Meadowlark (2 page)

I had dim recollections of a tabloid sensation several years
back. "Eli's son was into drugs so Fiedler left the bulk of his estate to
a daughter living in a commune... Holy cow, the farm?"

Tom said, "She's Maria Canelli's daughter, as well as
Fiedler's, so little Bianca wasn't exactly a barefoot flower child."

"She has Canelli's red hair." I didn't know much about Maria
Canelli except that she hit the screen around the time Sophia Loren
showed up. Unlike Loren, Canelli had disappeared before I got
around to watching films.

Eli Fiedler was among the first generation of directors to
break away from the studios and set up as an independent
producer-director. He was much married. He had also made two of my favorite
films, but the bulk of his fortune had come, after a series of flops,
from the sale of videotape rights to his creations. He had been
shrewd enough to recognize the importance of that market, and he
had cashed in not only on the two hits but on the box office flops, too,
some of which made pretty good movies on the small screen.

Tom was watching me. "Are you going to do it?"

I said, "If Bonnie would mind the shop I might."

Bonnie restored the last copy of
The Collected Poems of
Mary Wandworth Dailey
to the poetry shelf. "You'll be
closed."

"Yes, but I'll have stock coming in."

She cocked her blond head to one side, considering. "You're
on, but I want a daily bulletin."

That was easy. I had this tendency to tell Bonnie everything
anyway.

"What about your novel?" Tom's tone was stern. He and
Bonnie may or may not have become one another's all at that point,
but he was definitely mentoring her career.

She said airily, "No problem. It's coming in huge hunks. I'll
be done with the first draft by then."

He looked skeptical but raised no further objections.

I wasn't sure I was going to take the job on and told them
so.

Tuesday Bianca Fiedler showed up on my doorstep in
Shoalwater at ten in the morning. The store was closed. There I was
in sweats with my fences down.

She peered up at me intently from the intense brown eyes.
"Have you thought it over? I brought a brochure."

"Good heavens, come in." I led her through the hall past our
redecorated living room and unregenerate dining room to the
kitchen, all cream and yellow tile, and offered her a cup of
coffee.

When she ascertained that it was freshly ground she
accepted. She sat in my nook and looked around her. "I like this
house. It reminds me of the place Keith and I rented in Eugene while
he was doing his doctorate."

I sat and stirred creamer into my cup. "He's a folklorist, isn't
he?"

"Folktales and ballads." She seemed oblivious to my lack of
enthusiasm for her husband, perhaps because she sounded less than
enthusiastic herself.

"I understand he's also a guitarist."

Bianca snorted, "Not really. Keith has a great voice for
ballads, and back then a good folk singer could get by with four
chords and a Dobro. Times have changed, but Keith hasn't--much. He
does strum away at the twelve-string now, but it's the same old
song." Her mouth gave a wry twist.

I hoped I was not going to be treated to a husband-bashing. I
didn't know her well enough for that.

After a long sip, she shrugged and took another tack. "My
mother decided to underwrite her grandchildren when Fiona was
born. Keith and I moved out of the commune and into the Eugene
house. He went to work on the doctorate, and I took business classes
between gestations."

I raised an eyebrow, indicating, I hoped, polite interest.

She gave a sudden, thoroughly disarming smile. "We'd
bought the whole hippy scene, you know--somewhat after the fact. It
was the Seventies by then. I got interested in organic farming on the
commune. College was just an interruption. I was raised in a
hotel."

Both my eyebrows went up.

The smile softened. "My stepfather owned and managed the
Bonne Chance in San Francisco." The Bonne Chance was a small,
exceedingly expensive San Francisco hotel, very classy then and now.
I nodded and got up to freshen her coffee.

She held out her cup. "I was a city kid, but I loved
plants--flowers and potted trees and fresh veggies. Papa--that's what I
always called my stepfather--virtually invented California cuisine
when he called in Carlo Forte to run the hotel restaurant. That was
exciting to watch, and I heard all about the problems Carlo had
getting good produce. He used to take me with him when he dealt
with the market-gardeners. I was supposed to be his daughter." She
sighed. "Poor dear Carlo. He died of AIDS seven years ago, one of the
first. He was a sweet man. Between Carlo and Papa I never missed
my father. So it was a shock when Eli Fiedler left me all that
money."

I said, "You hadn't had any contact?"

Bianca shrugged again. "Not much. He made a settlement
when he divorced Mama, of course, and he sent checks on my
birthday, but I'd seen him maybe half a dozen times when he died.
He never met my kids."

That was sad. I was still trying to have a child. My
gynecologist said women athletes sometimes have problems
conceiving, but I'd given up basketball five years before, so I wasn't
sure I bought the diagnosis. "How many children do you have?"

"Three." Bianca made a rueful face. "'Children.' Fee is
twenty-two--that's Fiona, our first. The twins are twenty and coming
home from Pepperdine next week. So they're not exactly babies. I
was twenty when Fee was born and too damned young to be a
mother. Anyway, five years ago my father left me most of his money.
It's a hairy responsibility."

Possibly she saw my skepticism, for she added, "Mind you,
I'm not griping. Mama had been helping us buy Meadowlark Farm,
and I'd already got the Organic rating for our meat and produce. I'm
proud of that. When I inherited my father's estate, though, I could
think about using the farm as an educational center for People who
Care about the Earth."

Anyone who speaks in capitals makes me uneasy. Bianca
Fiedler was making me uneasy, partly because I'd begun to like her.
"You've built a convention center?"

She dimpled. "Not exactly. It's more like a small hotel. Papa's
influence. He's retired now but he helped with the design. We have
room for twelve to fifteen students in residence plus adjunct classes
through the college. Maybe your husband told you about them."

He hadn't. It was finals week and I'd barely had a chance to
explain Bianca's offer. Jay had driven my parents to the airport in
Portland the day before and got home late.

Bianca looked a little disappointed when I shook my head
no. "Shoalwater Community College didn't even have an ag program,
would you believe it? This is one of the most rural counties in the
state. So I underwrote a certificate in Sustainable Agriculture and set
up six internships at the farm. The graduates can transfer to WSU or
the Evergreen State College for their bachelor's degrees. The
program's working pretty well. Three of our former interns have
already entered graduate school, so I thought it was time to set up a
series of workshops. This one's the first, and I didn't realize the work
it would entail. I do need help, Lark."

What could I say? I read her brochure. It sounded as if she
knew what writers would want. The first expert would give a talk
followed by open discussion, writing sessions, and another solid day
of workshopping the results. The second would deal with a different
topic and follow the same pattern. Part of the early morning was to
be devoted to a short excursion--to Shoalwater Bay, up the Coho
River, over to the port. Evening would be social, though it was clear
Bianca intended to propagandize a bit. The two speakers had already
sent her extensive bibliographies.

She said her staff could handle meals and housekeeping. She
was doing all the registration and speaker arrangements. She
wanted me on the spot to see that everything went smoothly
because she intended to be out with her tractor spreading lime and
compost. It was that time of year. Also the sheep would probably
start lambing--they tended to do that whenever you scheduled
something important in springtime, she said. I took her word for
it.

The set-up seemed workable. The fee wasn't splendid for six
days' labor but neither were my credentials.

I said, "It's a shame you couldn't get Tom Lindquist."

She had the grace to blush, but she made a quick recovery.
"Was he at the signing? I've never met him in person."

"Yes."

"He sounds like an interesting man, and I love his books, but
I think you may be able to deal with the organizational side of things
better than he could."

"Tom's an old hand at workshops."

She smiled. "Like your mother?"

"Ma invented workshops. I don't think it's hereditary,
though."

Bianca laughed. Then she pleaded some more, and I waffled.
I had meant to strip the floor in my dining room and redo the room,
floor to ceiling, during my vacation. The truth was, though, that my
six weeks off didn't coincide with any of Jay's academic holidays, and
the joys of remodeling are overrated. In the end I caved in and
agreed to run Bianca Fiedler's workshop.

That evening I confessed what I'd done over dinner.

"Sucker." Jay lifted a forkful of canneloni and chewed with
evident pleasure. I was learning to cook.

"Tom's exact word."

"Tom is a shaman."

I toyed with my pasta. "If you have serious objections, Jay,
I'll call Bianca and tell her no. It's not too late."

He set his fork on the plate. "Do you want to do this?"

I cut a bite of canneloni. Stuffed with spinach and ricotta it
was. "I don't know. It sounds interesting. She's invited Eric Spielman
and Francis Hrubek." I shot him a glance. He was frowning but the
frown was thoughtful. "I'll make them autograph all their books for
the store."

"Shrewd move." The scowl lightened. "Is the workshop a tax
scam? The classes and internships are kosher. I asked the
Dean."

That was quick. I'd told him Tom's reaction Sunday
evening.

"Bianca may get a write-off, probably does, but she's
genuinely interested in educating farmers and writers."

He sighed and took a sip of wine. "Okay, but watch out for
Keith McDonald. He stepped down as department head because of
'student complaints'."

"Sexual harassment?"

"I don't think he's ever done anything that would provoke a
successful harassment suit, but he's pushing the limits. Secretaries
avoid him, and the women in the English department are pretty
frank. They don't like him."

Somehow I wasn't surprised, and I began to understand
Bianca's lack of enthusiasm for the father of her three children.

Jay polished off his canneloni. "Maybe I'm just jealous."

"I trust not," I said austerely.

The next day Bianca called me at the store. I had a customer
so I put her on hold while I showed the woman where my children's
books were.

When I came back on the line Bianca thanked me again for
agreeing to supervise the workshop then said, "Are those
apartments above your store vacant?"

"One is." A long-time tenant occupied the other. The old
gentleman, a widower, had been mayor of Kayport for many years.
He said he like living in the center of his town. I liked him. So he
stayed.

"One of my managers, Hugo Groth, is looking for a place
starting January first." She cleared her throat. "Hugo's a little odd. He
rides a bicycle and dresses like the Salvation Army, but he's solvent,
believe me, and quiet. Lives alone." She hesitated again. "He's one of
our old friends from the commune. I like him." Be kind, she was
saying.

What was I letting myself in for? I told her to send him in
around closing time, and I'd take him up to look at the
apartment.

"What was his name again?" I got out a pen.

"Hugo Groth. He's a master gardener. Grows all my field
veggies."

I sighed. "Okay. Look, I have to go." The customer was
moving purposefully toward me with three very expensive picture
books in hand.

"Thanks, Lark." Bianca hung up.

Hugo Groth. I stared at the name for a moment. Then I
complimented my customer on her choices and rang up the
sale.

Hugo Groth was a small man. I didn't expect that. I was
closing when I saw him ride up through a zesty December rain on his
sturdy mountain bike. I watched him lock the bike to a parking
meter. My last customer had left at six-thirty--so much for the
Christmas rush--and it was five of eight. The wind drove the rain
through the dark in gray curtains. Spooky.

Groth peered in the window, checked his watch, and
huddled under the overhang. I set the book I was shelving in place
and strode to the door. "Mr. Groth?"

He looked up at me like Jack at the giant. I am six feet tall,
and he was probably five-five. "Yes?"

"I'm Lark Dodge. Please come in."

"I'll drip on your carpet." He had a deep voice for a small
man, deep and calm.

"It's been dripped on all day." I backed away from the open
door so he could enter. "Come in."

He stood in the doorway a moment, blinking at me and
letting his eyes adjust to the light. When he removed the hood of his
rainjacket I saw that his hair was receding and pulled back in a
stringy pony tail. I thought he was in his mid-forties. His eyes were
light gray and rather beautiful, wide-set and thickly lashed, but he
suffered from an active case of what looked like cystic acne. The boils
distorted otherwise regular features. His mouth was thin, his nose
indeterminate. He was short, skinny, and ugly.

The silence got to me. "Ms. Fiedler said you were interested
in renting my apartment. Why don't you come into the back room
and take off your rain gear? Would you like a cup of hot coffee? You
must be cold."