One Bad Apple

by Sheila Connolly

  She heard Chandler’s Mercedes exit the driveway with undue speed, sending up a spray of gravel. Thank you, Chandler, for digging another hole in my poor driveway.

  Damn him. Meg looked quickly at the kitchen clock. She had two hours to clean up, and if she wanted to wash off the grime, it would have to be out of a bucket. A shower was out of the question and her hair was a mess. She should have said no to dinner, but Chandler had caught her off guard. Still, what did it matter how she looked this evening? She didn’t need to impress Chandler Hale.

  But she had standards—and she didn’t want to face Chandler’s critical eye. People had managed in this house for at least a century without plumbing, and she’d just have to improvise. After all, she came from hardy New England stock, didn’t she? She took a deep breath before venturing into the kitchen to look for a big pot in which to boil water.

  Upstairs, doing what she could with a sinkful of hot water, she considered Chandler’s ad hoc invitation. Six months earlier, after nearly a year of dinners and concerts, just when she had begun to wonder if it was time to take their relationship to the next level, he had suddenly announced that he thought they should stop seeing each other, leaving her hurt and bewildered. Well, she had to admit that maybe her pride was more hurt than her heart, but the rejection still stung, all the more because she hadn’t seen it coming.

  And in the Boston banking community, it had been hard to avoid running into him, or someone who knew him. If she was honest with herself, that was one of the reasons why she had been so happy to take her bank’s severance package, why she had jumped so quickly into a venture that took her halfway across the state, away from Boston. Away from Chandler’s measuring eyes, which always made her wonder just how she had failed.

  And now he had insinuated himself into her new life in Granford. Why?

  She was dressed too early, and sat at the dining room table leafing through a tattered magazine, waiting for Chandler. When he knocked, Meg wrenched open the door to find him standing on the step, impeccably dressed as always. She was suddenly conscious that she hadn’t had a decent haircut in months, and her short brown hair probably looked like a haystack.

  “Are you ready? I thought we could go to the Lord Jeffery in Amherst.”

  Didn’t she look ready? She bit back a sarcastic response—no point in starting off on the wrong foot. “I am. I’ll just get my coat.”

  As she collected her coat and gloves, she reflected on why Chandler always managed to get under her skin. She was a competent woman, and she didn’t need to flinch at Chandler’s scrutiny. Besides, he was the one who had asked her to dinner; therefore, there must be something he wanted from her. At least she’d get a nice meal out of him before he laid out just what his real motive was.

  He didn’t ask for directions to Amherst, which prompted Meg to say, “You know your way around here. Have you spent much time in this area?”

  “Recently, yes, getting this project started. But I must say, it’s lovely, peaceful—a welcome change from Boston.”

  “I thought you loved Boston. And you couldn’t see the point of the country—you know, all those trees and cute little towns with fake antique stores and ersatz colonial pubs?”

  “Perhaps I’ve reconsidered. But what about you? Are you enjoying your bucolic interlude?”

  Meg laughed. Even if she had hated it, she wouldn’t admit it to Chandler. “Yes, I am. As you say, it’s a pleasant change.”

  “Do you like Granford?” Chandler’s smooth baritone could easily be heard over the velvet purr of his Mercedes’ engine.

  “I do. Although I’m just beginning to meet people.” A real estate agent and a professor, so far. Not exactly a huge social circle.

  “Is it a close-knit community, based on what you’ve seen? How do they respond to newcomers like you?”

  Meg reflected for a moment before speaking. “I’m not really sure. From what little I’ve read or heard since I’ve been here, there’s been a good deal of turnover in recent years, new families moving in, so outsiders aren’t as rare as they once were. But I’m sure you know that—you were always good at doing your homework for a project.”

  “Ah, is that a compliment? But of course you’re right—I and my staff did a good deal of research on this town and its demographic profile.” Chandler shot a quick glance at her. But he lapsed into silence until they arrived at Amherst, a town that Meg was growing increasingly fond of. It was collegiate—not that it had much choice, with Amherst College smack in the middle, and the much larger UMass Amherst only a mile or two beyond. The Lord Jeffery Inn faced the town green, rambling over the better part of a block. Meg had heard that the restaurant there emphasized its homely colonial roots, but the extensive menu impressed her. She indulged herself in what the menu called caneton aux pommes et poivre vert—duck with apples and green peppercorns. Maybe she had apples on the brain, she mused, but it sounded tempting.

  She decided she deserved a little pampering, and sat back and let Chandler take charge of the evening. He did it so well, with or without an ulterior motive. Their conversation flowed smoothly, as did the excellent wine. Toward the end of the meal she realized he was watching her. “What?”

  “You’re blooming. This country living seems to be good for you.”

  Chandler’s words always seemed to hold more than one meaning. Was he mocking her? She decided to take his statement at face value. “I’m enjoying myself.” She twirled her wine-glass, catching the candlelight, and said, without looking at him, “Chandler, why are we here?”

  He sat back in his chair. “I can’t pass an evening with an old friend?”

  She ignored his choice of the word “friend” and cocked a skeptical eyebrow at him. “You were happy not seeing me in Boston. Why here, why now?”

  “Ah, Meg, you underestimate yourself. But you’re right—this is more than touching base. But before we get into that, tell me: don’t you miss playing a part in bigger things? You were doing well at the bank. I know they let you go, but you could have found something else at your level.”

  “Chandler, I don’t miss it. I like what I’m doing at the moment. It’s not permanent—once I’ve sold the house, I’ll move on, find a new job. But maybe it was a good thing that I got pushed out of my rut.” She was mildly surprised at her own response. Did she really believe that? However, that wasn’t the most important issue at the moment. “Why are you asking? Were you planning to offer me a job?”

  Chandler took his time responding. “The thought had crossed my mind. I could use someone in place here for this project, long term, and someone of your intelligence and experience would be ideal. But short term I need to know where the support for the project lies, as well as who is opposing it. No matter how strong or convincing the proposal looks on paper, there is still a human element to be considered. I’d rather have the local people supporting this project than fighting me every step of the way. Of course, you know this will come to a public vote.”

  “Really,” she said noncommittally. But his question interested her. Chandler was asking for her help. Did the project need help? Meg resolved to find out what she could—for her own sake, since her property was involved. “You want me to be your local informant? And what would I derive from this?”

  “I could see to it that you receive an advantageous price for your property.”

  She stared at him, and as she did, anger percolated to the surface. Chandler was asking her to spy on her neighbors, the peopleof Granford, for a price. Worse, for all she knew he was offering her a bribe, although he had chosen his words carefully. She could see his viewpoint: she had no ties to the community, and she had already told him of her intention to leave when she sold the house. Why should she care about the people here? And yet … she did. The local citizens weren’t numbers on a page, they were people who had owned and farmed these fields for generations. To Chandler, they were percentage points in a demographic analysis, but as far as she was concerned, they deserved to hav
e a voice in the decision-making process, and she wasn’t about to tip the balance in Chandler’s favor by giving him information so that he could run around sweet-talking the naysayers.

  “Chandler, I’m not interested. Even if I did have stronger local connections, it doesn’t feel right to me. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding someone else to be your mole.” She stood up abruptly, surprising both of them. “And I’d like to go home now. It’s been a long day.”

  He stared at her for a long, silent moment, and Meg wondered if she saw anger lurking in his eyes. Chandler was used to getting what he wanted, particularly from her. She found she didn’t care.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said at last, in a neutral voice. “I’ll settle the bill.”

  As she stalked off to the ladies’ room, she saw Chandler make a peremptory gesture. The bill appeared, a credit card flashed. By the time she returned, the beaming waitress had returned it to Chandler in record time. He helped Meg into her coat and held her elbow lightly to guide her out of the restaurant. Always the gentleman, was Chandler Hale, even when thwarted. Outside the air was icy, but Meg inhaled deeply. It felt good: clean, fresh.

  They spoke little as Chandler drove back to Granford. The roads were mostly empty, but he concentrated on his driving. When he pulled into her driveway, Meg got out of the car before he could help her, and went before him to open the front door. He followed her, and on the doorstep she turned to him.

  “Thank you for a lovely dinner, Chandler. I enjoyed it, and I appreciate your asking me. But I don’t think we have anything more to talk about. Good luck with your project. Good night.”

  And without waiting for his response, she went inside and shut the door, then turned and headed back to the kitchen. She dumped her coat on the back of a chair, then, holding her breath, helped herself to a glass of juice and fled back to the dining room table, trying to sort out what had just happened. She felt a small bubble of glee well up inside her: she had stood up to Chandler. She had said no to him. Let him find someone else to spy on this town. And there was more: she felt proud of her decision. Maybe she was finally done with Chandler.

  She was wrong.

  4

  It was still a few minutes shy of eight o’clock the next morning when Meg heard a vehicle pull into her driveway. Peering out through the dining room window— after a brief plunge into the stinking kitchen to make some essential coffee, she had retreated quickly—she saw a large white van with “Chapin Brothers” emblazoned on the side. Meg waited until the plumber climbed out, then went to her front door and held it open for him, studying him as he approached. Early thirties, a little taller than she was, with sandy hair and a lot of freckles. “Hi. You’re the plumber?”

  “That’s me. Seth Chapin. You’re Meg?”

  “Yes.” She slammed the door shut behind him, bemused. He was not what she had envisioned as a plumber. Her mental image ran more to a middle-aged guy in a baseball cap, with a gut hanging over his low-slung jeans. Seth was about her age, in good shape, and clean. And not bad-looking.

  Seth was looking around her hallway with clear admiration. “Nice. Sorry about bailing on you yesterday, but something came up at the last minute. So, what’s the problem?”

  Meg sighed. “I just moved in a couple of weeks ago, and things have been falling apart ever since.”

  “Yeah, these old places’ll do that. Gotta love ’em.”

  “Well, yesterday’s happy surprise was the plumbing.”

  Seth was in no hurry to follow her, but was studying the architecture. “You’ve got a great place here.”

  So everyone kept telling her. Meg was torn between pride and impatience to get on with the nasty business at hand. “You’ve seen it before?” she said, edging toward the kitchen and hoping that he would follow.

  “Sure. I think my dad did some work on the place years ago. My brother and I used to tag along. So, where’s the problem?”

  “What I’ve seen so far is in the kitchen. I’m scared to look any further.”

  Seth followed her to the kitchen and headed directly for the sink. He took one look at the pool of noxious sludge in the sink and shook his head. “Yep, that’s what I thought. Septic system’s backed up.”

  That did not sound good. “I have a septic system? What does that mean?” Feeling stupid, Meg tried to keep her voice from quavering.

  Seth turned and leaned against the counter, regarding her with a look of pity. “Where did you think your waste went?”

  “Sewers?”

  He shook his head. “Nope, you’re too far from town. You’ve got a septic system here. Your drains flow into a holding tank, and then there’s a septic field beyond that where it disperses. I don’t suppose you know where your lines are? Your holding tank? Or maybe how old it is?”

  Meg wrestled with a feeling of desperation. “No to all of those. But why did it just stop like this? I haven’t done anything to it.”

  “It happens. This has been a hard winter. Really cold, and the ground froze and stayed frozen. Those old cast-iron pipes get brittle, and sometimes you get tree roots working on them, too. Maybe that was just the last straw for the system. Let me poke around outside a bit and locate the parts of the system and where a break might be.”

  “But what am I supposed to do?” She could avoid flushing for only so long.

  Seth looked amused. “You got a friend you can stay with?”

  “No. I’m new here, and I haven’t met many people yet. Look, what’s the worst-case scenario?”

  “Replacing the septic system.”

  Ouch. That sounded ominous. “That’s the most extreme solution?”

  He nodded. “How many baths you got?”

  Meg counted quickly in her head. “Two, and one’s just a half. There’s the kitchen. And a washer, out there.” She waved vaguely at the door at the back of the kitchen, which led to a rather ramshackle room that linked the main house to the sagging barn.

  “Pretty standard, then. A few thousand, anyway. Depends.”

  Meg shut her eyes. Sure, another few thousand. Ka-ching, ka-ching went the cash register in her head. She wanted to cry.

  “Hey, you all right?”

  Meg opened her eyes to find the nice—if expensive—plumber looking at her with concern. She nodded. “Sure, I’m fine. I think my checkbook may be seriously ill, though.” Surely he must see this response a lot if he threw around figures in the thousands just to clear up a drainage problem.

  “Listen, can I take a look at the basement?”

  “Oh. Right. Basement.” It took Meg a moment to recall where the door was—she had been avoiding the basement since she had arrived. She had been down there once, reluctantly, to take a look at the ancient furnace, and had no intention of going down again. She had even let Frances check it out unaccompanied. She led Seth into the hall. “That’s it. Watch your head. I think the stairs were built for someone about five feet tall.”

  “Not a problem,” he said, plunging down the rickety wooden stairs.

  Then she could hear him banging on pipes. She refused to think about what Seth might find in the way of new plumbing disasters. Blast the man, he was whistling. At least he enjoyed his work.

  Meg sat down at the dining room table, resolutely ignoring the mess in the parlor and the stink emanating from the kitchen. She gazed out the window that overlooked the grassy field—the view was pretty, though it offered little comfort. Her eye fell on the bowl of apples she had set in the middle of the table a couple of days earlier. She’d found the bowl, an old salt-glazed blue one with an ominous crack, in the sideboard; the apples were Red Delicious she had picked up at the market outside of town. The colors had looked pretty together. How often had she bought apples without giving a thought to where they had come from? Now she had to think about that, with Christopher’s condemnation of commercial apple varieties ringing in her ears. She wondered what varieties she had growing in her orchard. Christopherwould know—she’d have to ask h
im, the next time she saw him.

  A few minutes later Seth reappeared, looking less cheerful than before, and Meg’s heart sank. “All right, hit me with the bad news.”

  “Doesn’t look good. Like I guessed, the system’s just plain old. If we’re lucky, could be as simple as a broken pipe near the house. That’d be the easiest and cheapest thing to fix. If you have to replace the septic tank, it’ll run you about two thou. If you need a new leach field, that’s another two or three thou. If you have to reinstall the existing field, it’ll get a lot more expensive. But let’s not worry about that just yet, okay?”

  “I don’t suppose you can stick a Band-Aid on it?” Meg said faintly.

  “Nah. The system’s at the end of its useful life. Sorry.” He looked at his watch. “Listen, today’s clear. I could have this done by the end of the day, if you can handle that.”

  “Do I have a choice?” Meg asked faintly.

  “Not really. Outhouses aren’t exactly approved anymore.”

  “Then I guess you’d better go ahead.” Meg felt sick. How many more four-figure fixes were going to sandbag her like this?

  “Let me poke around outside, then, get the lay of the land. The good news is, there’s plenty of room for a new septic field, if you need one. How much land is there, by the way?”

  “Somewhere around thirty acres, I think. About fifteen acres is orchard, I’m told. Up that way.” Meg waved vaguely.

  “Oh, right—the grove.” Seth had pulled a PDA out of his pocket and was scrolling through something. “Let me make a couple of calls—I’ll need to bring in a Bobcat to dig a trench, so I can get a look at things. And if we need to go for the new tank, I’ll line someone up to bring it over.”

  We? At least it looked like Seth was someone who could get things done. Meg sighed.

  Seth looked up and grinned. “Don’t worry—you can pay it off in installments.”