A House by the Side of the Road (34 page)

She rocked a little in her chair. Could she explain? “It wasn't any one thing; it was a combination. He was … tailor-made. My dream man, except I never felt really comfortable with him. Why? Either I was even more insecure than I thought I was, or he wasn't who he seemed to be.”

“You're not insecure. You're one of the least insecure people I've ever met.”

“In some ways,” said Meg. “But let's not get into that. The point is, Jack was a different man with me than he'd been with Stephanie. Which one was the real Jack? The casual craftsman who wore silly shirts and told dumb jokes? Or the formal, serious, deliberate person Christine knew and who was reflected in the house he lived in? I realized it didn't matter which one was the real Jack. What mattered was that he was so chameleon-like. Did you ever see his paintings?”

Mike shook his head. “He wasn't in the habit of inviting me to lunch.”

“They're … like nice copies of other people's styles. He could make himself be whatever, whomever, he needed to be. Who
does
that, except someone with an eye to the main chance?”

“How about someone who just wants you to like him?”

“Trying to make a good impression is one thing. Being a phony is another. This controlling man just happened to have an endearing goofy streak? He just happened to have Glenn Gould's original version of
The Goldberg Variations,
which just happens to be Bach, which I just happen to love? Christine was surprised that he could be silly, and the more I thought about it, that side of him, his goofy side, was all easy stuff—sew some buttons on a shirt, disparage a dog, tell some bad jokes. Yours, on the other hand, is deep and real, excessive enough to be truly annoying.”

Mike hit the back of her head.

“Ouch! Watch it!” She grabbed his wrist and pushed his hand up to slap his own face.

“You're intrigued by men who have buttons on their shirts?” said Mike. “I didn't know you were so easy to impress.”

“Little white buttons shaped like the side view of a rabbit,” said Meg. “On a blue work shirt. It's a great look.” She regarded Mike soberly for a moment. “Not one you could pull off.”

The dog stretched and yawned.

“That animal,” said Mike, “needs a name. “You've been calling her a dozen things but mostly ‘Girl.' Why not call her … what is it? Isn't there a precise term for the female of the species?” He hit his leg with a clenched fist. “Darn! I know there's a word. Whenever I think about you, it's right there on the tip of my tongue…”

Meg looked at him, unperturbed. “Besides which, of course, Jack was already handsome—”

“I think the word you mean to use is
passable.
”

“…already passable. So all he needed to do to get me interested—which he had to do once the dog moved in—was to be the kind of man Dan told him I liked. He needed access to the house. If I liked him, he could get in even while I was there—”

“Which would explain fingerprints in a house he'd never been in before.”

She nodded. “And keep him pretty much up-to-date on what I was doing. It all fit. Okay, that's not enough either, but it made me wonder, and then other things started to make sense.”

Meg gestured toward the side fence. “I thought maybe I could get him to make me one of those beautiful curved archways … have a real garden gate with clematis growing up it. He seemed to have plenty of time. And, when I thought about it, wasn't that odd? Dan, in the same line of work, never has any time, never has any extra money. Jack had the time and the money to live extremely well, paint, do anything he wanted. How?”

“We thought he sold his paintings.”

“That's what he wanted people to think. Ask a few painters how much they make selling their work. Not David Hocking. Somebody else. And did you, or anyone else around here, ever get a postcard about a gallery showing? Even Christine, who knew about his fancy art school, couldn't name a gallery that showed his work. And, of course, the missing By George nudged the pieces into a pretty tight fit.”

They sat quietly. “Is this going to help Jane or make the whole thing worse?” asked Mike.

“I don't know. I've wondered. Christine's wondered. She thinks it will help, long-term, anyway. She'll have the fabulous silver but that isn't what matters. What matters is that the questions will be answered. Jane's pretty tough when she has to be. And she won't have to absorb it and deal with it alone. Unlike Michelle.”

Mike looked questioningly at her.

“Angie's sister, Michelle,” said Meg. “She's probably the only person in the whole world who actually cared about Angie. I need to get down to the jewelry store and find a pretty bracelet and a little velvet box. It will make me feel less guilty about lying to her.” She explained. “I'll pretend I misunderstood Angie's mother about where to send it.”

“Let me pay for it,” said Mike. “I knew the woman. She worked for me. It's the least I can do.”

“We'll split it,” said Meg, glad he understood. A question nagged at her. “Why does Jack dislike you? Does it have to do with Stephanie?”

Mike rubbed the space between his eyes. “Partly. I asked her out. She went. She was suspicious of Jack. He was pretty darn good at hiding his other interests, but he didn't always answer the phone when she thought he'd be at home. She caught him in lies about how he spent his time. She was sure he was involved with someone else, and it irritated her, and I knew it, and I asked her out. It was immature. I was more interested in annoying him than in getting to know her. He was so holier-than-thou with his attentiveness to Aunt Hannah … I never liked him.”

“And Jack didn't like your dating his girlfriend.”

“Heck, she was more than that. They were engaged. He figured he had it made. Stephanie is beautiful and rich and descended from the purest of the Puritan stock. He'd been after her for years.”

Meg's eyebrows rose. “And she dumped Jack for you?”

“No. She dumped Jack because she didn't trust him. She and I were not a good combination. But did I detect surprise in your voice? It's not impossible that a woman would dump Jack for me.”

“No,” said Meg, watching a barn swallow swoop gracefully over the yard and thinking how true his statement was. “It's not impossible.”

Mike followed her gaze and let out a long breath. They sat in silence for a few moments. He reached down and scratched the dog behind one ear. “She does need a name,” he said. “She deserves one.”

“I know,” said Meg. “I hoped she'd name herself, by having some trait…” She looked at him sternly. “I mean an
important
trait.”

“But she does, and I have a suggestion. How about Fido?”

Meg gazed at the dog. “Fido,” she repeated. She glanced at Mike. “You've been using familiar words to understand unfamiliar ones.”

He smiled. “I'm amazingly coachable.
Fiduciary
being a word we legal experts use a lot. For you common folk,
fidelity
works as a reference point.”

“Faithfulness,” said Meg. “She has it all right.”

“And it's an important trait.”

“Yes,” said Meg.

The dog got up slowly, stretching fore and aft. She put her front paws on Meg's lap and looked at her with bright and eager eyes.

“Unless,” said Mike, “you think it's too masculine and the other dogs would tease her.”

“The ones who've studied Latin grammar? They wouldn't dare.”

Mike reached for her hand and swung it gently between their chairs. “I've given up on your thinking of a bet,” he said. “So I've thought of one. It involves something I'd like to get when my team ends the season ranked, oh, at least three places above yours. It's something that fits your requirements. It really matters.”

Meg's heart did not clatter against her ribs. It merely shifted and then beat steadily with—how odd it felt—an abundant gladness. “And you're going to get this … how?” she asked.

“By out-coaching you,” said Mike. “If necessary, with my eyes closed and wearing a straitjacket. It'll be a snap.”

“Shut up,” said Meg.

Also by Jan Gleiter

Lie Down with Dogs

A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK
.

An imprint of St. Martin's Press.

A HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD
. Copyright © 1998 by Jan Gleiter. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

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First Edition: June 1998

eISBN 9781466888920

First eBook edition: December 2014