Even fortified with a substantial sundae, Meg remembered whining, “Why did we have to come? I’m missing Andrea’s birthday party.”
Her mother had sighed. “I know it’s been dull for you, sweetie, but they’re our relatives. And they’re old and alone. The house is lovely, though, isn’t it?”
“I dunno.” Meg had poked at her melting ice cream, and her mother had dropped the subject.
Funny thing—she didn’t remember seeing the orchard.
Almost thirty years later, here she was. It was a good thing she hadn’t remembered the house, or she would never have agreed to her mother’s scheme. Western Massachusetts in January was cold and damp when it wasn’t snowing; the house was correspondingly cold and damp. And she was beginning to wonder if the house resented her: from the day she had arrived, things had started to fall apart. First she had discovered that the heating system was on its last legs (if heating systems had legs), and she couldn’t use the handsome fireplace in the front room unless she relined the flue, which would cost a few thousand dollars. And all the original multipaned windows leaked like sieves, sending eddies of cold air through every room in unexpected locations, but storm windows would cost another few thousand dollars.
What had she been thinking? Meg, you’re an idiot! You should have taken one look and gone straight back to Boston and found yourself another nice, safe—clean! warm!—job in finance. She had solid skills, a good track record, and connections—she could have found something. Let Mom worry about renovating this dump—or maybe just razing it and letting some college professor build the minimansion he wanted, full of brushed steel and plate glass. Meg was beginning to wonder if she could possibly make enough money out of the sale to justify all the work she was putting into the place, not to mention the cash. Right, Mom— a little cleanup, a few touches here and there, and call the Realtor. Ha! Why would anyone want to buy a house with wonky heating, plumbing, and wiring? And even if they were crazy enough to overlook those not-so-little flaws, it was hard to see past the flaking paint, peeling (and hideous) wallpaper, cracking plaster, creaking boards … the list went on and on. Any sensible home buyer would take one look and run.
But still … Meg drifted over to the parlor window that overlooked her driveway. Beyond it, past the level patch of lawn, the far side of the rustic split-rail fence, the ground sloped down to a sea of grass, golden now in winter, and then to the dark tree line. It was soothing, peaceful, lovely.
With her luck it was a swamp, complete with a population of monster mosquitoes.
The to-do list just kept growing. She had blithely assumed that it would take only a couple of months to whip the place into shape and put it on the market. But she hadn’t taken into account the fact that there was no way to paint the exterior until the weather warmed up. Or deal with the roof and gutters. Or repoint the foundation—the latest addition to the list, thanks to Frances. As the to-do list lengthened, the projected renovation expenses increased, and the bottom line scared Meg, especially since she knew the tally was still incomplete.
But then, there was the orchard …
Meg lifted her chin. If she couldn’t tackle the outside projects now, that left all the inside chores. Unfortunately, every time she took a step forward, something fell on her head. She had been looking forward to stripping off the tacky wallpaper in the parlor, but when she had pulled at a loose corner, she found the plaster underneath—apparently original to the house, if the clumps of horsehair in it were any indication—was crumbling, and if she wanted to paint or paper it over again, it would have to be repaired, filled in, spackled—whatever the heck it was called. And she was scared to start stripping paint off the interior woodwork when she couldn’t open the windows for ventilation. She had visions of herself overcome with fumes, and no one finding her body for months. Although her corpse would probably freeze before it rotted.
So the calendar kept shifting forward. Frances said May was a good time to sell, so she was going to focus on putting the house on the market then. Lots of families looked to move at the end of the school year when the weather was nice. This house would be great for a small family, if the school district was any good. Meg had no idea about that. And she liked Frances’s idea about researching the place. Maybe some famous person had lived here or slept here or walked by here, and that might make a buyer overlook a few of the house’s more egregious shortcomings. Maybe the blooming orchard would distract the buyers from the peeling paint.
May. Right now she was going to concentrate on being ready to sell by May.
3
Lunch was out of the question—she wasn’t going near the reeking kitchen right now. Thank heavens she had even found a plumber: it had taken three tries to reach a human instead of an answering machine.
“Chapin Brothers,” a cheerful male voice had boomed.
“Oh, hi, thank goodness. Look, my kitchen sink is spewing, uh, nasty stuff, and I haven’t dared look at any of the other plumbing, but I really need help, like, right now.” Meg knew she sounded desperate, which was probably not a smart bargaining strategy, but then, she was desperate.
“Yep, sounds like you’ve got a problem. Where are you?”
“Eighty-one County Line Road—the big white house.”
“Oh, yeah. I know the place—the Warren house. Can you hold out for an hour or two? I’ve got to wrap something up here, but I can swing by after.” The male voice on the other end was reassuring.
“That would be wonderful,” Meg had replied. “Thank you so much. I’ll be waiting right here. Oh, let me give you my number in case you need to call me or anything.” She rattled off her cell phone number. “See you soon, then.” She realized after she had hung up that she hadn’t asked about the cost, but what choice did she have? She knew zip about plumbing, beyond changing the odd faucet washer now and then.
She checked her watch: it had been two hours since she had called, and no sign of this Chapin plumber person, but she didn’t think calling him again would help. What to do while she waited? Nothing that involved water, clearly. Maybe she could rip up the ugly green shag carpet in the parlor. No doubt if she started something, that would be the precise moment the plumber would arrive.
Unfortunately she had miscalculated how much dirt, dust, and other unknown filth could accumulate in and under cheap carpeting over a few decades, so after she had spent an hour dislodging the bilious shag from its tacking bars, she was filthy. Bad idea, Meg, especially when you don’t know when your next shower will be. She was beginning to wonder if the dirt would embed itself permanently in all her creases, a lifetime souvenir of her epic battle with the house. And the stains in the carpet and the wood floor beneath suggested that the Tuckers and their predecessors had owned pets—poorly trained ones. Now there was a whole new aroma of antique cat pee mingling with the sewer stink wafting from the kitchen. Worse, true to her prediction, she was interrupted by a knocking at her front door. Meg sent up a quick prayer: let it be the plumber. She swiped sweat off her forehead and hurried to yank open the door.
“Thank goodness you’re here! It’s in the …” Her voice trailed off as she processed the fact that it was not a plumber who was standing on her granite steps, but someone else. Someone she knew well. Her ex-boyfriend Chandler Hale.
He appeared as startled to see her as she was to see him. “Margaret?” he asked, his voice incredulous.
“Chandler,” Meg answered, trying to keep her voice level. “What are you doing here?”
Chandler still looked bewildered. “I was looking for the Tuckers—I understood they lived here. But I’ve been sending them letters and they haven’t responded.”
So he hadn’t been looking for her, Meg thought, not sure if she was relieved or disappointed. “They rented, and they’ve been gone for over three months. I assume they had their mail forwarded. What did you want with them?”
“May I come in?”
Meg wavered. She had left Chandler behind in Boston, and she wanted hi
m to stay there. She looked past him to see a woman standing by his car. Her clothes were elegant and completely inadequate against the bitter wind, and her high-heeled boots were more decorative than practical. She paced as she talked on a small cell phone plastered to her ear. Meg nodded toward her. “What about your friend?”
Chandler glanced behind him. When he caught the woman’s eye, he waved her over, and she picked her way across Meg’s uneven path. “Yes, Chandler?”
“Meg, this is Lucinda Patterson, my assistant.” He turned to the woman. “This is Margaret Corey—I may have mentioned her.”
Lucinda gave Chandler a brief and enigmatic look before extending her hand to Meg. “Please, call me Cinda. Chandler?”
“Why don’t you finish up those calls while I talk to Margaret? I won’t be long. Sit in the car and keep warm.” Chandler was clearly dismissing her and Cinda knew it, but she didn’t argue.
“Nice to meet you, Margaret.” She turned and stalked back to the car.
Chandler turned back to Meg. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” While no hair was out of place, and his finely tailored Brooks Brothers wool overcoat was flawless, Chandler was shivering and the tip of his aquiline nose was red. Meg didn’t have the heart to leave him standing in the icy breeze on her granite stoop, even if out in the cold was where she’d most like to see him. She stepped back reluctantly and let him in, closing the door behind him. This time it took two tries. She followed him to the center of the parlor, where he had stopped to take in the shredded wallpaper and mound of mangy carpet in the middle of the floor.
“Um, what a lovely place you have here.” His voice was tinged with a hint of sarcasm.
Meg had no patience for chitchat. Right now she wanted a plumber, not an ex-lover. Even from two rooms away she could catch a whiff of sewer gas, and she was sure that it hadn’t escaped Chandler’s refined sensibilities. “You don’t have to be polite—I know it’s a pit. Chandler, what are you doing here?”
“My apologizes for dropping in unannounced, but the phone number I had wasn’t working—the absent Tuckers again, I assume. I certainly didn’t expect to find you here.”
“My mother owns this house, or rather, we both do now. Can you get to the point? I’m expecting someone.”
“Of course. May we sit?”
Meg looked around. The elderly overstuffed chairs would do. She stalked over to one and swept the sheet off. “There. Sit.” She did the same with another chair and sat facing him.
Chandler settled himself gingerly into the dusty depths of the plush-covered chair. “I saw what must be your mother’s name on the property records, but I never made the connection. I’d hoped the Tuckers would know how to contact the owner, which now turns out to be you.” He smiled. “So, are you empowered to act on your mother’s behalf with regard to this property?”
Whatever she had expected to hear, this was not it. “Yes. Actually, as I said, I’m co-owner now, and I have her power of attorney. Why do you want to know?”
“What do you know about the Granford Community Development Project? Granford Grange?”
Meg shook her head. “Not a thing. I’ve only been here a few weeks, and I haven’t read the newspapers or talked to anyone. I’m fixing up the house to sell.” Looking around her and seeing the place as Chandler must see it, she felt the full idiocy of her statement.
“Ah. Well, then, let me give you the bare outlines. Puritan Bank is providing financing to a consortium of developers who are planning a commercial project along Route 202.”
“That’s nice,” Meg said neutrally, as her mind churned. Chandler’s presence here meant that Puritan Bank must want something. The house? For a moment Meg saw all her plans crumbling. Then her banker’s side kicked in: if the bank offered a good price, she could be rid of the white elephant sooner rather than later, and she could skip all the messy renovation. She realized that Chandler was still talking.
“In order for this to happen,” Chandler went on, “the developers need to acquire the parcels of land that lie along the highway, and that includes a portion of this property.”
“The house?”
“No, just a strip that lies along the highway. Unoccupied land, and you can’t even see it from here. If you’re concerned, it wouldn’t affect the value of this place much at all. In fact, it might be a good thing for you in the long run. I understand that the market for rural homes is somewhat depressed, and the presenceof more modern shops and other amenities nearby might be a plus.”
The orchard. That must be the piece of land that Chandler was talking about. Meg felt a pang of disappointment. She’d barely had time to take in its existence, and now Chandler was aiming a bulldozer at it. Christopher would be so disappointed. And she was annoyed that Frances hadn’t mentioned anything to her about this project—unless it was totally hush-hush. “This is all public knowledge?”
“Oh, all quite public—open and aboveboard. We are working closely with the town to make this project happen, and let me tell you that there’s a lot of excitement about it.” He looked pleased with himself.
“So what do you want from me?” Meg asked.
“At the moment, very little. There are some administrative formalities to be completed by the town, and you—or your mother—as owner of record will no doubt be contacted by the proper authorities when the time comes. Oh, and there should be an official vote of approval by the town, at a Town Meeting scheduled for next month. You might want to attend, although it’s not required.”
A Town Meeting was something else Meg had never heard of, but she wasn’t about to ask Chandler about it. She had no desire to prolong his stay. “I’ll think about it,” she said curtly. “Is that all?”
Before he could answer, Meg’s cell phone rang and she grabbed it, holding up a finger to Chandler. “Hello?”
“Meg, it’s Seth Chapin. I’m awfully sorry, but I’ve gotten kind of tied up with something and I won’t be able to make it today after all.”
Meg felt a stab of despair, although she wasn’t exactly surprised. Nothing had been going her way lately. She watched as Chandler drifted around the room, a contemptuous half smile on his face. He picked up a book that had emerged from under the dust cover and leafed through it idly.
She turned away from Chandler and spoke. “When can you get here?”
“First thing in the morning, I promise. I’m sorry to do this to you, and I’m usually much more reliable.”
Yeah, right. “All right, if that’s the best you can do.”
“Thanks. Eight o’clock all right with you?”
“Fine. See you then. And thanks for calling.”
Meg turned around again to find Chandler looking at her. “Plumbing crisis—the plumber can’t make it until tomorrow.”
“Then perhaps you could join me for dinner?” Chandler asked.
Meg considered. She had no desire to spend any more time with Chandler, but it would be childish to say no—particularly since the alternative was sitting here in a cold and stinking house without water. “I guess.”
“Such enthusiasm.” He chuckled. He looked at his elegant watch. “I have a meeting with a local contractor, but I could swing back and pick you up at, say, seven?”
“Fine. By the way, how did you come to be interested in Granford?”
“Something you said once—about how you’d been through here as a child and had always remembered it as the perfect sleepy New England town. Puritan Bank was looking for a likely place to invest, so I took a run out this way, scouting for locations, so to speak. And here we are.”
Meg had no memory of such a conversation, but it could have happened. She remembered more than once spinning out tales to entertain Chandler, and perhaps she had colored her recollections a bit too brightly, to keep his attention. Sorry, Granford. Although she had to agree: this was a prototypical small town, with its steepled white church overlooking the small-town green surrounded by tidy eighteenth- and nineteenth-century houses. Unfortun
ately it also suffered from many of the ills of small towns that time had passed by, including deteriorating infrastructure and an inadequate tax base. Obviously it was ripe for exploitation by someone like Chandler Hale and his merry band of developers. Still, that wasn’t any of her concern, except as it affected the value of her property—and if the deal went through, it could be a good thing for her. As long as she didn’t need to see much more of Chandler Hale.
“I’ll need to be going now,” he said, neatly buttoning his coat. “I can give you more details on the project over dinner. Oh, and may I borrow this?” He held up the book.
Meg peered at the book’s spine. “Oh, that history of Granford.” She had pulled it off a bookshelf in the house, thinking to read it, but had mislaid it under the drop cloths. “No problem— it came with the house. It’s probably been here since it was written. I think there’s an inscription from the author to the last owners. So, I’ll see you at seven.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Chandler replied, and Meg wondered if he was being sarcastic again. “I’m glad I stumbled on you here.” He tucked the book under his arm and headed for the door, Meg trailing in his wake. She watched as he made his way back to his car, where Cinda waited, the cell phone still at her ear, then shut the door firmly. No sense in wasting any more of the air she was paying too much to heat. Then she leaned against the door and shut her eyes. Damn: Chandler Hale. She thought she had left him behind in Boston, yet here he was. And six months was not long enough to purge him from her system.
One Bad Apple Page 3
