Rotten to the Core

by Sheila Connolly

  Meg opened a can of cat food and dumped it into the dish. “Yo, you impatient creature—here’s your dinner.” She wished it was as easy to produce her own. Between the unpredictability of her appliances, the exercise all this renovation was providing, and her lack of enthusiasm for cooking for one, she was actually losing weight—chalk up one small benefit to this monumental rehab project. And it would get worse before it got better. But it felt good to make progress, to see the changes happening. Or, in this case, to feel them under her feet.

  15

  By the next morning’s cold light Meg felt far less pleased with herself. While the kitchen floor’s boards lay revealed, they were still marred by generations of gunk that had to be removed somehow. Meg was leaning against a counter eating an English muffin when her phone rang.

  “Meg? It’s Rachel. You busy for lunch today?”

  “I’ve got a class this morning, and I wanted to go to a meeting in Amherst this evening, but the middle’s clear. What did you have in mind?”

  Rachel giggled. “I’ve got a surprise for you. But you have to come here to get it. Can you meet me at the house at noon?”

  “Sure. I hope I can get the black gunk out from under my fingernails.”

  “Gunk?”

  “I decided to tackle my kitchen floor.”

  “Meg, you’re nuts. See you later.”

  Meg smiled as she hung up the phone. Rachel sounded gleeful, and she wondered what kind of surprise she might have cooked up. With the Chapin family, she never knew what to expect. She could only hope that it didn’t take a truck to transport. Although, come to think of it, maybe she should trade her trusty two-door for a pickup truck. No doubt Seth could get her a deal on one. But she should think it through before she so much as mentioned the idea, or he’d show up with a truck the next day, pleased as punch.

  After her class Meg arrived at Rachel’s B&B promptly at noon, to find her friend waiting for her on the swing on her ornate porch, despite the chill in the air. Rachel stood up at the sight of her. “Good, you’re on time. Let’s go.”

  “What? Are we going out for lunch?”

  “Sort of. You’ll see. I’ll drive.”

  Meg settled herself in the passenger seat of Rachel’s car after dislodging a stack of kids’ toys and CD cases. “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise. Not far.”

  Rachel looked so pleased with herself that Meg stopped prying and settled back to watch the scenery. The deciduous trees were just beginning to show hints of spring color, more red than green, almost like fall in reverse. They passed farms, fields, convenience stores before Rachel finally turned into a long and winding drive. At the top of a hill they pulled up in front of a handsome one-story building that sprawled across the crest of the hill. Meg noticed a discreet sign next to the door under an imposing portico and looked at Rachel, who just smiled and climbed out of the car. Meg followed her into the building, where Rachel stopped in front of an oak reception desk.

  “Can you tell Ruth Ferry I’m here?” Rachel asked the young woman behind the desk.

  “Sure, Rachel. Bet she’s been dressed for an hour now.” The woman picked up a phone and punched a couple of buttons, then said, “Miss Ferry? Your friend is here.”

  Meg studied her surroundings. It was a retirement home of some sort, and a fairly luxurious one at that. Why had Rachel brought her here? And who was Ruth Ferry? She looked at Rachel to find her smiling at her.

  “All will be revealed. Have patience.”

  Whether or not the mysterious Ruth had been dressed and ready, it was still a few minutes before she appeared. She was a tall, slender woman with gleaming white hair, freshly permed. She wore a well-fitted shirtwaist dress in a discreet pattern and had a cardigan sweater draped across her shoulders. She walked carefully with a single cane, and as she approached, Meg’s estimate of her age inched upward. Eighty, at least. But still upright, and a commanding presence.

  “Rachel, my dear, it’s so kind of you to suggest an excursion. The food here is palatable but bland, and I do love to go to lunch. And this is Meg?”

  Meg stepped forward. “Yes. I’m Meg Corey.”

  Ruth cocked her head at Meg, her eyes bright. “You have the look of the Warrens. But let’s not get into that until we get to the restaurant. Rachel?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Rachel threw a grin at Meg as she looped her arm through Ruth’s and escorted her out to the car. “You sure you’ll be warm enough with just the sweater?”

  “My dear, let me enjoy the spring air without being bundled up in a cocoon. I’ve lasted eighty-seven years, and a little fresh air won’t do me in.”

  Rachel settled her gently in the passenger seat, and Meg climbed in behind, still mystified.

  Meg was surprised when Rachel pulled up in front of a small restaurant on the main street in downtown Amherst. “Would you help Ruth out of the car, Meg? And then I’ll park.”

  Meg got out of the car, but Ruth already had the door open and had planted her feet firmly on the sidewalk. “If you’ll just give me your hand, Meg.”

  Meg extended a hand and was surprised by the strength of Ruth’s grip as she pulled herself upright. Rachel handed her the cane and shut the passenger door, then sped down the street to a newly vacated parking space, leaving Meg standing on the curb with a hand on Ruth’s elbow. “We may as well go in. Have you eaten here before, Meg?”

  They turned toward the building and began a careful progress toward the door. “No, I haven’t. I haven’t lived around here very long yet, and there are a lot of places I haven’t discovered.”

  “The food is excellent—traditional French. I eat here as often as I can.”

  Ruth’s statement was borne out when the maitre d’ approached and welcomed her warmly. “Ah, madame, a pleasure, as always. Will you be comfortable in the corner table?”

  “You know I will, Albert, since I always ask for it. I’ve brought a new friend along. This is Meg Corey. You do eat French food, don’t you? I hope you’re not one of those silly salad girls.”

  Meg laughed. “No, I love French food. I’m happy to meet you, Albert. And this place smells wonderful.”

  They had just settled into their chairs when Rachel rushed in and threw herself into the third chair. “There! Have you ordered?”

  “I’ll have the special, whatever that is—it’s always excellent. Meg?”

  “That sounds fine.”

  “Make it three.” Rachel beamed at the young waiter, who scurried away, stopping to speak with Albert before heading to the kitchen. Albert approached the table. “Might I suggest the potage aux moules as a starter? And perhaps a glass of wine?”

  “Of course,” Ruth said. “Meg, you’ll join me.” It was an order, not a question, and Meg nodded assent.

  “Nothing for me, thanks,” Rachel said. “I’m driving.” Albert bowed slightly and vanished to the back of the small restaurant, leaving the three women alone.

  Ruth sat back in her chair and looked at Rachel. “I gather you’ve said nothing to Meg?”

  Rachel grinned. “Nope. Seth and I wanted to surprise her. I hope you don’t mind, but that way you can tell your own stories.”

  Ruth turned to Meg. “Rachel thought we should meet because I used to know the Warrens, when I was much younger,” she said. “I grew up on one of the adjacent farms.”

  “The Chapin place?”

  Ruth sat up straighter. “The Chapins bought the land from the Ferrys, some years ago.”

  “I see. So you knew Lula and Nettie Warren?”

  “I did. They were a bit older than I, but we attended school together, and they allowed me to tag along after them on occasion. Rachel tells me your mother inherited the place?”

  “Yes. I gather Lula and Nettie remembered that my mother was descended from—let me see if I’ve got this right—Lula and Nettie’s grandfather’s brother? Apparently there was no one else left. My mother and I own it jointly now.”

  Ruth nodded. �
��It should remain in the family. It pains me to think of that lovely land chopped up into tiny lots with ticky-tacky houses. Although the meadow wouldn’t permit such construction—too boggy. Yet Rachel tells me part of the Chapin land will be taken for commercial development?”

  “If all goes according to plan. Does that bother you?”

  Ruth sighed. “I have no say in the matter, and I recognize that life does move on. When I lived in Granford, we had little need of stores. We raised much of our own food, and we bartered for some things, or exchanged labor. There were a few crops that provided cash for those things we couldn’t make ourselves. You’re planning to manage the orchard?”

  “I hope to. I thought I’d give it a try and see if I could make a profit. You remember the orchard?”

  “Of course I do. Lovely thing, this time of year. Of course, when I was young everyone had at least a few fruit trees, if not an orchard. Warren’s Grove . . .” Her eyes went vague.

  She couldn’t possibly remember that far back, Meg thought. “It hasn’t been called that for years, has it?”

  “What? Oh, not officially, but I remember my grandparents talking about it. ‘Warren’s Grove’s bearing well this year,’ or, ‘Warren’s Grove’s got blight problems.’ Like it had a life of its own, apart from the people who tended it. Some great old varieties there, too, not like what you find in the markets these days. Pfaugh!”

  Meg suppressed a smile—Ruth sounded just like Christopher, who was at least a full generation younger. “I haven’t had a chance to explore all of it,” she said.

  “Do you know, the Warrens used to say that Johnny Appleseed himself planted some of those trees.”

  “Really? Was he from around here?”

  “No, he was born well east of here. Didn’t stay in Massachusetts long. But he spread seeds and saplings very widely. Who’s to say it’s not true?”

  Meg had a lot of questions she wanted to ask, but she did not want to be rude. Rachel sensed her reluctance, because she broke in, “Ruth, Meg’s probably too polite to ask, but I’m sure she’d like to know about your life on the farm. Especially, I bet, how you managed the farm as a single woman.”

  Meg smiled her thanks at Rachel, while waiting eagerly for Ruth’s answer. “You married, young lady?” Ruth began.

  “No.” Meg stopped, unsure if she should add something innocuous like “not yet.” But she didn’t want to imply that she disliked being unmarried, especially not in front of someone who had never been married herself.

  “You will be. You’re the type. I never married and never missed it. Men are more work than they’re worth, as far as I can see, but I know there are others who feel differently. I worked my farm all my life, with some hired help. Sometimes it was a hard life, and sometimes lonely. I laid to rest my parents, my brothers and sisters, even some of their children, and I just kept going.”

  “But in the end, you sold the farm?” Meg prodded gently.

  “Had to. I couldn’t manage the work anymore, on my own, and there was no one left to hire. All my nieces and nephews went off to college, to the cities. Didn’t want to have anything to do with farming. In the end, I sold the land for a fair price to the Chapins, and I’d inherited enough money from the rest of the family—outlived most of them, you see—so I could afford to move into that fancy place on the hill. It’s just as well. And there are a few younger folk, like Rachel here, and her brother Seth, who stop by and keep me company. Seth’s a good boy—Chapins were always hardworking. Except that no-good younger brother of yours. Sorry, Rachel, but I have to say what I think.”

  “No offense taken, Ruth. I’m well aware of Stephen’s shortcomings.”

  “No substitute for hard work.” Ruth turned her shrewd eyes to Meg again. “How do you plan to manage? You’re a city girl, aren’t you?”

  “I am. But I’m working with someone from the university who’s helped a lot, and I’ve hired an orchard manager—also a woman, by the way.”

  “Good for you! Hope she’s a smart one. You can hire muscle, but it’s a lot harder to find brains. I wish you well, Meg Corey. Maybe I can talk Rachel here into bringing me over to see the place again, when the trees bloom.”

  “I’d like that, Ruth.”

  They’d talked their way through the main course, and Albert arrived bearing dessert and coffee. “Something for your sweet tooth, Miss Ruth.”

  “Albert, you spoil me. But I like it, so don’t stop. Meg, try the tarte Tatin—it’s extraordinary.”

  Meg complied—and agreed. The caramelized apples were soft and sweet, the crust flaky—and neatly concealed under the mound of apples. Meg wondered if she could duplicate the dessert, since she had no knack for making pie crust.

  It was nearly three o’clock when they emerged from the restaurant. Ruth had insisted on paying for lunch, and Rachel had signaled Meg to go along. As Rachel went to retrieve the car, Meg stood holding Ruth’s arm—for all her outward enthusiasm, the older woman seemed tired by the outing.

  Ruth’s voice cut into her thoughts. “Don’t worry, my dear. I know how to pace myself. At my age it is a treat to meet new people, and our families share a long history. I daresay we’re cousins of some sort, if you follow that kind of thing. But I asked Rachel to bring you because I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “I am not unaware of local events, and I know you’ve had a rather hard time since you moved to Granford.”

  No use pretending she didn’t know what Ruth was saying. “You mean, the deaths?”

  “I do, not that you are accountable in any way for those unfortunate events. But someone of weaker fiber would have turned and run. You haven’t. There’s Warren blood in you yet, and they were good people. You’ll do fine with your orchard.”

  Meg felt an unexpected prick of tears. “Thank you, Ruth. I appreciate your saying that. And you’re right, it hasn’t been easy, but I think it’s worth fighting for, and I’m going to try. And in a few weeks, Rachel can bring you over to the house and I can show you what I’ve done.”

  Ruth laid a hand on her arm. “I shall look forward to that.”

  Rachel pulled up to the curb, and Meg helped Ruth into the front seat before settling herself in the back. She wasn’t sure, but she suspected that Ruth dozed a bit on the silent ride back to the retirement home. Ruth refused Rachel’s offer to escort her back to her room, and stood on the sidewalk outside to wave them away.

  Back on the road, Meg turned to Rachel. “Thank you for introducing me to Ruth. What an amazing woman!”

  “Isn’t she? That’s why Seth thought you two should get together. For a while, when we were kids, we thought of her as that crazy lady in the old house. But I got to know her—better than the boys did—and I really came to admire her. She lived her own life, never judged, never complained. She used to talk to me about the ‘old days,’ but I was a kid so I didn’t pay much attention. Now I love to hear about it. When Noah and I got married, she sent a lovely old silver spoon, said it had been the dowry of one of those ancestors we shared. Remind me to show it to you sometime.”

  “I don’t know how she did it. But I guess if she could manage as a single woman all those years ago, I certainly should be able to now, with so many more resources to call on.”

  Rachel sneaked a glance at her. “She seems to think so. And she’s pretty smart about people. She never liked Stephen much, but she and Seth get along like a house afire.”

  “Now you’re even talking like her. But I’m glad she approves of me, and I’d be happy to have you two over for tea or something. Assuming, of course, I finish my floor this century.”

  “You will, don’t worry. And better now than later, when the orchard stuff picks up. You give me a call when the orchard blooms, and I’ll bring Ruth over, okay?”

  “Sounds good to me. And thank you again for bringing us together.” With just a little nudge from Seth.

  “My privilege.”

  16

  After she had
retrieved her car from Rachel’s house, Meg checked her watch: no point in going home and coming back again for the GreenGrow meeting, so she might as well stay in Amherst and find something useful to do. Lolly couldn’t complain; Meg had left her plenty of food and water. She made another mental note to ask Gail if she could tell her more about the former Ferry farm, and what, if any, family connections the Warrens had shared with the Ferrys. Funny how everyone around here seemed to be related to everyone else, even if the link sometimes went back a century or two.

  Meg stopped at the university library and spent a few hours tracking down some of the recommended reading for her course, then headed over to the GreenGrow meeting. She followed a trickle of people into a single-story cinder-block building behind the main street and found a seat among the rows of folding chairs. The group appeared to be a mix of academics and ordinary citizens, although most of the latter wore clothes made of natural fibers. She was early, so she pulled her class notebook out of her bag and started to review the notes she had taken at the class earlier in the day.

  At ten minutes past the designated start time, Michael stood up behind the podium at the front of the room and tapped the microphone to assure that it was live. He scanned the audience, clearly disappointed: by Meg’s count there were no more than twenty-five people in the room, including the cluster of people standing behind Michael. Had he hoped for more? Meg recognized a couple of faces, including the young woman—Daphne something—who had accompanied Michael to Jason’s wake at the university.

  Michael had to bend down to speak into the microphone, and he took a couple of seconds to adjust its height before he began. “Welcome, everyone, to this meeting of GreenGrow. Before we begin, we’d like to make a public statement about the unfortunate death of our colleague Jason Miller and to let you know of our plans going forward. Jason was a founder of this organization, and his efforts . . .” Meg tuned out Michael’s actual words while studying his performance. He was good: earnest and sincere. He ended his quasi eulogy quickly yet gracefully, asking for a moment of silence for Jason. The room fell silent, and Meg looked at her hands. Although she hadn’t known Jason personally, she was coming to know him through his associates—and she felt bad that she didn’t like what she had learned about him. So far he had emerged as overbearing and fanatical. He had been emotionally invested in GreenGrow, but at the expense of his academic career, and it sounded as though he had been in the process of alienating many of his colleagues even here. He had had a vision, no doubt, but apparently hadn’t been interested in tolerating anyone else’s views.