It’s our pond that you’re polluting!” This was shouted out by another man who sat very close to the front.

  The blond man turned around. “Not if they were taken without permission. That’s trespassing, pure and simple. And it’s against the law!”

  “If there’s anyone breaking the law here, it’s you guys. Filling the pond with your industrial waste, your chemical spew. You’re the lawbreaker here. You’re the criminal.” The man was on his feet now and, though he was not large, he looked menacing—and ready to snap.

  “Guys, can we dial it down a notch?” Corbin spoke up, seemingly unfazed, from his place at the lectern. To the blond guy he said, “I have it on good authority that the person who took those pictures was given permission by someone at your company headquarters; if you can wait until we finish here, I can get you the name.” And to the man’s antagonist he said, “Look, Bob, I know how upset you are over this—we’re all upset, or we wouldn’t be here. But we can work this out in an amicable way.” He paused, looking from one angry man to the other. “Let me finish the presentation. Then we’ll be hearing from Brad Bollender and after that from the Wingate representative.” He gestured to the blond man, who remained where he stood. “Everybody deserves a say, right? Everybody has a right to be heard.”

  The man shuffled back to his seat and Bob sat back down. Corbin continued his presentation and was followed by Brad Bollender, then Greg Hartsdale, the representative from Wingate. There was a slew of questions, and a couple of times the tension in the room began to rise again. But every time it did, Corbin managed to defuse it.

  At the end of the meeting, Corbin produced a petition that began to circulate. “Let’s show our elected officials in Concord how we feel about the dumping,” Corbin said. “And let’s set an example for the citizens of this state.” Susannah watched as the petition made its way from lap to lap, hand to hand. Once they signed, people got up and began moving toward the stairs. When it was her turn, she signed, passed the petition to the person next to her, and joined them. Janet caught up with her when they were both downstairs and standing near the door, now open because the room was so overheated. Susannah stepped outside, savoring the chill of the February night for a few seconds before slipping on her parka.

  “Corbin’s an effective speaker, isn’t he?” Janet said. Susannah nodded, not wanting to say anything that might reveal her own private response to Corbin. “But that may not be enough. The issue may make it all the way to the governor’s office, and everyone says that Wingate’s CEO has the governor in his pocket.”

  “So none of this”—Susannah gestured to the people making their way out of the library, heading for their cars or vans—“will make any difference?”

  “That remains to be seen,” Janet said. Then she turned. “Look, there’s Todd Rettler. You remember him from our lunch?”

  “Of course.” This made Susannah think of the other man at the lunch—she hadn’t yet ruled George Martin out as her mother’s lover. Had he been here tonight? Susannah had not seen him. While she was scanning the people still milling around, Corbin came up to them.

  “You spoke so well,” said Janet. “And I liked the way you handled those two men who faced off—I really thought one of them was going to throw a punch.”

  “Me too.” Corbin brought a hand up to the back of his neck and began to massage it. Susannah noted the gesture; had the tension in the room affected him more than he let on?

  “Well, you got them both to settle down and listen.”

  Susannah agreed; he’d really managed the situation so well. But instead of complimenting him, she stood there fiddling with the zipper on her bag. He made her nervous, that was it. Then Corbin turned to Janet. “Did Susannah tell you that we two go way back? She used to date my brother.”

  “Really? You and Trevor were an item?” asked Janet.

  “It was only that one summer when I was here with my family. I don’t think we wrote or ever got in touch again after September rolled around.”

  “Well, T
revor was crushed when you left. He talked about you all the time.”

  Susannah felt herself going warm, and no doubt pink, from embarrassment. By the end of that summer, Trevor had become about as interesting to her as a brick. “How is Trevor? He’s not still in town, is he?”

  “No, he cleared out a long time ago. He went to school in Gainesville and decided to stay in Florida. Said he didn’t care if he ever saw snow again in his entire life. He’s in real estate now, and he’s doing really well.”

  “Did he get married?” Janet asked. “I thought I heard something about that.”

  “He did, though it took him a long time to get over Susannah.” Corbin winked. Was he teasing her? If so, she wished he would stop.

  Someone from the meeting came up to him, and they were joined by another person and then another. She was glad to step back and watch him. How intently he listened and how patiently he explained. Clearly these people looked up to him and wanted more of his time, so Susannah said good night to Janet and headed for her car.

  Then she heard her name and she turned. Corbin walked over. “A bunch of us are going over to Talley’s. Do you want to come?” She must have looked blank, because he added, “It’s a place on Route 4 that’s pretty popular with us locals. You can get a bite to eat if you’re hungry and they’ve always got something good on tap.”

  Susannah hated beer but she was hungry. “That sounds good,” she said. “Just let me call my daughter.” When Cally picked up, Susannah could instantly tell she was not alone. She could not have said how she knew this, but there was something about the timbre of Cally’s voice, an uncharacteristic buoyancy, that let Susannah know she was with someone. But whom?

  “Where are you?” Susannah asked.

  “With Alice Renfew. She invited me to dinner. Isn’t that the coolest?”

  “She did?” Susannah tried to process this information, but it was not computing. Cally was having dinner with Alice? How had this happened?

  “Uh-huh. I was over at her barn visiting Jester and she came out and invited me. She’s a fantastic cook, Mom! We had French onion soup and we’re going to have some kind of vegetable dish and garlic bread too.”

  Susannah said nothing. Why did this dinner invitation bother her? She ought to feel grateful to her neighbor and glad that Cally was with a responsible older adult instead of some hard-drinking slackers. But instead she was irritated and, yes, jealous. Cally did not seem to notice her silence but chattered on about Alice’s house, Alice’s clothes—Corbin was still standing there, waiting for her to make up her mind. “Well, that’s very nice of her. Be sure to thank her, okay?”

  “Okay, Mom. Anyway, I should go now.”

  Susannah put the phone away in her bag. “It’s fine,” she said to Corbin.

  “Good,” he said. “You can follow me in your car.”

  • • •

  Talley’s was only a few miles away and Susannah liked the place as soon as she walked in. High up on the walls were small windows whose curtains were strewn with pictures of riders, horses, and hounds, and hanging from the ceiling was a chandelier made from a wagon wheel. A popcorn maker sat on the bar’s polished wood surface and overflowing bowls of popcorn had been strategically placed along its length. There were enough people to make the bar seem festive, but not enough to make it raucous. And she recognized several faces—people from the meeting and also George Martin. When he caught sight of her, he raised his glass, but Corbin was steering her toward the back, so she just waved. Maybe she’d get to talk to him later.

  The back room was smaller, with tables covered in checkered oilcloth and lit by candles in hurricane lamps. Somehow the other people who’d been tagging along melted away and Susannah found herself seated across from Corbin, two plastic-coated menus placed in front of them. She felt awkward, and not entirely sure she wanted to be here. Yes, she was attracted to him. But it was too soon after Charlie, she wasn’t ready, and she—

  “Listen, I want to apologize to you.”

  “You want to apologize to me? For what?”

  “Teasing you about Trevor. It makes you uncomfortable and I should take a hint. I’m going to cut it out right now.” He reached into the bowl on the table for a handful of popcorn. “Forgive me?”

  “Forgiven,” she said, studying him. “Anyway, it was a long time ago.”

  “I know. But I’ll tell you a secret. I kind of envied him.”

  “You did?” She was flushing again; the tips of her ears were hot and her face felt singed, as if she’d been standing too close to an oven.

  “I mean, I couldn’t have done anything about it then. He was my brother and all. But I remember wishing I’d seen you first.”

  A waitress appeared, sparing her the need to reply. She ordered a slice of quiche and he ordered a burger and a Coke. Then a man who’d been at the meeting came over to talk to Corbin, and Susannah could retreat into herself for a moment. So Corbin Bailey wished he had been dating her that summer. Who knew?

  “Sorry about that,” he said when the man walked away. “But technically, I’m still on the job.” He smiled, gaze steady on her.

  “You work hard,” she said.

  “It’s something worth doing. I’ve lived here a long time—pretty much my whole life, except for the four years I was in Durham, at UNH—and I think the people here are basically good people, people who will do the right thing if they understand what the right thing is.”

  “What about the people at Wingate? And the governor? Janet says those two are pretty tight.” She was glad the subject had been changed—much safer and easier to talk about the present than to delve into the past.

  “Dumping that waste may be good for Wingate in the short term. It’s easy, it’s cheap, and it’s what they’ve always done. But in the long term—no. Public opinion has shifted; people are more critical of companies that pollute and don’t give a damn. If they don’t clean up their act, they may feel the impact down the road; new contracts won’t be offered, and business may dry up.” He picked up his glass of Coke and raised it. “To doing the right thing,” he said, and touched the rim of the glass to hers. “May it become contagious.”

  Now Susannah smiled. He made it sound so easy.

  “Anyway, apart from community meetings and the environmental impact of the local paper industry, how are you liking your life in town? It’s been a long time since you’d been back, hasn’t it?”

  “I’d never been back,” Susannah said. “My parents moved, and then they died. Someone else came in to clear out the house, and a friend of my mother’s took care of renting it out.”

  “I remember your dad,” Corbin said. “He was always involved in some project with the house and he’d come into the store to buy stuff. Your mom—not so much. Though there was this one time when I helped him out to the car with his bags and your mom—she was a real beauty, I do remember that—was sitting in the car waiting. She was staring straight ahead, not looking at your dad, not even when he opened the door and got in. I thought she seemed . . . angry.”

  “She was angry a lot that summer,” Susannah said. “Also sad—she was always dissolving into tears.” Their food arrived, and again she was grateful for the reprieve; talking with him seemed to lure her to a place that was filled with land mines.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes and then Susannah asked, “What about you? Do you like living here? Was this what you planned for yourself?”

  “Planned? Not exactly.” He contemplated his soda before taking a sip. “I worked my butt off in school; I was really driven, really committed. I graduated summa cum laude, made the dean’s list, was given departmental honors—you name it. I was accepted to law school at Emory; they even kicked in with money. But then the summer after my first year, my dad had a stroke and my mom needed help to keep the store going.”

  “What about Trevor? And don’t you ha
ve a sister?”

  He nodded. “Trevor was gone by then and Annemarie was in Toronto—she married a Canadian guy—so it was up to me. I told myself it was just temporary; I’d take a leave but go back the next year. It didn’t happen like that, though.”

  “No?”

  “He lingered for almost a year. It was awful. Then he died. My mom was so broken up I couldn’t leave her. Emory was so far. I figured I’d reapply to other schools closer by. My grades were good. Some place would have accepted me. But that didn’t happen either.”

  “So you gave up your dream?”

  “It wasn’t like that. Not really. I found I liked running the store. And I was good at it too—business has improved since I took over. Plus, I got to be involved in local causes that matter to me. Even if it’s not the life I planned—or hoped for.” He sounded—disappointed? resigned? Susannah was not sure which. “So what about you? What kind of work do you do?”

  “I’m a writer,” she said.

  “You write newspaper and magazines articles?” He sounded interested.

  “Novels,” she corrected. “Historical, often, though not always, with a romantic undercurrent.”

  He nodded. “A blend of fact and fiction, right? What’s the ratio?”

  “That depends on the subject.” She positioned her fork across her now empty plate.

  “Who’s your subject now?” asked Corbin.

  “Good question. I was working on Jane Seymour—she was the third wife of Henry VIII—only I lost interest along the way. I wanted to do something different, something involving someone local, actually. I’d been researching this Portsmouth woman named Ruth Blay, who was the last woman hanged in New Hampshire, only my editor’s not convinced it’s going to work.”

  “Oh, yeah—Alice Renfew mentioned that.”

  “She did?” This really was a small town.

  “The other day at the store. My mom was really into her too. She had this thing for local history, and even organized a little group that took day trips and read books together. So I remember hearing about Ruth Blay. Some woman who’d written a book about her came to speak at the library and—”