Small Town Girl (2 page)

The wide highway stretched before her. The early summer day was warm and clear, and the traffic was relatively light. Lauren had always enjoyed driving. It gave her a chance to be alone with her thoughts. She steered the car easily into the middle lane, accelerated to seventy-five miles an hour, and adjusted herself for the long trip.

Just outside New Haven, Lauren saw the large green sign. White lettering proclaimed: SPRINGFIELD MA, I-91, LEFT LANE. Lauren switched to the exit lane. Once on Interstate 91, the traffic subsided to almost nothing. She knew she could stay on this road all the way to Vermont, following the Connecticut River north. As she settled in for the drive, Lauren remembered that her grandmother had called it “the road that led people home.” An odd little flutter rose up, unbidden, inside her. To dispel this sudden onslaught of feeling, Lauren consciously began to think of her wedding, meticulously going over the details in her head.

It was to be one of the most amazing weddings New York society had seen in a very long time. Celebrities would be attending. Business people from all over the world would be there. Vera Wang was designing the dress already!

Lauren smiled happily to herself as she gave her mind free rein.
I’ve done all right
, she thought, mentally patting herself on the back.
I broke out of the hippy mode. I got myself a terrific job, and I worked my way up the social and economic ladder. And now I’m marrying Charles Hobart.

Lauren thought back to the first time she and Charles had met. It had been at a fundraiser for the museum. Charles was contributing a great deal of money, and he was the guest of honor. His donation would put the museum’s endowment well in excess of the Board of Trustees’ goal. The board members had been delirious with the fact that they had scored such a coup! A huge donation from Charles Hobart. Lauren had had to suffer through two weeks of lugubrious meetings while the Board had decided everything from the menu to the speakers to which works of art should be showcased in the function room on that night.

Lauren remembered the night in minute detail. As curator, she’d had to sit at the head table next to Charles Hobart, introduce him, and stroke his ego with scintillating conversation. She was to be professional and friendly without being obsequious. She had dressed carefully in a white knit dress with a high neck. It had flattered her trim figure, hugging her bust, nipping in her neat waist with a black leather belt, and outlining her athletic hips while still appearing modest. The only jewelry she had worn was a pair of drop diamond earrings, a present she had given herself upon her appointment as head curator. She had pulled her thick, golden blond hair back into a soft classic French twist, more sophisticated than the slightly haphazard up-do or ponytail she wore daily.

Lauren had sat beside Charles Hobart and had chatted politely and intelligently all through the speeches, the dinner, and finally, the award to Charles himself. She had found him cosmopolitan and urbane, with a wry sense of humor. He was a mature man, perhaps twenty to twenty-five years older than Lauren, with smooth gray, almost white, hair and steel blue eyes. He was tall and physically fit, and his expensive suit fit him to perfection. His even features and deep chuckle made him attractive, although Lauren had the feeling he held himself in check, held something back, that his laughter never boomed forth in hearty peels. He was a man who was adept at controlling and manipulating whatever situation developed around him.

She had been utterly unprepared when he’d called her at her office the following Friday evening.

“This is Charles Hobart,” he had said in his deep, smooth voice. “I was wondering if you might come with me to the theater and dinner afterward at Nobu?”

Lauren was so taken off guard, she’d stuttered, “T-T-Tonight?”

Charles had chuckled softly. “Yes. I know it’s short notice, but I took the liberty of asking Debbie Johnston if you were in a relationship. She said no, so I took my chances. Yes, tonight.”

Debbie Johnston was chair of the Board of Trustees. Lauren’s initial indignation at the unpermitted sharing of her personal information had been almost immediately overcome by her capitulation to flattery. “Well, I — ” she’d stammered. “Yes, I’ll go.”

“Wonderful!” said Charles Hobart, as a man to whom the possibility of rejection had never occurred. “I’ll pick you up at the museum in an hour.”

They’d had a lovely evening. They had seen
Jersey Boys
at the August Wilson Theater on West 52nd Street, not far from her little apartment in Murray Hill. Afterward, the dinner at Nobu had been beyond delicious. Then they had taken a romantic trip around the city, winding slowly through Central Park in Charles’s chauffeur-driven Bentley, talking about incidentals, getting to know one another. It had been the wee hours of the morning when he’d dropped her at the door of the modest, post-war building common to the neighborhood. He’d given her a chaste kiss on the cheek as she turned to go inside, but he hadn’t left without securing a date for the following weekend — in Paris…

Adjusting her position in the driver’s seat, Lauren lifted her left hand to the top of the steering wheel. The large gem caught the late afternoon sun and split the light into a million sparkles, dazzling Lauren’s eyes. Yes, she thought, she’d done well for herself, managing to hold the interest of one of the most powerful businessmen in the country until he had proposed marriage. A simple signing of a prenup later, and they were planning the wedding.

Lauren’s thoughts darkened a little at the thought of the prenuptial agreement. It was rather a sordid detail to what should be a mutually happy occasion.
However,
she sighed to herself,
that’s how things are done now
. It was only prudent. It was only professional. It was for everyone’s protection.

Lauren was beginning to get tired. She shifted her legs and glanced at her watch.
Not too bad
, she thought, looking up to find the nearest highway sign. There it was, ahead of her. Exit 6, one mile. Finally! She would be glad to get there. No more than half an hour left to her drive. She slowed the car and took the exit off Interstate 91 to Route 103 North. It was amazing how she remembered the way, as though she had traveled it yesterday and not three years ago. She drove the ten miles to town at the posted fifty mile an hour speed limit, looking around at the fields and trees. She turned off the air conditioning in the car and opened the window. The breeze swirled in, rustling her hair almost affectionately and bringing with it the scents of fresh-turned earth, green leaves, and the first flowers of summer.

As she drove, she was shocked to feel her eyes well up with tears. She couldn’t imagine why that would happen. She brushed them away with the back of her hand. It must be some strange nostalgic reaction, she thought ironically. She slowed the car as she drove into the little village. Yes, it was all familiar. It hadn’t changed a bit, she thought, somewhat derisively.
These people must be stuck in a time warp!

There was the little mom-and-pop grocery store on the corner. The main street was lined with prettily painted houses in the Victorian style and the rambling Traveler’s Inn. On the small green in the middle of town was the war memorial. A bronze soldier stood guard over the names of the fallen in a circle of tenderly-cared-for geraniums, lobelia, and sweet alyssum.

Lauren drove slowly past the big brick church with its old cemetery, surrounded by the high moss-covered stone wall. She couldn’t help but admit to herself that it was really quite beautiful. A right-hand turn at the end of the green took her up over a quiet street, studded here and there with more recently built homes, mostly white clapboarded Capes in the traditional New England style. They were neat houses, set back from the road, encircled by manicured lawns that spread out from them like the dresses of ladies of a bygone era.

Following the dogleg at the end of the street, Lauren made another right-hand turn. Now she was on the dirt road that climbed up the hill to her grandmother’s house. There were very few houses on this road, and the smell of pine-scented woods flooded in the open window of her car. The road was narrow and not very steep, but it climbed steadily until the woods fell away and the old hay fields that bordered her grandmother’s property opened up before her. A short distance more and she could see the house, sitting serenely on top of the hill, its picket fence a little askew from neglect, but still graceful and shaded by the giant old maples standing like sentinels along the road. The house was large, two full stories under a peaked roof. It was white clapboarded with dark green shutters and a wraparound porch that faced south and west to catch the most sun in this land of long, harsh winters.

Lauren pulled into the driveway, parked her car, and got out. She yawned and stretched her arms into the air, twisting her body from side to side, limbering herself after the long drive. Then she walked into the front yard.

It was late afternoon, and the sunlight was coming from the west, softly filtered through the maple, beech, ash, and oak trees that grew along the stone wall around the perimeter of the property. Through the hedge of lilacs at the far end of the lawn, Lauren looked out across the graceful and lushly foliated hills that gave Vermont its title as the Green Mountain State. She was in the heart of ski country, and although most of her time here had been spent during the summers, she could pick out the ski areas, rising around her in the distance. There was Stratton to the south, and Bromley Mountain. To the north, Okemo, and if she turned and looked back over her shoulder, she could see Ascutney, the closest and wildest one, rising protectively up over the Connecticut River Valley.

A flood of memories deluged her mind, and Lauren struggled to sort them out. She saw herself as a little girl with braided hair, climbing trees, oblivious to skinned knees and knuckles, just to peek in a bird’s nest and see the baby fledglings huddled together awaiting their next meal. She could hear the frantic squawks of the mother and father robins and her grandmother’s call, admonishing her, “Lauren, don’t be bothering those birds. They need some privacy!”

And she remembered the rainy days, too, when she was forced to stay inside. She and Gramma would make chocolate-chip cookies, which Gramma called by the old fashioned name, Tollhouse cookies. She remembered the little room upstairs where she used to sleep, always lulled by the purring of a warm cat nestled cozily under her chin.

“Well,” she said out loud to herself, “I might as well go inside and assess the situation.” She crossed the lawn to the porch, the long, uncut grass tickling her bare legs.

Inside the house smelled musty, but there was no evidence of burst pipes or a leaky roof. Someone had at least kept the heat on in the winter. Lauren wandered slowly from room to room. She was surprised by her feeling of nostalgia. The house was almost exactly as she’d remembered it. The old white enameled kitchen table and caned-seated chairs still sat in front of the large kitchen window. Lauren could remember sitting there, patiently waiting for her grandmother to come in from the garden with fresh mint for their afternoon iced tea and homemade chocolate chip cookies. In the dining room, the built-in china cupboard still protected the china and crystal. Lauren opened the glass door carefully and took out a delicate stemmed goblet.
This must be almost a hundred years old
, she thought,
how odd my mother just left all this stuff here with no regard as to what it had meant to the woman who treasured it. Well, that was Mom.

She returned the goblet to its place on the shelf and continued on into the living room. The old sofa slouched in front of the fireplace. Lauren recalled the pleasant evenings when she would curl up on the sofa while her grandmother sat in the overstuffed chair and read her bedtime stories. The old floor reading lamp still stood at attention behind the chair. On the wall, Lauren saw the shadow box that displayed the ribbons her grandmother had won for her daylilies. Those flowers had garnered the top prize year after year at the county fair. Lauren sighed and returned to the kitchen.

The refrigerator was running, so she knew the electricity was on. Her parents had likely arranged for a neighbor to keep a check on such things. Lauren was thankful for the refrigerator. It was empty, but at least it was cold. She went back out the screen door to her car and carried in the few supplies she’d brought up from the city. She had bottled water, a small carton of half-and-half, a coffee maker, and some freshly ground coffee. She put the liquids and the coffee in the refrigerator and set the coffee maker on the soapstone countertop.

Then she turned to the kitchen sink and turned the faucet. There was a hiss and a spit, and water began to flow.
That’s a good sign
, Lauren thought. She felt grubby from the drive and ran her hands under the cold water. She picked up a bar of soap that still lay in the soap dish and lathered her hands. Then she twisted the quaint porcelain knob marked “H” and waited for the water to warm up. It did not. There was no hot water. No hot water! Lauren blew through her nose with exasperation. Hot water was something she would absolutely have to have if she was going to stay here for a couple of nights. She couldn’t see herself filling a bathtub with water she had heated on the stove in the old tea kettle. She would just call a plumber.

She reached for the old phone book that lay covered with dust on the kitchen table. It was five years old, but she would take her chances. Flipping through the yellow pages at the back, she found Cochran Plumbing and Heating. She noticed with satisfaction that they were located in town. Now if she could only get them to come out here this late in the afternoon. She reached in her pocket for her iPhone and punched in the number.