Here I Stay (15 page)

Seeing it, she stopped short and stared. How had he found the time to accomplish so much? The grass
was so lush and green it was hard to believe it had grown from seed. Stones and bricks outlined the sunken rectangles of the graves; dark slate and gray granite, pale marble and red sandstone, the markers stood in neat alignment. Against the far wall, under the trailing rosebush, stood a bench, a piece of gray cement supported by carved slabs of stone. She had found it, fallen and forgotten and half hidden by weeds, under the big oak tree in front of the house, and had ordered it be taken to the storage shed. Someone must have helped Jim move it; he could never have managed the weight alone.

There were no flowers now, not even wild flowers. The rain had beaten them down. Patches of newly dug earth, now muddy puddles, outlined the shapes of future flower beds. But there was a single spot of soft color amid the tangled green of the rosebush—one bud, unmarred by wet, awaiting the sunshine to unfold.

Jim had not seen her. He was sitting on the bench, his head bowed and his hands clasped; he might have been musing on the meaning of life, or regretting his excesses of the previous night. So deep was his contemplation and so quiet her approach that he was not aware of her presence until she stood before him. He glanced up, his bruised face empty of expression, and then returned to his former pose.

Andrea sat down beside him.

"If you feel as rotten as you look, you have my sympathy," she said, her tone deliberately light.

"I didn't look in the mirror. I wasn't up to it. But I can't look any worse than I feel."

She put her arm over his shoulders. He shrugged it off. "Go ahead. Get it over with."

"I wasn't going to yell at you."

"Then I will. I lied to you, caused you needless worry, and made a complete horse's ass of myself. And you know what?"

"What?"

He looked up, meeting her eyes squarely. "I'm not sorry."

There was nothing she could say to that. Even expressed understanding would have sounded hypocritical.

"Linnie didn't come to work today," she said. "But her father was just here."

"Oh, Christ," Jim exclaimed, his eyes widening apprehensively.

"It's not what you think." Andrea knew better than to laugh. She had had time to revise the version of the interview which she had meant to tell Jim. He wouldn't see the humor in it; given a choice, he would rather have had Linnie's father come after him with a horsewhip than be patted on the head and told to go home and behave himself, like a good little boy. But there was no way she could gloss over Hochstrasser's basic attitudes, and Jim's face grew even gloomier as he listened.

"So Linnie gets the shaft," he said. "And I walk away clean. What kind of bastard is that father of hers?"

"He's not a bastard. He's a kind, bewildered man who wants to do what is best for his daughter. His opinions may be old-fashioned—I think he belongs to some fundamentalist religious sect—but let's face it, the idea that the woman is always to blame isn't restricted to people of his type. Most men, and a lot of women, still feel that way."

"Including you?"

At least he had made it a question, instead of a
flat statement.

"You ought to know me better than that, Jim. I was going to fire Linnie anyway; she's no damn good at housework. And she ought to be back in school; that much good has come out of this mess, at any rate. No, you're just as much to blame as she is. Probably more. You're supposed to have better
sense."

"Thanks, Andy." The humor of that did strike him, as he said it. Smiling lopsidedly, he reached for her hand. "Lecture me some more. I love it."

"You're probably saying harder things to yourself than I would."

"Yeah. It won't happen again, Andy. I swear to God."

"I believe you, darling." She didn't doubt that he was sincere. He wouldn't commit the same folly again; it would be something else next time. But she refused to worry about it now; on this bright morning of promise, with Jim's fingers warm on hers, she knew everything was going to be all right.

It was time to change the subject. Jim didn't like her to gush, and he had had about all the emotional
upheaval
a man with a queasy stomach and an aching head could handle. She glanced around the small enclosure.

"You've done wonders with this place, Jim."

"You like it?"

"It's pleasant," Andrea said in surprise. "I always hated the place, to be quite honest, but now...I can see why you like to come here."

"I thought," Jim said tentatively, "that I would look up some of the history of this place, like Martin suggested. Keep me out of trouble, hm?"

"That would be an interesting project," Andrea
said heartily. Jim wasn't deceived. His eyes shone with amusement.

"You haven't got any more imagination than a rock," he said. "Don't you feel it? The mystery, the challenge?"

"I must admit—"

"Look here." He swiveled around and pointed at the ground behind the bench. "Remember the stone we found, with that funny epitaph? Doesn't that rouse your curiosity? Who was Mary, and why were those words carved on her tombstone? Who planted the rose, and why? I've thought about it a lot. I'd like to know who she was, and what happened to her, and why she—" He stopped abruptly, a trifle embarrassed at his own vehemence.

"She?" Andrea repeated. "Mary, you mean?"

"Yeah," Jim said. "Anyhow, I thought I'd, you know, get into a little heavy research."

"How do you plan to go about it?"

"Well, I had a talk with some old codger I met at the Historical Association." Jim gave her a sidelong glance. "I did meet some people there—but they weren't the kind that go out for a few beers."

"Get on with it," Andrea said, laughing.

"This guy said something about the record room at the county courthouse. They've got land deeds and wills clear back to the early days. This guy said that's how you do it—you look up the original property records and find out who owned the place, and—like that. So I thought maybe some day..."

He hesitated. Andrea said without emphasis, "You'll need the car if you plan to go to Frederick. Want to go this afternoon and find out whether we have to do anything special to get you a new license?"

The glow that lit his face would have rewarded
her for a far greater sacrifice. After all, she told herself, it isn't letting him go. It's another way of keeping him safe, with me.

Later that day a macabre thought struck Andrea. Jim had placed the stone bench beside the rosebush. Perhaps she had actually been sitting over Mary's grave.

She hadn't given Mary's stone much thought before Jim pointed out its unusual features; now she began to wonder too. It was indeed a strange epitaph, and as Andrea considered the most obvious meaning she felt a certain admiration for the woman who had asserted her unorthodox opinions so unequivocally, at a time when sanctimonious piety was the only acceptable viewpoint.

However, Linnie's absence left her so busy she didn't have time to speculate about nonessentials, or even to worry about Jim. Handing over a set of car keys had been one of the hardest acts of her life; she fully expected to be frantic with apprehension every second he was gone. But as she dashed from parlor to library to guest room she forgot for minutes at a time that Jim was out on the highway, vulnerable, mortal.

She was not looking forward to entertaining Reba, for she knew that human information center would be fully informed about Jim's fight with Gary Joe and all the ramifications thereof. But the invitation was overdue and she could not in all conscience cancel it. Besides, she needed Reba's help in finding a replacement for Linnie.

Reba had no sympathy with reverse snobbism;
her car was a Mercedes, the latest model, and she drove with a panache worthy of D'Artagnan. The car stopped with a grinding crunch directly in front of the porch steps. After a moment Reba fell out. Apparently she had caught her heel, for Andrea heard a muffled "Goddamn stupid shoes..." before Reba reeled to her feet. Andrea remained discreetly out of sight, for fear her friend might be embarrassed, but Reba was not at all self-conscious. Greeting her hostess, she collapsed onto the nearest chair. "Fell flat on my ass," she said gaily. "Too bad you didn't see me. It would have made your day."

Torn between amusement and concern, Andrea studied Reba's crimson face. "Sit still and catch your breath," she said. "Why don't I bring our drinks out here?"

"Don't want to cause you any trouble," Reba wheezed.

"No trouble. It's too nice a day to stay inside anyway."

In the hall Andrea encountered Satan, who steered a wide path around her before proceeding on his stately progress kitchenward. A dire suspicion sent Andrea flying to the table where she had placed a plate of tidbits. She had learned from bitter experience that Satan was extremely fond of cheese.

The prettily arranged canapes were intact. She had arrived in time—barely in time, probably, for Satan's expression had been that of a cat who was feeling virtuous because he had not been given the opportunity to sin.

Carrying the canapes in one hand and the tray with wine bottle and glasses in the other, she elbowed her way out onto the porch. Reba was fanning herself with a magazine, but her color had subsided and she was breathing more easily.

"Hot," she said. "Wish the weather would break."

"We're due for a thunderstorm if the forecasters are right," Andrea said.

Weather was not, as she had once believed, a form of meaningless social chitchat. It was a subject of vital concern to country people. Farmers worried about crops and harvests; telephone and power lines seemed to be increasingly vulnerable the farther one got from the city. For an innkeeper a power stoppage was not an inconvenience, it was a catastrophe. As she had learned, it meant no lights, no food, no heat or air-conditioning, and no water. Andrea scanned the southern sky and the fat white cumulus clouds that moved across it with interest as intense as Reba's.

Reba was visibly touched and pleased at the effort Andrea had made—the pretty canapes, the fragile wineglasses, and the excellent vintage. After they had talked idly for a while she said abruptly, "You want to talk about it now or later?"

"I'd rather not talk about it at all."

"Let me give you some advice, kid. Stop being so goddamn sensitive. We've all got secrets we'd rather keep to ourselves, but this isn't anything you need to be ashamed of."

"I should have seen it coming."

"I tried to warn you. But," Reba admitted, "you never can figure what kids will do. You can't ride herd on them every minute." She lowered her voice. "Where is Jim? I don't want him to hear me."

"It's all right. He's out. Gone to Frederick, I think."

"Good. What I was going to say was that the whole business might turn out for the best. Jim's reputation around town is pretty high right now."

"I don't care about that."

"You should. If you two are going to live here permanently, he has to make a niche for himself, gain acceptance. Course I suppose he'll be going back to college one of these days, getting married, starting his own family..."

This was not a topic Andrea cared to consider or discuss. She filled Reba's empty glass and then said, "You know Linnie has quit. Do you have any suggestions for a replacement?"

"I'll ask around. I suppose you don't want another teenage cutie."

"I'd prefer a homely middle-aged grandma. Someone who can cook. Not that I'm thinking of competing with you—"

"You couldn't, kiddo," Reba said, lowering heavy brows. "You're a good egg and I like your gumption, but you don't suppose I'd have helped you if you had proposed opening another restaurant, do you?"

It was the first time Andrea had seen the matriarch unveiled, though she had always known it was there. The image was a little unnerving. Reba would be a bad enemy.

"Not that it would matter," Reba went on, waving her glass. "I'm pretty well established here; it would take a slick operation to do me any harm. Got more business than I can handle, actually."

Andrea filled the glass. "I was thinking of breakfast," she said meekly. "And eventually something like high tea—with crumpets and cucumber sandwiches and that sort of thing."

"Hmmm. Yeah, that might be a nice touch. You could hike your prices. But if you're going into food preparation in a big way, you'll run into problems with the board of health. They can be real bastards about their regulations. You might consider..."

The subject absorbed both of them. They were deep in professional plotting when a shadow fell over them and Andrea glanced up with an exclamation of alarm.

"Look at that cloud! It's going to pour. We'd better go in."

"I'll take the wine," said Reba.

The first drops of rain were spattering on the steps by the time they had gathered up the remains of the food and drink. "I wonder where Jim is," Andrea said, with an anxious look at the livid sky.

"You fuss about that kid too much," Reba said, kicking the screen door open.

Lightning flickered through the black clouds and was followed by a far-off mutter of thunder. The inside of the house was darkly shadowed. Following her guest, tray in hand, Andrea almost ran into Reba, who had come to a stop in the hall near the foot of the stairs.

"Wait a minute," Andrea said. "I'll turn on some lights."

She did not pause after doing so, but carried the tray into the red parlor. She expected Reba would follow, but when she straightened up after putting the tray on a table, she realized Reba had not moved. Her head was turned as if she were listening. The sole source of light, directly overhead, distorted her features in an unpleasant fashion; the sharp shadows under her heavy brows and jutting nose stripped the surrounding flesh of its healthy color.

"In here," Andrea said. Reba did not stir until she repeated the suggestion in a louder voice. When Reba moved, her footsteps were slow and reluctant.

Andrea switched on several lamps. She was eager to show Reba the house. Everyone congratulated her on its appearance, but only a person who had seen the place in its desolation could really appreciate her efforts.

The red parlor was less formal than its counterpart across the hall, and the color scheme was particularly warm and cheerful on a rainy day. The curtains, fringed and tasseled in gold, had set her back a pretty penny, but they were worth it; their rich garnet matched the velvet upholstery of the carved settee and chairs and echoed the predominant color of the twin Bokhara rugs. It was not the setting Andrea would have created for herself, her tastes ran to the simplicity of Scandinavian design— chrome and teak and uncluttered surfaces—but she had become increasingly attached to her creation. The lady's chair, one of a pair, might have been built for her; the depth of the seat and its distance from the floor exactly suited her height.

Reba plopped down into the matching chair, a little deeper and higher, intended for the gentleman of the family. Andrea decided to wait before suggesting a tour of the house. Reba looked tired. Let her finish her wine and relax a little while longer.

The rain had become a steady downpour. Before long, Martin came down the stairs. "It's raining," he announced.

"I noticed," Andrea said dryly. "Look who's here."