by Kathy
She remained discreetly quiet until Casey informed her he'd try to get his crew out a week from Thursday. When she protested, he looked hurt. "I'm backed up six weeks already, Miz Venturi. Only reason I'd put you in ahead of the others is as a favor to Mike, and your grampa."
"She appreciates that very much," Cliff said, taking Meg by the arm and leading her out.
After waving a fond farewell to Mr. Casey, Meg dropped onto a bench. "He won't be here next Thursday."
"Of course not." Cliff hesitated, then ventured to take a seat next to her. "He'll be here when he's damned good and ready. The more you complain, the longer it will be."
"Dan wouldn't agree with that." A giant yawn interrupted her.
"Dan didn't complain. He screamed. And threatened."
"Sounds good to me."
"Maybe. It's not my style. Now just a minute," he added quickly, edging away from her as she fixed him with a frigid stare. "Today doesn't count. I already apologized for that. Mary doesn't seem to remember what—"
"For Christ's sake, Cliff, you didn't ask her about that damned ring, did you? You promised!"
"I didn't say anything to upset her. She asked me what happened. She doesn't remember a thing."
Meg planted her elbows on her knees and rested her aching head on her hands. "All right. I don't want to talk about it, Cliff. I'm too tired."
"Why don't you hit the sack?"
"I can't, not yet. I've got to shower and change and go to see Gran. Oh, hell. I left my car at the store."
"I'll drive you."
"All right." Meg pulled herself to her feet. "I have a lot to say to you, Cliff, but I'm too far gone to say it now. I feel as if I were covered in cobwebs like an Egyptian mummy."
Cliff trailed along behind her, hands in his pockets. "We could get started on the cottage before Casey comes. There's a lot of cleaning and clearing that could be done by unskilled labor."
"Like you?"
She had meant it as a joke, and was taken by surprise when Cliff said readily, "Like me. And Dennis, and anybody we can hire on a temporary basis. I don't suppose you want to keep the furniture. . . ."
"God, no." Meg shivered. "It'll have to be hauled to the dump. There's nothing worth saving."
"So why pay Casey's crew two hundred an hour to do it? I'll find a couple of guys, and we'll clean the place out, cut down the weeds and so on."
"But, Cliff—"
"I'd like to do it."
"Would you?" She stopped and turned to face him, softened, against her better judgment, by his effort to please her. "It's a good idea, and I'll follow through on it, but you don't have to be involved. I could see how painful it was for you to be there."
"Painful? Why should it be, when the few memories I have are happy ones? For a minute I felt like Rip Van Winkle, losing twenty years in one night's sleep, but that's over and done with. I really want to do it, Meg." He straightened, and smiled at her with all his old insouciance. "It'll keep me busy and out of your hair. If that isn't a compelling argument I don't know what is."
"Sold," Meg said, smiling back at him.
When they went on, he walked beside her.
Cliff was as good as his word. When Meg came down to breakfast, after ten solid hours' sleep, he was already at the table, shoveling down food as if he didn't expect to eat again for weeks. He was wearing faded jeans and a shirt that had seen better days, but somehow, despite the wrinkles, he managed to look like a model for a beer or cigarette advertisement—manly, sexy and perfectly groomed.
"Excuse me for not waiting," he greeted her. "Got to run, my crew's coming at eight."
Punctilious as always, George put down his newspaper and held a chair for Meg. He still looked tired, his eyes darkly circled, but he had raised no objection the night before when the plans for the cottage had been discussed.
Meg thanked him with a smile and looked at Cliff. "You've got a crew already? How did you accomplish that?"
Cliffs mouth was full. His father said dryly, "Clifford's social, professional and business contacts in Seldon are centered in the same place—that roadhouse on Route Four. If you picked up your crew there, Clifford, I suggest you frisk them before you let them onto the grounds."
"You've got the wrong impression of the Golden Calf," Cliff said breezily. He was in such a good mood that his father's inevitable criticism didn't seem to bother him. "I'll bet you've never even been in the place."
"No, and I don't intend to."
"You know what your trouble is, Dad? You're an effete intellectual snob." Cliff tipped his head back to get the last drops of coffee from his cup, and jumped to his feet. "Don't worry about my crew, Meg; they're good dudes. See you later."
Meg had never visited the Golden Calf either, but she had heard about it; it was one of the places the local cops staked out on Saturday nights, when they needed to fill their quota of DWI arrests. A popular hangout for what her grandmother would call "the rougher element," it was probably harmless enough—but if that was where Cliff picked up gossip, it was not surprising that he was up-to-date on the ripest of Seldon scandal. She wished he hadn't been in such a hurry to leave. She hadn't expected he would act so promptly, and she would have preferred to discuss their plans in more detail.
However, considering the state the cottage was in, there was little chance that even an unskilled crew could do much damage, and she didn't want to worry her uncle by expressing her nebulous reservations. "Go ahead and read your paper," she said, seeing he was casting sidelong glances at the folded page beside him. "You don't have to make conversation."
"That's all right, I've finished. Did you call the hospital?"
"Mmm-hmmm. The doctor hadn't been in yet, but she had a good night."
"She's an amazing woman," George said fondly. "I thought she was looking much better last night, didn't you?"
"She looked wonderful. Having Frances with her seems to perk her up."
George lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Having Frances out of the house perks me up. Have you noticed how smoothly things run without her? I wish we could persuade her to retire. Annie is managing very nicely."
"Frances will never leave Gran. Not that I don't agree with you, Uncle George. Why do you think I'm so anxious. . . ." She stopped, reaching for the coffeepot to cover her confusion. Despite George's apparent indifference to her plans for the cottage she still didn't feel comfortable discussing the subject with him.
"You've definitely made up your mind, then," George said.
"Yes. It disheartened me to see how much work needs to be done, but it will take less time than building a new structure. I want to be close to Gran."
"What about the store? Darren tells me probate is proceeding on schedule and before long you'll have to make up your mind what to do about Mr. Riley."
"I have made up my mind. I'm not going to sell, and if Riley wants to stay he's welcome to. That decision isn't irrevocable; if the partnership doesn't work, we can find a way out. But I'm going to give it my best shot, and I think he means to do the same."
"I see. You're becoming . . . fond of him, aren't you?"
The word was innocuous enough; a casual, amused rejoinder was on Meg's lips when to her horror she felt her cheeks grow hot and realized she had not, after all, forgotten how to blush.
"I see," George said again, in quite a different voice.
"No, you don't. I'm not sixteen years old, and I'm not . . . I've never. ..." She stammered to a stop. "I'm not fond of Riley. It would be like being fond of a—a tornado. He's too talented to lose, he's worth any effort and he ... well, I just don't believe he's the sort of person who would try to frighten and harass people."
Oh, great, she thought in disgust. First you blush, then you babble and finally you fall back on good old feminine intuition. Next you'll be spray-painting his initials on walls.
"I hope you're right," her uncle said. "The least I can do is trust your judgment; Dan would be proud of you, my dear, taking charge
the way you've done."
After he had excused himself and gone, Meg lingered over her second cup of coffee. She was trying to take charge of her life, but every time she got a grip on something it slipped through her fingers—or was pulled. How much did being a woman have to do with the failure of others to trust her? The answer was obvious; it had everything to do with it. Mike, George, Cliff, Darren—none of them would have dared to treat Dan that way. Even when he was nearing ninety he'd have blasted them out of the water if they had tried to protect him or condescend to him.
Meg's lips set. She couldn't change her sex, nor did she wish to; she'd simply have to show them that a woman could yell as loud and accomplish as much as a tough old man.
The cottage seemed like a good place to start. Cliff meant well, no doubt—they all meant well, damn them—but she intended to make it clear that he was the foreman, not the boss. She was the boss.
It didn't surprise her to find Dennis, Cliff and two other men sprawled on the porch steps eating doughnuts and drinking coffee instead of working. What did surprise her was the fact that one of the newcomers was Debbie's husband. She recognized him instantly, despite the puffiness of a face that had once been voted handsomest in the class. As he and the others scrambled to their feet, Meg saw that he was still massively built, though the muscle was softened by sagging flesh. The used-car business must not be going well, if Tom was willing to accept a temporary job doing manual labor. It was nice of Cliff to give an old friend a helping hand—but if Tom and Debbie were so hard up, what was he doing hanging around the Golden Calf?
Tom greeted her with a mixture of embarrassment and swagger. Crisply she explained what she wanted done. Cliff kept grinning like a clown; he knew quite well why she had come, and he paid her a deference that verged on caricature. The others took her seriously, or seemed to; when she left, they were starting work.
On her way to the store Meg saw a wizened, malevolent face peering out from behind the roses that bedecked Mrs. Henderson's porch, but this morning the old lady didn't hail her. Chalk up another point for rudeness, Meg thought smugly. And now for Riley. Had Dan yelled at him, and bullied him into submission? No matter; what had worked for Dan wouldn't work for her. Not in this case.
She had no opportunity to speak privately with Riley that morning. The tourist season was in full bloom and the fine weather brought customers out in droves. At one point there were so many people in the store Riley actually emerged to help out—the risk of shoplifting was directly related to the proportion of customers to clerks—but after a motherly woman cooed over his bandaged brow and asked a series of sympathetic questions, he retired in haste and did not reappear.
Between the customers, the telephone and the mail, Meg managed to examine the folder Riley had put on her desk. It contained the receipts and records of the transactions between Dan and Mrs. Mercer.
The records included color photographs and detailed descriptions of the jewelry Dan had sold Mrs. Mercer. Sorting through them, Meg fought a mounting sense of inadequacy. How much could she afford to pay for such pieces and still hope to make a profit when she resold them? Which pieces should be kept intact and which ones should be broken up? That would have to be taken into account when she made her bid. . . . Her lips curled in a humorless smile as she came to a photograph of an ornate necklace whose central stone was a magnificent emerald. She suspected this wasn't the first time that emerald had passed through the hands of Daniel Mignot.
She was still staring at the photograph when the chimes sounded; laying it aside, she went into the store. Her fixed professional smile faded when she saw her courtesy cousin bending over the counter, apparently intent on a display of pearls.
"I thought you were supposed to be working."
Cliff gave her a seraphic smile. He had changed into tan slacks so crisp they might never have been worn before and a short-sleeved shirt in a shade of blue that made him look as innocent as a young saint. "Lunch break. How about joining me?"
Mindful of the intercom and the possibility of being caught by a customer in the middle of a tantrum, Meg confined herself to a shake of the head, though her frown would have daunted anyone less certain of his charm than Cliff. "Riley, too," he said cheerfully. "We'll bury the hatchet in a loaf of Kate's fresh-baked sourdough."
Meg wished—how she wished!—that she could believe in his sincerity. While she was debating what to say, the shop door opened and Riley came out. Meg groaned silently. Cliff knew about the intercom; he had also known Riley's masculine pride wouldn't allow him to skulk in the back after such a challenge.
He was stiffly civil, but he refused Cliffs invitation. "We're pretty busy today. You two go ahead."
"If you say so. Hey—no hard feelings?" Cliff approached him as if to shake hands, then looked in surprise at the parcel he was holding. "Forgot about this. I brought it to show Meg. How about this for nostalgia, coz?"
From a bag that had once held doughnuts he extracted an object and put it on the counter, along with a shower of dirt that wrung a cry of disgust from Meg. "I just polished the glass! What is that revolting thing?"
Cliff stood back, grinning, as she edged closer. The ragged bundle was so coated with filth, she could not identify it until she saw a dim gleam of reflected light and realized it was an eye, staring at her with melancholy reproach. "Oh, my God," she exclaimed. "It can't be—it is—it's Pooh! My poor darling Pooh—where have you been all these years?"
"Under the floorboards in my former room," Cliff said. "I found him this morning." Turning to Riley, he explained, "She used to sleep with him. When he disappeared she carried on like a juvenile Medea; the whole family searched the house and grounds for days."
"Under the floor. . . ." Meg's voice rose. "You stole him! You son of a bitch!"
Cliff's eyes widened. "I was a seven-year-old son of a bitch. Jesus, Meg, I didn't know you'd get so upset. I thought it was kind of funny."
"Kind of funny? Oh, God—I remember now, I cried for a week. Look at him—poor old bear, rotting away in the dark all this time. . . ."
Cliff caught her hand as she reached for the toy. "Don't touch it, it's crawling with germs. I swear, I'd forgotten all about that secret hiding place of mine until this morning. I was checking the floors upstairs, and one of the boards was loose. . . ."
Riley cleared his throat. He was staring at them as if he thought they had both lost their minds. No wonder, Meg thought; they made quite a picture, holding hands over the decayed body of a stuffed bear. Cliff's voice was unsteady and her eyes had filled with tears.
"Let's give him a decent burial," Riley said. He went into the office and came back with a cardboard carton. After glancing at Meg, he took a handful of tissue paper from under the counter and lined the box. Meg freed her hand and brushed at the tears trickling down her cheeks. "Excuse me," she said in a stifled voice.
When she came back from the washroom, the body was encoffined, and Cliff was tying a red ribbon around the box, looking as sober as if he were preparing to conduct the funeral of a friend. Riley's expression indicated that he thought the red ribbon was a touch too much.
"Sorry about that," Meg said. "You were right, Cliff; it is funny—now. I got lost in time for a while."
"Yeah." Cliff finished the elaborate bow. "It happens, doesn't it?
Dismissing the incident, Meg asked, "What kind of shape is the second floor in?"
"Not bad at all, compared to the downstairs. We're making progress," Cliff added. "I think you'll be pleased when you see it, Meg. This afternoon I want to get rid of the rest of the furniture. Actually, I had an ulterior motive in asking you to lunch, Riley; I was hoping we could borrow your pickup. Tom's radiator sprang a leak this morning and nobody else has one to rent on such short notice."
Riley hesitated.
"Just for the afternoon," Cliff urged. "I'll bring it back by five."
"Okay." Riley fished in his pocket and handed over a set of keys.
"Thanks, I really apprecia
te it. Sure I can't talk you into joining us?"
As she and Cliff left the store, Meg said, "I don't know how you do it."
"Do what?"
"Get your own way without appearing to do so. You didn't want Riley to join us. I didn't intend to have lunch with you. He's back there, and I'm here, and I'll be damned if I can figure out why."
"It's my overpowering charm and sincerity." He took her arm to guide her across the street.
This time the old gang consisted of Mike and Ed, and the topic of conversation immediately became technical as the two questioned Cliff about the work on the cottage. Meg had long since stopped wondering how the news spread so rapidly; she listened with a smile while Ed spouted misinformation and Mike placidly corrected him. "No, Ed, that little rider mower of yours won't make a dent in them weeds. Anyhow, Dan's got two or three of the things. You'd be better off using a scythe, Cliff, the good Lord only knows what's lying hid that could wreck a piece of machinery."
"The gate's my worst problem," Cliff said. "I cut the chain off, but the lock's rusted solid."
Ed's eyes lit up. "Sulfuric acid—"
Kate materialized in a cloud of steam from the kitchen, like a genie in a chef's hat. "Ed, you damn fool, you don't know your ass from your elbow when it comes to that kind of thing. Sulfuric acid! Next thing you'll be suggesting dynamite."
Cliff shoveled the last of his pie into his mouth, stood up, set Kate's hat straight, kissed her on the ear and announced, "Back to work. Put it on my tab, Kate. And for God's sake, get a new hat."
Mike got up. "Hold on a second, Cliff. If you'll come by the store I'll sell you something should take care of that rust."
After they had gone, Kate dashed back into the kitchen and reappeared with two pieces of pie, which she slapped down in front of Meg and Ed. "Strawberry-rhubarb. Made it myself. New recipe. Tell me what you think."