Meadowlark

by Sheila Simonson

  When Frank and I finally herded the participants back to the living room, she was waiting by the fireplace. She was all but tapping her foot.

  Bianca had a lot of presence, and she looked great for a woman whose husband had just been arrested. She was wearing one of her tunic outfits, but that night the colors inclined toward melancholy--blues and muted greens. She climbed up on the ledge of the fireplace and launched into speech.

  She identified herself with charming modesty, thanked the writers for coming, said she was sure they'd learn a great deal about sustainable agriculture, and pointed out that the first session, preceded by coffee and muffins, would begin at nine a.m. by which time the broccoli harvest would be well underway. I had forgotten the broccoli.

  One of the writers, a grizzled veteran of newsrooms from L.A. to Vancouver B.C., said, "What about this killing, Ms. Fiedler?"

  She gave him a melancholy smile calculated to freeze him with guilt. "Your curiosity is understandable. I have some information for you. This afternoon my husband, Keith McDonald, was arrested..."

  That got their attention. The redhead with the laptop plumped down on the nearest chair, flipped the computer open, and thumbed it on. The others began fumbling in purses and jacket pockets for notebooks.

  Bianca told them the charges and explained briefly about Jason's wreck. She waited for them to quiet down. "As you may imagine, I and my staff are devastated. I would have cancelled the workshop, but it was too late."

  Liar, I thought without heat. If she had given me a single reproachful glance, though, I would have walked out.

  She touched her eyes with an honest-to-god lace handkerchief. "Keith's lawyer has advised us not to comment on the case. It is, as it were, sub judice, and I'm sure you won't want to jeopardize Keith's defense. My staff..." She looked around--at Del, at Angie, at Marianne, who was bringing on a fresh tray of crudités, at me. "My staff have agreed not to give interviews."

  That was news to me. I glanced at Frank. He winked.

  Rumbles of protest from the journalists.

  Bianca smiled another brave, guilt-making smile. "I do understand that you'll want color-stories, however, and of course you may photograph the farm. Lieutenant Colman of the Shoalwater County Sheriff's Department will be holding a press conference at one tomorrow afternoon at the courthouse."

  That was going to screw up the workshop schedule. I began mentally rearranging the first field trip--a tour of Angie's greenhouses. Fortunately, we had set the Shoalwater Bay expedition for Tuesday afternoon. I wondered how much science writing the journalists would do, given the temptation to file fiction with the National Enquirer.

  Bianca gave the reporters nothing more. They tried, of course. For ten minutes, they battered her with provocative, leading, and occasionally stupid questions. She just stood there, smiling her guilt-inducing smile, and shook her head.

  Then it occurred to a couple of them that the bare fact of Keith's arrest was a story they'd better sell while the market was hot. The frizzy redhead made for the kitchen phone and the grizzled veteran for the hall. The others soon dispersed in search of other telephones. I think the phones in the conference wing were extensions, but perhaps not. The reporters didn't return.

  Bianca sent Del and Angie off, and Marianne began clearing away the food debris. Frank Hrubek stuck around the living room long enough to make it clear to Bianca that, arrest or no arrest, the workshop was going to continue under his eagle eye. He wanted no more interruptions of the schedule. She agreed meekly. He shook her hand, grasped mine, stood on his tiptoes, and kissed my cheek. Then he shuffled off to bed. We watched him go. What a man.

  "Lark."

  I turned.

  Bianca's face was again without expression. "Keith wants to see you."

  "No," I said politely.

  "He's very depressed. He wants to talk to you."

  I looked deep into her intense brown eyes and lost my temper. "I do not want to talk to Keith. Ever."

  She blinked.

  In case she had not grasped my point, I added, "I despise Keith. I loathe what he did to Hugo." I'm afraid my voice was rather loud, but I had had this small problem of getting a negative through to Bianca.

  She glanced toward the conference wing. "The journalists--"

  "The hell with them," I howled. "Do you know that Bill Johnson is paralyzed? Do you care?"

  Her eyes brimmed tears. "But you sounded so understanding."

  "I was lying through my teeth, Bianca. I just wanted Keith to hand over that knife. I will not, repeat not, go to see him in jail or anywhere else. Tell him that."

  "Okay." Her voice was mild. She looked ruffled, even embarrassed.

  It was not the response I expected. I probably gaped like a fish.

  "Then you didn't mean what you said about F. Lee Bailey?"

  "That was the inspiration of the moment."

  She looked at the carpet. "I don't intend to squander my, er, patrimony on Keith's defense lawyers. He's guilty. If the charge is manslaughter, I think he should plead guilty. If it's murder, I'll pay for a decent Seattle lawyer, for the kids' sake. But I won't waste Eli Fiedler's fortune defending the indefensible. Hugo was a good friend to me. A better friend than Keith." She frowned at the floor. "Besides, I have other uses for the money."

  "The study center?"

  She nodded, still not looking at me. "And the minute the verdict is in, one way or another, I'm filing for divorce."

  "Well," I said. "Good."

  She looked at me finally, eyes at full wattage. "I couldn't get through to Keith this afternoon. Thank God you did."

  Considering I had told her to shut up, I thought that was pretty generous. I said goodnight and went home.

  I suppose the workshop was a success. It produced three published articles on sustainable agriculture, a tribute to Frank's ingenuity, knowledge, and charm. He worked those writers hard. They barely had time to file six news stories, three color pieces, and an interview with Carol Bascombe.

  Bianca had forgotten to warn the interns not to speak to reporters, and Carol obliged them. The broccoli harvest went on all week. Frank left early Thursday morning, but not before he signed my stock. I was sorry to see him go.

  By Saturday, when the other workshop leader, Eric Spielman, left in a rental car with the last of the reporters, I was near collapse, Keith had been charged with second degree murder, and Trish Groth had given birth to a healthy baby girl. An eventful week.

  I had recuperated sufficiently by Wednesday to leave Bonnie in charge of the store. It was Jay's spring vacation, so he took me to Raymond in the Accord. I brought a bouquet of Angie's certified organic daffodils and my favorite edition of A Child's Garden of Verses. Jay dropped me at the door of Trish's small, trim house, and told me he'd be back in half an hour. Tactful. I thought that might be about twenty-five minutes more than I could bear, but I didn't protest.

  Trish answered the door herself. I had phoned, so she was expecting me. It is a cliché that new mothers look radiant. Some, I am told, look like death warmed over, but Trish shone--her hair gleamed, her complexion glowed, and her smile beamed like a spring morning. She also looked about fifty pounds lighter. "Come in, come in. The baby's asleep but we can take a peek. What lovely flowers!"

  I won't say I was instantly at ease, but I felt more cheerful. Trish's mother, a slim woman with a champagne rinse and a fashionable pantsuit, shook hands, smiling, and effaced herself. Clearly she had no reservations about grandmotherhood.

  Trish led me back to her bedroom. The baby was sleeping in a bassinet by her mother's bed. "I'm nursing her," she murmured, running a finger along the baby's rose-petal cheek. The baby, who was wearing a lace cap, yawned and gave a tiny snort.

  "What did you call her?" I whispered.

  "Jane Christine. Jane for Jane Austen, Christine for Christine de Pisan, the medieval writer." Trish caught my expression and laughed aloud. "Hey, I'm a librarian! I promise to call her Jenny." She ushered me back to the livi
ng room. "That's what Jane Austen's brothers always called her."

  I had to smile. In the lace cap, the baby looked a bit like the only extant portrait of Jane Austen.

  Trish pulled me down beside her onto a comfortable sofa and unwrapped the book. "I love it. Look at the photographs."

  I had found the 1940s edition my mother read to me. The photos are black and white, and pure magic.

  Trish turned the pages slowly, savoring. "I've already started reading to her. You can't begin too soon."

  "I know."

  "Listen!" She began to read. She had a great voice, and she didn't sing-song the verses.

  "When I was down beside the sea

  A wooden spade they gave me

  To dig the sandy shore.

  My holes were empty, like a cup.

  In every hole, the sea came up,

  Till it could come no more."

  She choked on the last line. "Oh, God, I miss Hugo."

  I hugged her and said nothing.

  She sniffed and gave a watery laugh. "Though why that poem should remind me of him..."

  "Well, there's an emptiness." I swallowed. "But life is filling it. Maybe that's why." I thought about Hugo. He hadn't approved of Trish's pregnancy, but he had approved of life.

  We were both crying by then. Fortunately, Trish's mother came in with tea and cookies, and the baby started howling, so it was all right. Jay was waiting for me when I made my exit.

  About the Author

  I was born in Montana, raised in Oregon, took a master's in English at the University of Washington and in history at Portland State. I taught English and history at Clark College in Vancouver WA for many years and retired early to write full time. I have a son and seventeen granddogs, and live in Vancouver with my husband, who is also my computer guru. I enjoy cooking and traveling.

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