by Kathy
"I think I get the idea," Meg said, putting her hand over Riley's.
He recoiled as if she had touched him with a white-hot metal glove. "By type, you said," Meg murmured, punching keys. "Yes, I see. Bracelets, pendants, hair ornaments. . . . Rings."
"It wasn't there," Cliff said.
"You sound like a kid who's just discovered there is no Santa Claus." Meg rummaged in her purse for her sunglasses. "Of course it wasn't there. I didn't expect it would be."
"Then why did you look?"
"Where the hell . . ." Meg peered down into the cluttered interior of her purse. "You're distracting me, Cliff. Use your head. You surely don't suppose that Riley is stupid enough to leave a record of what he did? Either the ring didn't come from the shop or he wiped the entry. So I didn't expect to find it."
"That's the trouble with these damned modern inventions," Cliff muttered. "A good old-fashioned ledger would show signs of tampering. Then why did you—"
"There they are," Meg said triumphantly. She unfolded the glasses. "I was just testing him, to see how he'd react to my interest in rings. I was being subtle. Which wasn't easy, with you flexing your muscles and making not-so-veiled threats. If I may say so, it was a disgusting performance."
"Oh, yeah? Well, so was yours. You were all over him. And it didn't get you anywhere, did it? He didn't so much as—"
"What did you expect him to do, with you there?" But there was enough truth in the malicious speech to bring an angry flush to Meg's face. "I suppose when a woman makes friendly gestures to you, you grab her and throw her on the floor and—"
"Try me," Cliff said, baring his teeth. "Try me sometime."
Red-faced and equally furious, they glowered at one another. Then Cliff relaxed and shook his head ruefully. "Listen to us. Just like the good old days. I'm sorry, Meg. I made this great resolution, before I came, all about starting over and being friends. Can we give it a try?"
"All right. Just don't—"
"I know, I know. I won't—if I can help it. I'm worried about Dad, he's been under quite a strain, with Dan's death and everything; and this he doesn't need. It makes me want to go barreling in and beat the truth out of someone."
"I understand." Not only did she understand, she sympathized. Cliffs devotion to his father was one of his most attractive characteristics, especially since it didn't appear to be wholeheartedly reciprocated. "But it won't work, Cliff."
"I still think that ring came from the store," Cliff said stubbornly. "And that makes Riley the most logical person to have sent it."
"Not necessarily."
They were standing under the shade of the awning. Meg turned and glanced at the closed door of the store. Cliffs eyes followed hers, just in time to catch a glimpse of the face pressed to the glass.
"Candy," Cliff muttered. "That's crazy. Why would she. . . ."
Meg turned on her heel and walked away. Cliff caught up with her in a few long strides. "Okay," he said. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I wasn't exactly subtle. But you made a mistake too, picking on Candy the way you did. You should have tried to ingratiate yourself."
"What for?"
"Do I have to spell it out?"
Meg snorted. "I have no intention of trying to subvert that pathetic wimp into spying on her boss. Anyway, it would be hopeless. She's infatuated with him."
"That's why the potential is so great," Cliff argued. "He's not going to put up with that wet-lipped adoration of hers much longer. One of these days she'll back him into a corner, and he'll tell her to get lost, and—"
"Hell hath no fury, et cetera. What a contemptible, cynical view of people you have, Cliff. I suppose if poor Candy were beautiful, blond and built, her adoration wouldn't be such a burden."
"My viewpoint isn't cynical, it's realistic. We need a secret supporter—oh, all right, a spy—at the store. You aren't going to get anything out of old stone face."
"I certainly am not going to get anything out of him, as you put it, by antagonizing him. You were damned rude."
"He was rude first." Cliff chuckled. "It was his fault, Ma, he hit me first. Where are you going, by the way?"
Meg stopped. "The wrong direction, apparently," she admitted. "I wasn't thinking, I just wanted to get away from the store."
The sun was high overhead, so there was little shade from the ornamental trees that had been planted along Main Street. Most of them were Bradford pears, now in full bloom, like pale pyramids of blossom. Ahead was the gas station, the last commercial establishment in the town center, tastefully surrounded by beds of flowering tulips. The bookstore was unfamiliar; after a moment Meg identified it as the former insurance office, now repainted and restored, with bright red geraniums and trailing ivy filling the planters on either side of the door.
"Things keep changing," she muttered, glancing up and down the street. "I hate it when things change. What happened to Kate's Kafe?"
"It's still there," Cliff reassured her. "New name, new facade, but the same old Kate. Unlike you, she believes in keeping up with the Joneses. Come on, I'll buy you lunch."
Meg hung back. "I don't know, Cliff."
"If you're worried about annoying Frances, don't; it's just cold cuts and salad for lunch, I asked before we left."
"I don't give a hoot about Frances. But . . ."
"You'll have to face them sooner or later," Cliff said gently.
"Why? Why should I? I don't live here anymore, Cliff. I can walk away anytime."
If he had argued with her, sheer stubbornness might have allowed her to maintain that point of view. His very silence forced her to admit, to herself, that she was wrong. She couldn't simply walk away, not now, not yet. Gran needed her. And there were other things. . . . Her decision was not formulated or even defined in that moment, but the seed had been sown.
"Oh, damn," she said.
Cliff laughed and put a casual arm around her. "Eloquently expressed. I promise that if you bite the bullet it will taste better than you expect."
"Kate hasn't lost her knack?"
"No. But that wasn't what I meant."
He steered her through the traffic. Nervous as she was (and how ridiculous that she should be nervous, she scolded herself), Meg couldn't help grinning as she got the full effect of Kate's latest and wildest stab at exterior decoration. A hand-carved wooden sign, so extravagantly curlicued that it was practically unreadable, appeared to say, "Le Cafe des Printemps." Flowers painted in vivid shades of orange, turquoise and purple carried out the theme and further obscured the letters. The striped purple-and-orange awning had scalloped edges and foot-long fringe; the cafe curtains at the windows hung from huge brass rings. What Kate had had in mind was anybody's guess. French country, French provincial? Something French, at any rate.
The interior wasn't as bad as one might have anticipated. The fake overhead beams dated from an earlier foray into American primitive. To the miscellaneous baskets (made in Korea) and bits of brass (made in Japan) hanging from them, Kate had added strings of onions and garlic. Red-checked tablecloths had replaced homespun, but each table had its own rack of condiments, including bottles of lowbrow mustard and catsup.
A huddled crowd of people were waiting for tables. Cliff pushed through them, murmuring apologies. Meg followed; she was beginning to suspect that she had been set up, and when she saw the big round table at the back of the room she knew she had. The faces that turned toward them were bright with pleasure and anticipation, but not with surprise. And there were three empty chairs. One was always kept for Kate, who popped out to join the gang whenever she had a spare minute—hence the location of the table, conveniently close to the kitchen.
Out of the corner of her mouth she hissed, "I hate being manipulated."
"Me too," Cliff said blandly. "Hello, everybody. I guess no introductions are necessary."
With a painful constriction of her throat Meg saw how the ranks had diminished over the past years. Only three of them left, besides Kate. Dan had been the oldest, but the ba
by of the crowd, Barby, had to be pushing seventy. She was pushing as hard as she could, and to good effect; after all, as she often said, beauty was her business. Having decided that an older woman had to choose between a wrinkled face and a thickened waist, she had opted for the latter, and her round, delicately tinted face was as delectable as a ripe peach.
Mike Potter, of Potter's Hardware, had to lean down to kiss her. Meg hugged him back, in a rush of grateful affection; he looked just the same, his height undiminished by age, his bony frame tough as a gnarled tree. His thick, iron-gray hair hadn't changed color for thirty years. Dan used to kid him about Grecian Formula. . . .
The third survivor—she couldn't help thinking of them that way—was as pink and roly-poly as Mike was thin and gray. Like Barby, Ed claimed he had to be a walking advertisement for his wares, but he didn't have to advertise; the bakery was famous throughout the state. Some of Ed's customers drove sixty miles to stock up on bread and coffee cake and biscuits—none of these newfangled things like croissants and Danish for Ed, he baked the food his grandmother had baked, and boasted that his buttermilk biscuits had to be covered to keep them from floating away.
He started to struggle out of his chair. Meg put a hand on his shoulder and dropped a quick kiss on the top of his bald head. "Don't get up, Ed. It's so good to be with you all again, here at Kate's."
"Not so many of us as there once was," Ed said cheerfully. "But the younger generation is sure doing us proud. You turned into a real pretty woman, Meg. You know Janine's got three kids now? I think I've got some pictures of the baby—" He reached toward his pocket.
"What do you mean, think?" Barby demanded. "You'd as soon go out without your pants as without those pictures. She doesn't want to see them, Ed. Sit down, honey. Here, next to me."
They all wanted her to sit next to them. There was a certain amount of shifting and moving chairs—except for Ed, who preferred not to move unless he had to, and who sat smiling fatly at Meg, the pictures ready in his hand.
As soon as she was settled, between Barby and Mike, the waitress swooped down on them with a promptness reserved for special customers. Meg tried to order a salad, but was shouted down. Ed said she was way too thin, Barby proclaimed the virtues of Kate's seafood Newburg, and even Mike—who wasn't much of a talker, possibly because he had a hard time getting a word in, rumbled, "You need to keep up your strength, honey. This is a celebration; have something good."
Aware of Cliff's sardonic smile, Meg let them order for her. After the waitress had left she said, "I don't feel much like celebrating, Mike. Except for the pleasure of seeing you and the others."
"That's the point," Ed said. "That's the only way to live. Enjoying people while they're with us, enjoying the memories after they're gone." His spherical face split into a wide smile. "I've got my celebration all planned. Menu and everything. I'm gonna write out some tributes for Barby and Mike to deliver—"
"Fat chance," said Barby with a sniff. "You'll outlive us all, you old goat. If there were any justice in this world you'd have killed yourself a long time ago, eating all the wrong things, getting no exercise, drinking like a fish—"
"Now I don't neither drink too much," Ed said indignantly. "A couple of glasses of wine every day never hurt a person. It's in Holy Writ."
The arrival of the waitress, with the wine praised by Holy Writ, prevented Barby from replying. As the young woman poured, a rush of warm air and the slap of the swinging door heralded the appearance of Kate. She pushed Cliff back into his chair with one hand and stretched out the other to Meg.
Kate claimed it was the moist heat of the kitchen that kept her face so miraculously unlined. She worked a twelve-hour day, six days a week, and her diminutive figure had thickened only slightly over the past few years. When Meg said, "You look wonderful, Kate," she spoke only the truth.
"I look like hell," Kate said, pushing a strand of limp hair under her tall white hat. "Don't know how much longer I can stand this stupid hat. If the French are supposed to be so damned smart about cooking, how come they invented these things? I'm thinking of going back to that early-American day-cor. Then I could wear one of them, what do they call them, mobcaps. I can't get used to this damned thing, it keeps hitting the pots and pans. What do you think, Meg?"
Mike cleared his throat. "First things first, Kate. Let's have the toast. Here's to Dan." He raised his glass.
"Is that all?" Ed asked, pouting. "You should've let me make the toast. I had a nice speech all written out—"
The three old cronies groaned in unison. "You know what Dan thought of your damned speeches," Kate said. "Mike has it right. Here's to Dan."
They drank. The ensuing silence only lasted a few seconds. Kate turned her bright, birdlike gaze on Meg. "So, what do you think? Should I change the day-cor? What's the latest in New York?"
She was quite serious, so Meg obliged with descriptions of the latest fads in ethnic foods, all of which Kate dismissed with a sniff or a toss of the head. She wasn't about to start serving raw fish to anybody, and as for those other countries—wherever the hell they were—everybody knew those poor souls lived on rice and scraps. Meg knew she wasn't really interested in food; what she really wanted to hear were stories about hookers, drug pushers, muggers and other exotic characters. Kate was an avid reader of hard-boiled mysteries, and was convinced that ninety-five percent of the population of New York City consisted of the aforementioned types.
Kate never sat for long, though; warned by some invisible time clock, she bounded up and announced she had better get back to work. "You come for supper sometime, Meg honey. Wednesday's a good night, it's usually slow; if you come about eight, I can get away and we'll have a good talk."
The others, profoundly disinterested in sushi, hookers and crime, had been talking quietly among themselves. Cliff caught Meg's eye. "Ed says he thinks he saw a ring like the one Dad received in Dan's collection."
"You told him—"
"Why shouldn't I? This is a serious matter. Dan had no secrets from his best friends."
"Like hell he didn't," Barby said. "There were plenty of things in Dan's life, past and present, he never talked about. And you can't believe Ed, he's so agreeable he'll say anything if he thinks you want to hear it."
Ed pouted, but before he could deny the accusation, Cliff laughed and said, "I think Barby has a weak spot for your dour partner, Meg."
Barby grinned. "He's a man. I like men, especially men built like Riley."
Meg's eyes turned toward Mike Potter. She loved all three of them, but Mike was the one whose judgment she trusted most. "What do you think of him, Mike?"
"Riley?" Mike pondered. "He's a hard worker. Dan had a high opinion of his talent."
"Is that all you can say?" Cliff demanded.
Mike turned a mild blue gaze on him. "Not much else I can say. Takes a while to know a person. Riley isn't exactly an open book." He thought for a moment, and then added, "He's good with his hands."
Cliff scowled. "Weren't you surprised when you heard Dan had left him half the store?"
"I sure was," Ed said. "He's only been here a year or two."
"Three," Barby said.
"Has it been that long? Time sure flies. Point is, even three years isn't long enough to explain a big legacy like that. You figure maybe he had something on Dan?"
Barby protested vehemently and even Mike shook his head. "You shouldn't say things like that, Ed. Blackmail is a crime."
"I didn't say—"
"You sure did. Not that anybody would pay the slightest attention to your crazy ideas," Barby added caustically. "How about some dessert? Meg, Kate still makes that almond cake you like so much."
They turned their attention to the serious question of dessert. Meg allowed them to order the almond cake for her, thankful that their bizarre ideas of "celebration" hadn't gone so far as a birthday-type cake with "Here's to Dan" in green icing. But Barby's attempt to change the subject, if it was that, did not succeed.
"I won't use the word 'blackmail' either," Cliff said. "But was there anything in Dan's past that would make him susceptible to pressure of that kind?"
There was an odd, uncomfortable silence. The three old people exchanged glances. Even Ed seemed reluctant to comment. It was Barby who said finally, "Everybody's got some secret he wouldn't want spread around. Dammit, this is supposed to be a celebration, not an inquest. Meg's got enough practical problems on her plate without raising up ghosts. Forget it, honey."
"I wish I could," Meg said. "One of my practical problems is what to do about the store. A partnership is out of the question—"
"Why?" Barby asked.
"Because . . . well, because I don't know anything about the man. He'd be the one in charge, the one on the spot, even if the present arrangement continued. I don't have enough information to judge his honesty or his capabilities."
"That makes sense," Mike said, nodding. "But those are things you can find out, honey. You'd have to make the same judgment about anyone you hired to run the store."
"I haven't decided. . . ." Meg stopped short, as it dawned on her that Dan's old friends had never considered the possibility of her selling the store.
"You shouldn't decide anything just yet," Barby assured her. "Take your time, think things through. My goodness, child, you've got all the time in the world."
As she and Cliff headed homeward along the shaded street, Meg felt weighted down by other people's assumptions.
"I'm so stuffed I can hardly walk," she grumbled. "That was a dirty trick, Cliff. Why didn't you tell me they were expecting us for lunch?"
"I was afraid you'd think of some excuse not to go," Cliff said. "You saw how much it meant to them."
