A House by the Side of the Road (26 page)

“Good-bye,” called Meg.

He lifted one hand and rotated it in the air without turning around.

Meg turned toward her car. “Hey, cutie,” she said.

“Are you addressing me?” asked Jack.

“Actually not,” said Meg. “But if the shoe fits…”

Jack smiled. “Let's all go get ice cream,” he said.

“Mom's waiting,” said Jane reluctantly. “I need to meet her at the grocery store. I was just at the pet shop.” She held up a bag. “Cat brush,” she said.

“Lucky Charlie,” said Meg.

The sky was darkening and the afternoon's breeze was verging on wind. “I think we're about to get soaked,” said Jack. “Let's go someplace where they serve food and have a roof.”

Jane waved and hurried down the street as Meg unlocked the passenger door and dropped her books on the seat.

“Jane told me why you're driving Mrs. Ehrlich's car,” said Jack. “Sorry your trip got ruined.”

“Me too,” said Meg. “But that wasn't the worst part of the weekend.”

“So I hear,” he said. He put a hand on her arm and steered her toward the Main Street Cafe. “Let's have dinner before we have that ice cream.”

“No, not there,” said Meg. “Do you mind someplace else? I've eaten there a lot lately.”

Jack shrugged. “Makes me no never mind,” he said. “We can try the Wagon Wheel, if you're a steak-and-potatoes kind of girl.”

“Sure,” said Meg.

“How did the guy get in?” asked Jack as they walked down the block. “You don't really stay there all by yourself with the doors unlocked, do you?”

“No,” said Meg. “I don't. The police think I forgot to lock up.”

“And you think?”

“That I probably forgot to lock up.” She looked up at him, grateful for the arm he had put around her shoulders. “It was creepy and it scared me a lot.” His hand squeezed her upper arm. “But he didn't know I was there. It's not like he was after
me.
”

“Still…” said Jack. “Why don't I put in a security system? The materials don't cost all that much, and there wouldn't be a labor charge.”

“Thanks,” said Meg. “But I have a security system. A
really
cheap one. It doesn't call the police, but it follows me from room to room and down to the creek.”

He laughed. “That's right. The Beast.”

Fat drops of rain were pelting down from the sky by the time they crossed the street and went into the restaurant. Cheerful red-and-white-checked tablecloths and the smells of charcoal-broiling greeted them.

“Booth?” asked Jack, and she nodded and slipped into one near the front of the room. It was warm inside after the sudden chill outdoors, and she felt cozy and content. It seemed to have been a long time since she'd felt that way.

“All I need now is the jug of wine and the loaf of bread,” said Jack.

Meg grinned at him. “Bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Each and every one. Let's see … that makes two this year,” he said. His eyes darkened for a moment.

A waitress appeared with menus.

“Can I get a steak, medium-rare, with a baked potato and a salad?” asked Meg. “Because, if so, I don't need a menu.”

The waitress nodded in a friendly way and looked at Jack.

“A bowl of cement,” he said.

“Excuse me?” said the waitress, inclining her head toward him, her pencil poised.

“A bowl of cement,” he repeated.

“A bowl of cement,” said the waitress, good-naturedly going along with him. “I'm sorry, sir. We don't serve cement.”

Jack put his hands on the table as if to rise. “Well, then,” he sighed, “I guess I'll have to go eat up the street.”

The waitress made a small choking noise. Meg laughed. “Jeffrey,” she said.

He nodded and grinned at her. “Jeffrey.” He turned to the waitress. “I'll have the same as the lady,” he said. “And we'll share a bottle of…” He looked at Meg. “Burgundy? Merlot? Chianti in a straw-covered bottle?”

“Burgundy,” said Meg. “I'm feeling very basic.”

He indicated a choice from a short wine list. When the waitress had pushed her pencil back into her hair and walked away, Jack nudged a foot against Meg's knee under the table. “What's bothering you?” he asked. He reached across the table and tipped her chin up so that she had to meet his gaze. “The break-in?”

“I guess,” said Meg. “It was creepy, you know?”

She looked at him, at the kindness in his eyes and the line of his jaw. She thoroughly liked looking at him. Maybe he had some idea of where Angie might have gone. Maybe … She opened her mouth, thought better of it, and changed her question to one about his work. Someone had come into her house and taken the tape, and she did not know for a fact that it wasn't Jack. Not for a fact.

Their food arrived, and Meg ate for a few minutes. Jack pushed his steak around on his plate, but otherwise ignored it.

“Aren't you hungry?” she asked. “I'm starving.”

“I
was
hungry,” he said. “Now I'm just wondering why you're so distracted. And trying like the devil to avoid contradicting my claim that I'm not the pushy, inquisitive type.”

“Oh, gosh, I'm sorry,” said Meg. “It sure as heck isn't your problem.”

“Maybe,” he said, picking up his fork. “Maybe not. But you have seemed different lately.” He looked at her, started to say something, and stopped.

“What?” asked Meg.

“It's none of my business.”

“Go on. What?”

He leaned back in the booth and regarded her steadily. “I thought you and Christine had become friends. It seems I was wrong.”

Meg glanced across the room to where the waitress was chatting with another customer. “You weren't wrong,” she said. She looked back at Jack. “We're friends. She's great. Why did you think we're not?”

He shrugged. “Oh, I don't know. I had dinner at the Ruschmans' the other night, and Jane was talking about you. It seemed she knew more than Christine. I got the feeling Christine thought so too and wasn't happy about it. Just an impression. Like I said, it's none of my business.”

“I've been incredibly busy, that's all,” said Meg. “She and I haven't gotten together a lot lately except at baseball games.” She pointed with her knife toward his plate. “Eat,” she said.

The food was good. Meg felt her tension easing as she listened to stories about the disastrous taste of the woman whose bathroom Jack was renovating. By the time Jack walked her back to the car, she was feeling downright cheerful.

She opened the door. “That was nice,” she said. “I knew I needed the food … and the wine. I didn't know I needed the conversation. Thanks.”

“You're welcome,” he said. “Is your car fixable?”

Meg nodded. “Though probably not worth it. It's in Allentown. I'll get it back in a few days.”

“Let me drive you over to get it.”

Meg hesitated.

“Let me. I'd like to. Just let me know when.”

“Okay,” she said. “That would be great. It's really nice of you.”

He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, then put his hand on the top of her head and pushed her gently down into the seat. “I like being with you,” he said.

*   *   *

The grocery-store parking lot was nearly empty when Meg pulled in and stopped. The dog would be waiting for dinner, but it would take only a moment to pick up eggs and oranges and whatever else that being in the store reminded her she needed. She was standing in front of the coffee filters, near the front of the aisle, when she heard John Eppler's voice. She turned halfway. He was standing at the checkout counter with a stunningly pretty, auburn-haired woman.

Meg couldn't help staring. The woman bore enough resemblance to Mr. Eppler to leave no doubt she was his daughter, but Meg had not expected such elegant sophistication. She had started to move toward them to say hello when Ginny laughed in response to the cashier's comment.

“Not a chance,” she said. “There isn't a market in Philadelphia that has produce as fresh as you get right here. Why do you think I come back? To see my dear old dad?”

Meg turned away and busied herself selecting an unwanted item from the bottom shelf. She felt dizzy.

Ginny Eppler followed her father out into the rain, making a comment, most likely about the weather. Meg couldn't hear what she said—just the low, sultry sound of her voice. Her unusual and memorable voice.

Nineteen

Ginny Eppler wore a pale silver-gray suit with a white silk blouse, very high black heels, and the merest hint of expensive cologne. Her auburn hair shimmered in the carefully lit store. She looked exactly like the owner of an extremely expensive antique store should look.

“Ginny?” the clerk at the grocery store had asked. “Yes, she does deal in antiques. Not the kind any of us can buy, if Mrs. Lundquist's reports are right.”

Meg stood aside to let a woman check out. When the clerk had finished bagging the groceries, she took up where she'd left off.

“Ella's the only one around here who's visited Ginny's store. Said she felt guilty about not buying something from a former Sunday School pupil, but she couldn't afford a
thing.
”

Ella Lundquist was the local symbol of wealth. If she thought a store was high-priced, it was.

“Well, I'd like to ask her about some things I'm looking for,” said Meg. “She might be able to steer me in the right direction. She seems friendly.”

“Oh, heavens, yes. She's always been friendly,” said the cashier. She started pulling another customer's purchases across the scanner, but this time she kept talking. “Takes after her mother that way, but it's her dad that always spoiled her. Pity she can't spend more time with him, the way he dotes on her. You gonna want paper or plastic, hon?”

The elderly man so addressed shrugged. “Whatever Greenpeace wants me to use,” he said. “
I
don't care.”

“Then you gotta get yourself one of those nifty net bags like they use in Paris, France,” said the cashier. “Meanwhile, you're getting plastic. Anyway, you'd think she lived seven hundred miles away instead of seventy. How long was she here? One day? He said last night that she'd be off again this morning. Well, you look her up when you're in the city. Wakefield Antiques, I think it is. On Walnut, I believe.”

Now, having been buzzed into the hushed interior of Wakefield Antiques, Meg was glad she had found her best jersey dress still pristine in its dry cleaner's covering. Her Boy Scout shirt wouldn't have done.

“Could I help you find something in particular?” asked Ginny. Her husky voice was casual and pleasant. “Or would you just like to browse?” Upon letting Meg in, she had risen from a desk in the center of the shop and approached with a friendly smile.

“Actually, you might be able to help,” said Meg. “I've been looking for years for a set of sterling flatware similar to the one my ex-husband got from his great-grandmother and that I couldn't get my hands on in the divorce settlement.”

One of the library books,
A History of Silversmithing in America,
had given Meg a few phrases to toss around. Precious few, she thought now. She described the design on the medicine spoon as precisely as she could but changed the maker.

“The one I'm looking for is old, mid-to-late eighteen hundreds, sterling … The design is floral and almost rococo, with fiddle-shaped handles. It's by Gorham. You wouldn't by any chance know the pattern I mean, would you?”

Ginny Eppler smiled. “No, I don't think so. We have some lovely silver, but the one set of Gorham we have has coffin handles. Why don't you look around and see if there's something similar to what you want?”

“I will,” said Meg. Looking around was exactly what she had come to do. She sighed. “I guess it's a wild-goose chase,” she said. “But it's such a beautiful old-fashioned pattern. It's hard to find something that's very ornate, but so tasteful.” She looked around the shop. “You do have nice things,” she said. “Perhaps I'll see something.”

She walked slowly around the store, looking carefully at silver boxes displayed on marble-topped mantels, figurines in glass-fronted cabinets, and the sets of sterling flatware. Nothing matched the spoon. It was likely that the silver she was looking for had been sold long ago. She wandered over to a set of Limoges and lifted a plate, turning it carefully in her hands.

“Is this a complete service for twelve?” she asked, glancing with what she hoped was obvious unconcern at the price.

“Yes, it is,” said Ginny, moving to Meg's side. “One of the saucers has a small chip on the underside of the rim. Otherwise it's perfect. And there are quite a few serving pieces.”

“I see…” said Meg thoughtfully.

Ginny regarded her. “I
do
have a beautiful set of sterling flatware that's not on display,” she said. “It might be close enough to what you're looking for. Would you like to see it?”

“Sure,” said Meg, running one finger around the detailed rim of the plate.

Ginny disappeared through a doorway at the back of the store and returned a few minutes later with a dark wooden box.

“This is a service for twelve,” she said. “It's nineteenth-century American, but Tiffany, not Gorham. There are a lot of serving pieces.”

She set the box down on the gleaming top of what had once been a built-in sideboard but was now a counter and lifted the lid, revealing the name “Tiffany” on the inside. The silverware, newly polished, glowed, the pieces fitting neatly into their spaces.

“Tiffany doesn't make this pattern anymore,” she said. “It's almost impossible to find. Their discontinued patterns almost never come up for auction, at least not in complete sets.”