Meadowlark

by Sheila Simonson

  Still, I didn't get to know him. We weren't friends. The relationship was like an object in a Zen painting--defined by the blankness around it.

  Bianca Fiedler invited Jay and me to dinner at the farm for the first Sunday of February. She and I had had phone conversations in the interim, and she had sent me more information on her workshop. Now she wanted me to see the facilities first-hand.

  Larkspur Books was closed by then. We drove out to the farm around five-thirty. After a warmish week in which crocuses bloomed and daffodils sprang, the weather had turned nasty. It was sleeting.

  When Jay drives in the rain, he switches the windshield wipers off and on. He has some theory that he's saving wear and tear on the little engine that runs them. In my opinion, a wreck would cost a lot more than replacing the wiper engine, but some folks don't listen to reason. I gritted my teeth whenever my window went blank with accumulated sleet.

  Meadowlark Farm lay on the east side of Shoalwater Bay, about half an hour out of Kayport, so it was a good hour's drive for us from Shoalwater. By the time we reached the open gate, my jaw muscles were cramping.

  Partly to ease them, I said, "You don't like Keith McDonald, but you're going to keep the peace, right?"

  The windshield went blank. Jay turned the wipers on and swerved, skidding a little, to avoid a fallen branch. "I promise I'll keep my satires to myself, even when Keith sings 'Sir Patrick Spens' in fake Scots."

  "Lord, will he do that?"

  "He has been known to do worse." The wipers stilled again. Sleet thudded on the windshield. "So watch his hands. When he starts comparing you to a long-stemmed American rose--"

  "He's more likely to compare me to a crane." Jay is subject to the husbandly delusion that all men find his wife irresistible. Flattering but unrealistic.

  "You're hypersensitive." Jay turned the blades on again. Lo, there were lights. We slid across a cattle guard and sloshed up a hill to the house. It was indeed large. I could form no other judgment about it, because of the darkness and sleet. As we scuttled for the front entry, the door opened.

  Bianca hurried us inside. "Leave the car there. Nobody else is going to drive in tonight. God, what weather. Makes me homesick for California." She took our coats.

  "Me, too," Jay said. "Malibu at sunset, to be exact."

  Bianca made the rude noise San Franciscans emit when anyone confesses an attachment to the L.A. area, but this time her rudeness was friendly. She was an odd woman and I'd half-expected her to ignore Jay the way she'd ignored Bonnie.

  I introduced them, in case she hadn't focused on him at the signing, and she murmured pleasantries. She was wearing a pink, orange, and purple print tunic over orange stirrups and gold flats. Bright. I was glad I hadn't decided on jeans and an anorak.

  She led us down a modern oak-trimmed hall that was covered with elegant but practical Berber carpet. Good watercolors of local flora had been hung to advantage. An arch led to carpeted steps and a sunken living room with a cathedral ceiling. The room was big enough to hold a small convention, so the workshop would be no problem. It was furnished in good modern pieces, in native woods and earth-tone fabrics, with a huge stone fireplace dominating one wall. Bianca plunked us down by the fire and went to a portable bar. I was still taking in the room. The far wall consisted of a rank of what looked like custom-built French doors. Clearly they were intended to give a view of something. At that moment the view was of driven sleet.

  She served us our wine and perched on a persimmon hassock that faced the couch we sat on, beaming at us. "The others will be showing up soon. Del and Angie are just getting off work, and Michael's with his dad. Keith's in the shower, and Marianne's in the kitchen, of course."

  The only name that rang a bell was Keith. Jay looked blank but polite. I sipped the wine, a chardonnay. Sleet rattled the wall of glass. It was hot buttered rum weather. I shivered, though the room, despite its acreage, was warm. "Do they all live here?"

  "Yes. So did Hugo, before he took your apartment." That seemed to rankle, for her face darkened. She gave herself a small shake and gestured with her left hand. "That wing is the kids' rooms when they're here plus guest rooms downstairs. The Wallaces live upstairs--Del, Marianne, and their son, Michael. Del oversees the livestock and pasturage. Marianne is my cook-slash-housekeeper." She waved the other way. "That door leads to the kitchen and two small apartments. Angie, my greenhouse manager, lives in one, and Hugo used to live in the other. The master suite and Keith's library are upstairs. Would you like to see where I'm putting the workshop?"

  "Good idea," I said. I thought that was the reason for the invitation. Something was strange.

  "Do finish your wine first. Those little crackers are home-made. Marianne's a great cook."

  We nibbled and sipped while Bianca rattled on about the workshop. The walls were hung with oils on a scale to suit the room, tasteful and interesting but slightly intimidating. A sound system played something soft and baroque. The lighting was skillful--it broke the huge space into conversation areas. All in all a qualified triumph of modern architecture. Given Bianca's personality I hadn't expected Country Living kitsch. The room felt more hotel than farmhouse, though.

  When we finished our wine, Bianca rose and led us through an arch on the far side of the fireplace. There the floors were a ceramic tile in warm shades and the scale more human.

  "We have six bedrooms off here," she said. "When the kids are home that leaves only three for guests, but the offspring won't be here when the workshop's on." She opened the first door on a large bedroom with twin beds and a wall with a built-in dressing-table and closet. The room had Mediterranean colors and bits of what looked like Etruscan artifacts scattered around. A handsome painting of an Italian hill town, impressionistic rather than representational, hung on the wall opposite the dressing table. A chair and reading lamp sat beneath it.

  "Fee's in Italy with her grandmother." Bianca turned to Jay. "Our daughter, Fiona. She's trying to make up her mind whether to be an archeologist or an art historian. She graduated from Mills last year." Bianca sounded indulgent but scornful as if her daughter should have a clear goal in mind at twenty-two.

  Bianca opened a door. "The baths are shared, or can be, between rooms. The boys' rooms across the hall share a bath. This one is Fee's but that"--she indicated a door--"can be unlocked. Papa suggested the arrangement. I don't like the modern fad for bathrooms every ten feet."

  The bathroom was a bathroom. Well-engineered and tasteful but otherwise unremarkable, rather like what you'd expect in a good hotel.

  Bianca opened the locked door and showed us the bedroom on the far side. It was pleasant, but more impersonal than her daughter's room. We followed Bianca down the hall. At the end she opened a door on a large room, rather chilly, that was furnished with a conference table and the usual amenities. It had a carpet for acoustic baffling and a service area for beverages. I could see it as a classroom. In fact, though the fixtures and furnishings were new, it had a used look. A spiral stair in one corner led up to the second story.

  "I like this." She gave us a conspiratorial grin as she led us up. At the top, she said, "Oh, sorry, Mike. I thought you were out with your dad."

  "He sent me in." The voice was sullen.

  I poked my head up into what looked at first glance like an office. The speaker, a kid of eighteen or so, stared at me. He had sandy hair and glasses and wore a Shoalwater Community College sweatshirt over jeans.

  I said, "Hi."

  The kid mumbled a greeting, but when he spotted Jay his face brightened. "Professor Dodge!"

  Jay hauled himself up the last steps. "Hi, Mike. I haven't seen you around this quarter."

  The kid gave a shamefaced grin. "I'm hitting the books for a change."

  "About time," Jay said mildly. "This is my wife. Lark, Mike Wallace. He took the evidence class fall quarter."

  Mike extended his hand and we shook. "I flunked it, too." He seemed to hold no grudge.

  "Everybody's entitled
to one goof-up," Jay murmured. "At least you figured out what was wrong."

  Bianca was smiling in an unfocussed way as if she wanted to get on with the tour.

  I strolled to the window in the gable end. As in the conference room below, it had a state-of-the-art French door with an arc of glass above it. "Must be a great view." I could see nothing but wind-driven sleet and a small wet deck.

  "Looks out at Bald Mountain. Not a mountain really, a big hill. We called it Bald Mountain, because it was being clear-cut when we moved in twelve years ago. It looks less scabrous now, but the scenery's better from the living room--the Coho River estuary."

  I murmured approval.

  "What do you think of our information center?"

  I looked around. Four color monitors, computers with modems, and a big laser printer dominated a well-arranged space. I spotted a fax machine, another smaller printer, and assorted gadgets. "Wow."

  That was apparently the right response. One of the monitors showed a computer game, the kind where something zaps something, and the rest were blank. Mike doing homework? He and Jay were standing by that computer talking school.

  Bianca said, "Our interns use both rooms. The workshop participants can write here or at least edit and print."

  "And go back and forth to the classroom. I see." I was wondering if Hugo had accessed his electronic forum from this room.

  She opened a cabinet. "I got laptops, too, in case they want to work in their rooms." Four sleek new laptops occupied slim shelves in the cabinet.

  "I imagine some of the participants will bring their own."

  "If they don't, they can take turns." She pulled a drawer. It was full of yellow legal tablets and #2 pencils. "Or do it the old-fashioned way."

  "What about reference books?"

  She activated the nearest computer and loaded a Windows program. "Each of these has the usual dictionary and thesaurus a plus Internet access." The screen showed many other options. She clicked the mouse and the monitor went blank. "That wall of shelves next to the wet-bar in the conference room--"

  "The one with the louvered doors?"

  "Yes. That's the periodical collection." She gestured toward one corner of the "office" where similar doors formed a reading nook with chairs and lamps near the French doors. "That's our library."

  "May I see it?"

  "Sure." She opened the fan-fold doors and disclosed floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. They were almost full. As far as I could see, all the titles dealt with ecology or agriculture.

  I said, "That's impressive."

  "It's Hugo's collection as well as mine." A cloud darkened the intense eyes. "Hugo wouldn't come to dinner. He's phobic about strangers, you know."

  "I guessed."

  "And he doesn't like large groups either."

  "Is that why he moved to the apartment?"

  She nodded. "I guess so. Too many people here. I was trying to recreate the commune."

  "Commune? Oh, the one you joined in the Seventies."

  "Keith and I joined the year we got out of high school. That's where we met each other--and where we met Hugo."

  "Oh." I had never known anyone else who had actually lived in a commune.

  Bianca was still brooding about Hugo. "I thought he'd like the new house, but it just made him edgy." She sighed.

  I pointed to the door opposite the French doors. "Where does that lead?"

  "The Wallaces' apartment."

  "Handy for Mike."

  "I had him and my kids in mind, as well as the education center, when I planned it."

  I said, "I guess you won't suffer from empty nest syndrome when your kids leave home for good."

  She laughed. "Papa says it's a hotel. Feels like home to me." The smile faded. "But I wish Hugo hadn't moved out."

  Michael Wallace was showing Jay something on the monitor--not the game. They laughed.

  Bianca checked her watch. "Oops, time to go." She made for the stair. "Dinner at seven, Mike."

  "Yeah. Mom says I have to help serve it."

  Bianca was out of sight. I followed, with Jay just behind me, down the spiral stair. As we left the conference room downstairs, Bianca showed us a discreet restroom on one side of the hall and a kitchenette on the other. She'd thought of everything.

  Chapter 3

  We zipped back down the hall. The ceramic tiles echoed a little. When we reached the living room, two men and a woman were waiting for us, munching crackers and sipping the chardonnay.

  All three looked up as we rounded the corner near the fireplace. A handsome bearded man in a periwinkle pullover and jeans sat on the raised edge of the hearth strumming a guitar. I recognized Keith McDonald. The guitar helped. He stood up, laying his instrument on the flagstone surface. His eyes were the same blue as the sweater.

  Bianca said, "Lark, I believe you've met my husband."

  "Once, at the Dean's house." I extended my hand, and McDonald shook it, letting his grasp linger. His eyes were remarkably blue.

  "Hello, again, Lark. 'Bird thou never wert.'"

  I extracted my hand. "I believe you're thinking of nightingales, Professor McDonald."

  "Keith, please." His smile widened and the eyes sparkled. "Nope--it's Shelley's ode. Welcome to Meadowlark Farm, Skylark." He turned to Jay. "Dodge."

  "McDonald," Jay said. He didn't offer to shake hands but his tone was mild, all things considered.

  Bianca said, "And these are my managers. They've been out in the sleet saving my bacon."

  "Bacon?" The woman grimaced and extended her hand to me. "Please, Bianca, I'm a vegetarian."

  "Angie Martini," Bianca murmured, smiling.

  Martini shook hands with Jay, too, and went back to her wine, an angular, attractive woman, almost as tall as I am. She looked sleek, as if she'd just stepped out of a shower into the flame-colored silk jumpsuit. Her blond hair was cut close to the skull and she wore dangly silver earrings with a petroglyph motif.

  "And Del Wallace," Bianca said.

  Wallace was a beefy, balding edition of his son. "Pleased to meet you," he said with no apparent interest and shook our hands. He was drinking something in a squat highball glass. He went back to his armchair and took a hefty swig.

  "More wine?" Bianca flitted to the drinks cart.

  Jay passed, but I said yes. It was good chardonnay.

  McDonald had picked up the guitar again. He played a little riff. We made safe comments on the weather, and I said I was impressed by the study center facilities. Jay said something nice to Wallace about young Mike.

  Wallace gave him a brief glance over the whiskey. "You're the one got him to change his major."

  "Yes," Jay said, still pleasant. "Flunked him, too. We talked. He doesn't want to be a cop."

  Wallace snorted.

  Keith McDonald strummed a chord. "I thought you were recruiting police officers."

  "Only willing ones." Jay tempered his tone. "Mike needs to explore the alternatives."

  I hoped the two men were not going to duke it out over Mike Wallace. "Is Hugo Groth a manager, too? This must be a big operation." If Bianca could call my bookstore an operation, I didn't see why I should hesitate to call her farm one.

  "It's getting bigger," Angie Martini said. "Hugo's too much of a purist, though."

  "He's a prick," Del Wallace muttered.

  Bianca sighed. "He may be a purist, and he may even be a prick, but he's an outstanding market gardener. To answer you, Lark, yes, Hugo manages the raised-bed, intensive cultivation we've been experimenting with since we first came here. More importantly, he raises our field vegetables. They're very profitable."

  "He's a fanatic, Bianca." Angie looked flushed or perhaps it was just the reflection of all that flame-colored silk.

  Keith did a few bars of "Amazing Grace" and struck a sour note. "The interns hate his guts."

  Wallace growled, "He gave Jason Thirkell a D, by God. My best worker. Kid understands sheep."

  Although McDonald said nothing his eyes shone.
Clearly he enjoyed discord, though Bianca was right--he stuck to three basic chords and a seventh.

  By then Bianca was flushed. "Jason wouldn't follow Hugo's procedures, Del. A D was generous."

  "By God, I work with Groth's damned greenies. I'm generous as hell with them. I finally get a kid in the program who understands real farming, a kid who works his butt off, and that spaced-out freak gives him a D. All I can say is Groth had better take care of his favorites from now on. Miss Sadsack Sadat, for instance. She doesn't pull her weight on the tractor. We'll see how he likes it when I flunk the little bitch."

  Angie Martini jumped up. "Mary Sadat is not a bitch, Del. If you can't deal with women students--"

  "You will, eh?" Del Wallace finished his whiskey and leered up at her. "Sadat's a cute little piece, all right."

  Angie said through her teeth, "I make it a practice not to hit on my students, nor do I call them sexist names, not even the men." She shot us a half-defiant glance. "I'm gay. At least Hugo can deal with that without coming unglued. Del takes exception to any woman who doesn't--"

  "Come on, you guys," Bianca interrupted. "Cool it. I want Lark and Jay to like the farm, remember? And I think Marianne's ready for us in the dining room."

  A dark-haired, rather heavy woman was standing near the arch that led to the entry hall.

  Bianca called the tune, or perhaps everyone was just hungry. The men stood up. Angie was still pink with indignation. She led the way out. Bianca and Jay and I followed the two men, I carrying my half-full wine glass.

  At the arch, Bianca stopped to introduce us to Marianne Wallace. Del's wife, Mike's mother, the cook/housekeeper. Marianne gave us a small polite smile but said little.

  Oddly enough, the dining room was the coziest room I'd seen so far in the house. The table was the right size, and the colors looked like honey and spice. Bianca seated us conventionally. I had thought she'd put me on her right, the better to talk shop, and Jay on Keith McDonald's right, but there I was, sitting next to the incendiary guitarist, he of the effulgent blue gaze. Across the table, Del Wallace gave me a morose leer and poured himself a slug of wine from a carafe in front of him.