“Annie, how are you, sweetie?”
“Better for having you pick up the phone. It’s lonely up here.”
“Lonely?” she teased. “With your sisters and Sam and Omie and all the other people you’ve warned me would be watching what you’re doing?”
Berri had been an outlet for me during moments of doubt prior to my leaving Washington. I had prepared her well—prophetically, actually, given the earlier scene on Oak. People were certainly watching me. Loads of them.
“It’s not the same as meeting you and Amanda for coffee. I feel like I’ve been gone a month.”
“Me, too,” she said. “By the way, we’re all reading Peyton Place.”
“You are? Amanda and Jocelyn, too?”
“All three of us.”
“That’s fabulous,” I said in excitement. I was also touched. My friends were busy women with limited time to read. One book a month was pretty much their limit, and it was usually a current best seller. The only reason they would have chosen Peyton Place was me. That expression of devotion couldn’t have come at a better time. I was definitely suffering from a need to feel loved. “So, what do you think?”
“I like it. I mean, I’m only into the first fifty pages, but she’s a good writer. I didn’t think she would be.”
“Thought it was just a trashy novel?”
“Yes. We’re meeting next week to discuss it.”
“Oh no,” I cried. “Wait’ll I get back!” I wanted to be in on that discussion.
“Preliminaries are next week. Trust me, we won’t have finished it. Amanda’s work schedule is light, but Jocelyn has to have syllabuses ready in two weeks. “Me, I have a diversion, too.” Her voice lowered in excitement. “I met a guy.”
This wasn’t news. Berri was always meeting guys. When I laughed and said that, she said, “I mean, met a guy. His name is John. He is very smart, very handsome, and very cool. He was at the function I ran last night. I’m seeing him Friday night.”
Berri was a professional volunteer. Last night was the Kidney Foundation, if memory stood me well. “What does he do?”
She snorted. “This is Washington, so he’s a lawyer. But he’s not like any other lawyer I’ve met. He has long hair, for one thing. And an earring. And a tattoo.” She tacked on the last with something I can only describe as pride.
“Where’s the tattoo?”
“I don’t know. Obviously, I saw the earring and the hair, but when I went looking for the tattoo, he got all smug. He said he didn’t do that on the first date. I mean, he’s just adorable. And a good person. He does legal work for the foundation pro bono. And he wants kids.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“He said it right off the bat, because there was this impossible child that someone brought to the event, and John was the only one who could get the kid to keep his hands off the hors d’oeuvres. I mean, the child touched every single one on the tray. When I said John was a natural, he said he adores his nieces and nephews and can’t wait to have some of his own. He’s twenty-nine.”
I caught my breath. “A younger man.” Berri was thirty-three, like me. “Oh, Berri, I hope it works for you. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.” And I would. Berri wanted to be married. She wanted the house, the kids, the cars. She wanted love.
But then, didn’t we all?
“How was the tenderloin?” she asked.
“Incredible. The whole meal was incredible. They loved it. That’s one of the reasons I’m calling. I need another meal plan.”
“Who’s this one for?”
“Some of the same people, some different. I want to make something here that I can bring to different houses ready to eat.”
“A one-dish meal?”
“If possible.”
“Give me five. I’ll call you back.”
The phone rang in three. “That was fast,” I said without a hello. “You are such a sweetie. Do you know what it means to me to have someone like you?”
There was a split second’s silence, then a low and amused, “Actually not. Tell me.”
It was James, of course. I would have recognized his voice even if there were dozens of other men calling me here, which there weren’t. Even kept down in volume, his voice was deeper and more resonant than that of most men I knew, and it did the same thing to me as the sight of him did. Chemistry? Big-time.
I would have been lying if I said I wasn’t pleased that he’d called. I was glad, though, that he couldn’t see the flush on my cheeks or hear the thud-thud-thudding in my chest.
What could I do?
I laughed. “Sorry about that. I was just talking with a friend in D.C. and she promised to call me back. Did you hear what happened to me on the way home this morning?”
“I did. Marshall takes his job too seriously sometimes. I assume it’s just a fine.”
“It’s more than that. It’s the principle of the thing. He’s had his eye on me. He’s been waiting. So what’s next?”
“Next is you go down to town hall and pay the fine so that no one can find fault. Then you drive very, very carefully.”
I had been thinking of what Marshall would do next. As for the other, of course, James was right.
He went on, still in that low voice, and it struck me that he was trying to be discreet about the call. “I have a meeting about to start and another one early tomorrow, so running before work is out. Can you make it after work? Say, seven?”
“Sure,” I said with remarkable calm. “Same place as today?”
“If that works for you.”
“It does.”
James’s call had made my day. It gave me something to look forward to, something to plot about as I waited for TrueBlue’s reply. I logged on soon after Berri called back, but there was nothing then, nor when I checked at midday. I checked again when I returned from Harriman’s, and again, later, when the chicken pot pie went into the oven.
Yes, chicken pot pie. Make that pies, plural; there were actually three biggies. But these were no ordinary chicken pot pies. Berri had merged several recipes to come up with what she called a Tuscan chicken pot pie, which contained, among other things, artichoke hearts, black olives, sun-dried tomatoes, and garlic. Had I ever doubted her skill, those doubts would have vanished when the kitchen filled with unbelievably good smells.
The crusts had puffed and turned a warm amber when the timer rang. I took the pies from the oven and put them on the top of the stove, and the smell was even better then.
I checked the time. It was nearly four. Yes, I could drop Sabina’s at the house. But I really wanted to go to the mill. I hadn’t seen it in fifteen years. I was curious.
I opened the lower cabinet, where Mom had always kept the insulated bags she used for toting hot food to church suppers. When they weren’t there, I checked each of the other lower cabinets. I checked the higher cabinets. I checked the pantry.
I could have called Phoebe, but I was trying to leave her alone for the day. I had been in and out of the store Monday and Tuesday. I was tired of running menial errands. I was also tired of seeing Phoebe struggle to hide whatever it was that ailed her, which also raised the issue of whether, given her current state of mind, she would remember whether the insulated bags had been tossed out in the kitchen renovation, or if not, where they were.
I drove back into town. Harriman’s had what I wanted. I bought two. Ignoring the pointed stares of the clerks, I paid for them, returned to my car, and drove home.
Five minutes later, with two of those chicken pot pies duly packed and riding shotgun with me, I approached the mill.
So here we are, at the mouth of the ogre’s cave, I mused. It didn’t look evil, that’s for sure. The entrance was actually lovely. Indeed, the whole place was quite attractive, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me paint the picture of what I saw; it’s what I do well.
The mill complex was located north of town, which, given what we now know about toxicity flowing downstream, was not the
wisest choice. At the time of its founding, though, the roots of the town were already in place, and the land south of those roots lay on solid granite. Hence, by default, the mill was built to the north.
We thought of Benjamin Meade as the founder. That was the story taught in our schools and reinforced during the civics course, when third graders were given a tour of the mill, but it was actually Benjamin’s father, Matthias, who got the thing going. In the early 1900s, it was strictly a lumbering operation. Forestry done farther north floated logs to Matthias’s mill, where they were skinned and cut into wood planks for housing in the cities farther south. By the 1930s, Benjamin had taken over, and in a short time had broadened the scope of operations enough to genuinely merit being credited as the founder of the modern mill.
Even then, though, it began small, a single structure on the river at the end of a road cut through woods, and this same road was what I saw now, albeit with a new, large, and—I have to say—tasteful sign. As it had a century before, the woods that rose around it were filled with hemlock and pine, balsam and spruce—all evergreen, thick and picturesque throughout the year and deeply fragrant in ways the mill itself was not. A stone entry had been added, waist-high and crafted of rocks displaced when the more recent of the buildings was built. The stonemason was always an Arsenault; Arsenaults had been doing stonework around the mill since Benjamin’s earliest days. They were actually kept on the payroll. This was one of the little gems we learned in third grade. Did we appreciate it then? Of course not. Now I understood that this fact was yet another nail in the coffin of dissension that might mar the face of the mill. No Arsenault would report suspicious activity. Those you pay, repay you with loyalty.
Arsenaults were artists; their stonework, done without mortar, was a sight to behold. Here at the entry to the mill, the mosaic of rock ranged in color from amber to slate and in size from small, narrow slabs to pieces the size of a desktop monitor. I have watched stone walls being built and know the artistry involved. Here, those rocks were arranged not only in a way to make the wall sturdy, but to make it an interesting tableau of local stone. The finished product curved gently on either side of the road in a pastoral invitation to enter.
Enter I did, and without pause. There was no guard’s station here. The Meades didn’t need a guard, but ensured their safety in more subtle ways. I guessed that there were cameras mounted on the trees, with a security guard monitoring the comings and goings. I wondered what he would make of my car.
The road was wider than I remembered it, a change made perhaps in recent years to accommodate the Meades’ SUVs. The service road would be at the other end of the complex and wider yet to accommodate the gargantuan semis that carried the mill’s goods from the shipping bays to the world.
From these beautiful stone walls, the road stole through scented woods for a quarter of a mile before the first of the buildings appeared. They were attractive redbrick Capes with a Colonial feel—mainly single-floor structures, they had tall doorways with pediments atop, dormer windows in the roof, and white shutters and columns out front. No single building was large, but there were many of them, added as the need arose. This was the Administrative Campus, the sign said—don’t you love the word campus?—and beneath the heading were a flurry of arrows. One pointed to the building that housed the sales department, another the marketing department. Individual arrows pointed toward the executive offices, product development, and the Data Center.
Sabina would be in the last, but I didn’t immediately drive there. Taking the scenic route, I followed the road around and between these buildings—and yes, I did give a special look to the one housing the executive offices. James’s SUV sat out front. Make that Aidan’s SUV, since there was a child seat in the back. There was also a large, dark sedan with tinted windows that had Sandy Meade’s name written all over it.
The building that held the Meades’ offices was similar to the others in its redbrick and Cape style, but the roof was higher and the dormer windows not only for show. This building had a spacious second floor that was largely glass from the back. Sandy Meade had his office here, beside the conference room where he ruled. He claimed that the second floor gave him a view of the river that he wouldn’t have if he were downstairs. We all suspected he simply liked being raised above the rest.
With the exception of that second floor, the executive offices matched the other buildings in appearance. Trees and shrubs were well tended, a testament to Northwood’s full-time grounds crew. Lawns, newly mown and still bearing the mark of the mower and a sweet, summer-warm smell, were dotted with white lawn chairs. Lilac and rhododendron, their blooms long gone, softened the expanse of brick between windows. There wasn’t a weed in sight.
The guts of the mill lay ahead, but they were hidden behind trees. First came a trio of buildings that were as charming in purpose as they were in style, starting with the Clubhouse. Wholly subsidized by the mill, the Clubhouse was a meeting place for town events. I remembered my mother spending time there in the formative days of a group called the Middle River WIBs—Women in Business. Meetings were held over dinner, the latter provided by the mill in the form of a bribe. No one particularly wanted to drive all the way out there to meet, but the promise of a free meal—and a gourmet one at that—brought the WIBs. Other groups followed suit, but only after the place was rebuilt after one of those gourmet meals caused a fire in the kitchen that quickly spread to the rest. No one was injured in the fire, and the rebuilt Clubhouse had every safety feature imaginable. According to the Middle River Times, most every major civic group held its meetings here now. Northwood catered them all.
Stifling dissent? Oh yes.
Opposite the Clubhouse was the Gazebo. Embedded in trees, it overlooked the river and was totally charming. Many a Middle River mill couple had married there. The Meades donated flowers and champagne. Wasn’t that nice?
And finally, ahead just a bit more, was the Children’s Center. Northwood was in the forefront here, opening an on-site day care center before it was the thing to do. Parents paid a small fee, with the rest of the costs picked up by the mill. Can you imagine the gratitude those parents felt for the Meades?
The working plant was so close it was frightening. On certain days there was a faint sulfur smell, but I didn’t catch that today. Perhaps I was too focused on the sudden fall-off of the woods and the emergence of those redbrick buildings, risen like a phoenix from the ashes of the big fire. That red brick notwithstanding, there was no charm here. These buildings were functional—large square and rectangular things that housed the machines that produced paper from logs. As a third grader viewing them, I had thought they were cavernous. Looking at them from the outside now, parked at a guard station, I still found them huge. There were also more now than back then, a tribute to Northwood’s growth. Looking down the main drag, I saw one redbrick building after another. I also saw people on foot and in cars. The day shift was finishing its work, leaving the plant on the service road.
“May I help you?” asked the guard.
I took in a deep breath. “Actually, I think not. I’m going to the Data Center.” Shooting him my most brilliant smile, I shifted into reverse, backed around, and cruised toward the forest again. Was I afraid of getting close to the plant? Probably, and it had nothing to do with exposure to mercury. The Meades didn’t like trespassers—and, yes, there was that little sign.
The Administrative Campus was far more welcoming. Pulling in beside Sabina’s ageless Chevy in the small parking strip at the Data Center, I climbed from the car, lifted one of the insulated bags from the seat, and approached the door.
The Data Center was unique. For one thing, the air here was cool to accommodate the needs of the machines. For another, rather than four lavish offices, each with a smiling face near its door, there was a large open room on one side with three desks and, on the other side behind a glass wall, the server.
Two of the three desks were taken, the one farthest from the door by Sabina. She
wasn’t surprised to see me; someone had warned her I was here. I smiled at the other worker, a man, and went over to Sabina.
“This should probably go in your car, so that it stays warm.”
Sabina rose quickly and led the way back outside. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought she wanted me gone. Either that, or not seen. Or not heard. Who knew how trustworthy her coworker was?
Funny, though, she didn’t stalk ahead. Once I cleared the door, she walked by my side. “What’s with all the cooking? Is it the old ‘way to the heart through the stomach’ theory?”
“Actually,” I said, “yes. I don’t know how else to do it.”
“Does it really matter?” she asked without looking at me. Her car wasn’t locked. She opened the passenger door and reached for the bag.
“Yes, it matters.”
“What is this?”
“Chicken and veggies in a pie. Oh. Wait a second.” I ran back to my car, reached into the narrow space behind the seat, and pulled out a loaf of Italian bread. I put it on top of the insulated bag that Sabina had placed on her seat.
“It smells good,” she said and closed the door. She leaned back against it and looked at me, more puzzled now than annoyed. “Do you want something?”
I might have gone into the thing about wanting family. But I had already done that.
“Today, yes,” and rushed out the words. “I want your approval. I’ve decided to go to New York with Phoebe, because I don’t think she can handle the buying trip herself.”
“Shouldn’t Joanne be the one to go with her?”
“She needs Joanne here. It’s either me with her in New York, or no one. She’s already told me I know nothing about buying, and she’s right, but I do know New York, and at least I can make sure she doesn’t fall or get lost or make some kind of gross error.”
“She isn’t that bad,” Sabina said with a tentativeness I hadn’t heard before.
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