by Kathy
When the door had closed, Meg said jokingly, "Is it you or me she doesn't trust?"
To her surprise a distinct blush spread over Darren's face. "She—uh—she's just curious. About you."
"Me? But she's known me all my life."
"She hasn't seen you for a long time. You've changed quite a lot, Meg."
"Not really."
But the town didn't know that, and they wouldn't have believed her if she had said so. Her prolonged absence must have aroused some degree of resentment, and a large amount of gossip. Now she was back, after years in the big city, and no matter how she behaved, some of them would see her as a spoiled sophisticate who thought she was too good for Seldon— who had neglected her poor old grandparents and returned only to rake in her share of the loot. No matter how friendly she was, some of them would find her condescending. She thought she understood Darren's blush. How many of his pals had kidded him about Dan Mignot's rich, unmarried granddaughter?
Darren began talking about her will. At her request, he explained the provisions Dan had made in the case of her predeceasing him. The bulk of the estate went to various charities, except for the store, which went outright to A. L. Riley.
"That's the way I want it, then," Meg said. "Except for one thing. I want to leave something to Uncle George. Something sizable."
Darren's head, which had been bent over the papers, came up with a jerk. "Is there some reason why I shouldn't?" Meg asked in surprise.
"No, no. You can do anything you like. In the normal course of events you will outlive your uncle, so you'll have to make alternative provisions. . . ."
After they had settled that, and decided on the amount, Darren said, "That should do it. You can make changes at any time, of course, or add codicils, but I'd like to get this drawn up and signed as soon as possible. Can you come in tomorrow at four?"
"So soon?"
"I'll bring it to the house if you prefer."
"That won't be necessary, Darren. I was just surprised that you would have it ready so quickly. New York lawyers don't move that fast."
"I usually don't either," Darren admitted. "But in this case. . Are you sure, now, about what you want?"
"Yes." His silence and his faint frown were as eloquent as speech. "Come on, Darren, spit it out," Meg said, remembering a favorite childhood phrase. "Something is bugging you. What?"
"Are you sure you want Riley to have the store?"
"That was going to be the next topic of conversation. What can you tell me about him?"
"Not much." Darren's frown deepened. "At first there was no reason for me to take an interest in the fellow; he was just another employee. As you know, Dan brooked no interference with the store and its management. I had no idea how much influence Riley had gained until Dan ordered me to make that last change in his will."
"Influence?" Meg repeated.
He understood what she meant, and a reluctant smile came over his face. "We wouldn't have a leg to stand on, Meg. Dan was getting a little absentminded, but he was as sharp as any man in this town—sharper than some half his age. I didn't try to argue with him, he'd have blown his stack if I had so much as implied he could be improperly influenced."
"Then he had reason—good reason—for making that arrangement."
"Well ... I suppose so, yes." Darren leaned back in his chair, took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I did suggest that before he took such a step he ought to have the man investigated. Then he did blow his stack. He said he knew all he needed to know, that it was none of my effing business, and that if I went behind his back and hired a detective he'd nail my hide to the office door."
"That sounds like Dan," Meg said, smiling. "Did you go behind his back?"
"Are you kidding?" Darren's answering grin made him look like the boy she had known. Then he sobered. "I did do something I rather hate to admit. It was unprofessional, and not my usual style, but I was so uneasy about the situation I felt it was necessary. I—er—I encouraged people to gossip."
His look of exaggerated guilt amused Meg. "Did you learn anything that would suggest Dan made an error in judgment?"
"Not really," Darren admitted. "When Riley first came to town he boarded with Sally Johnson. She told me 'he never made no trouble, and minded his own business, which was not such a bad idea even for a g-----d-----lawyer." I quote, of course."
"She sounds like an ideal landlady," Meg said. "Go on."
"After Dan made Riley manager, he moved to the apartment over the store. And that—Darren made a gesture of frustration—"that's about it. He isn't a member of a lodge or professional association, he doesn't attend the local churches, he doesn't borrow videotapes—"
"Oh, Darren, for heaven's sake—you didn't!"
Another, darker blush, suffused the lawyer's cheeks. "It was a last recourse. So far as I could tell the man doesn't go anywhere or associate with anybody. People don't like him—"
"Because he doesn't go anywhere or associate with anybody." Meg sniffed. "That's not a crime; in fact, it's probably a sign of good judgment. So far you've told me nothing that would explain why Dan acted as he did. I want to know, Darren. Before I can decide what to do about the store I have to know."
"Decide what to do. ..." Darren stared at her in surprise. "But surely there's no question about that. Dan wanted you to have it—manage it."
"What Dan wanted and what I want are two different things."
"Mmmm. Yes, of course." Darren's eyes shifted. "I knew you and Dan had some—er—differences of opinion about your participation in the business. But I assumed that under the circumstances. ..."
"They have changed, yes." Meg fought a rising tide of anger that was directed as much at herself as at Darren. "Dan is dead. Now I can run things to suit myself instead of having him on my back all the time. Naturally I'd jump at that, wouldn't I?"
"I didn't mean—"
"I know. I'm sorry. I just. . . ." She was disconcerted to find that her voice was unsteady and her eyes were swimming with tears. "This is harder than I thought it would be, Darren. Forgive me."
"I understand."
He didn't understand, though, not entirely. How could he, when she herself had not sorted out the varied emotions that pulled her first in one direction and then in another? Nice, uncomplicated, conventional Darren—how could he comprehend the mixture of love and resentment that blended with her grief for Dan?
When she had regained her composure she tried again. "Staying here in Seldon and running the store is one of my options, Darren, but it's not the only one. I had—I have another life, elsewhere. A satisfying career, friends. ... It has pluses and minuses, but so does the alternative. Suppose I decided to sell my interest in the store?"
"To Riley?" His voice rose on the final syllable, in a squeak of pure horror.
"Why not to Riley?"
"Why—because he—because Dan. . . . You don't know anything about the man!"
"Precisely. So find out about him."
"You mean you'll let me investigate—"
"Let you, hell. I insist that you do so." His blank, uncomprehending stare fueled the anger she had tried to control; it boiled over. "God damn it, Darren, don't react to everything I say as if I were some naive little twit without a brain cell in my head! And don't make decisions for me. I'll make them for myself—but only after I have gathered the relevant data and considered it. And above all—spare me mean, petty-minded gossip. Give me facts!"
Darren's jaw was hanging. "That's what Dan used to say," he whispered. " 'Give me facts.' You sound just like him."
Before she left, Meg apologized again. She was genuinely ashamed of her outburst; Darren hadn't meant to sound condescending, it was her own self-doubt and confusion that made her supersensitive to his comments. He accepted her apology with sympathetic murmurs and a tentative pat or two, and they parted on amicable terms. No doubt he was used to grieving heirs who indulged in emotional tantrums. If hers had only been that simple. ... It had felt
good, though!
Once outside the building she took a deep breath of the clean sweet air and stood admiring the quiet charm of the street, with its pretty shops and old shade trees. She had no intention of calling for a ride home. It was an idea that would not have occurred to her if George hadn't suggested it; she had not been brought up to expect such luxuries. Despite his millions Dan had Old Country notions about Hard Work and Earning Your Way, and Getting Things Too Easily. (One could almost hear the capital letters as he lectured.) Newspaper and television stories about Rich Kids (more capitals) who were drug addicts, alcoholics and worse, were seen as confirmation of his theories. As a child Meg had had the same allowance as her friends, and she had attended local schools. Gran's needs were different, of course; she had all the servants she wanted, but Dan had never hired a valet or a chauffeur. He had driven himself until a few years earlier, when the terrified city council finally convinced Gran that they couldn't go on sounding the fire alarm to warn drivers whenever Dan Mignot took to the road.
It was a nice day for a walk, Meg decided. Besides, being on her own, for the first time since she had returned, had a certain exhilaration. She turned to look at the window of the boutique, and smiled cynically as a half-seen form quickly withdrew. If the town wanted to see what she was like, she would let them look their fill.
She was inside the shop less than half an hour. The clothes were all overpriced and badly made, and she resented the clerk's fawning assurances that everything she tried on looked "absolutely smashing, dear." Even the dress that wouldn't go down over her hips.
What she really needed were pants—not designer jeans, which had certainly not been designed for hips like hers. ("Rounded hips are back in style, madam.") Meg headed for Main Street.
She found the pants and shirts she wanted at what had been the dry-goods store when Dan Mignot first came to Seldon; it still sold fabric and clothing, but it was under new management, and Meg cut her shopping short because the stares and whispers were getting on her nerves. She needed sneakers—why hadn't she thought to bring them?—but to reach the shoe store she would have had to cross the street and pass the jewelry store. She wasn't ready for that yet, and her stomach—strengthened, perhaps, by that healthy outbreak of rage—reminded her that it was time for lunch.
There were other eating places within walking distance—a pizza parlor, the lunch counter at the five-and-dime, and a health-food restaurant—but it would have been unthinkable to go anywhere but Kate's. For one thing, Kate would hear about it and be deeply hurt. For another . . . Kate would hear about it and be deeply hurt.
Consciously or unconsciously, Meg had delayed until the conventional noon-to-one lunch hour was past. When she entered the restaurant, however, she saw that there were two people at the reserved table at the back. One was Barby. The other was A. L. Riley.
Barby saw Meg first, and stopped in the middle of what appeared to be an earnest oration. Riley turned; as Meg approached he rose in a leisurely fashion and said, "Thanks, Barby. Hello and good-bye, Ms. Venturi. I was just—"
"Sit down," Meg said, keeping her voice low and a bright smile pasted onto her face. She slid into a chair.
"I was—"
"I said sit down!"
Riley sat. "I clocked out over an hour ago, Ms. Venturi. I hope you aren't going to dock my pay; I can't afford it."
Meg laughed heartily. "Do you want the whole town to think we're feuding?"
"Oh, so that's it. I don't give a damn what the town thinks. Why should you?"
"I resent people gossiping about me. I refuse to give them grounds for doing so."
"She's right, you know," said Barby, whose head had been turning from speaker to speaker. "You're in trouble enough right now, you don't need—"
She stopped short, with a gurgle, as he turned his eyes toward her.
"Just let me know when you think enough time has elapsed to create an impression of goodwill," Riley said. "We're losing money. I had to close up."
"Where is Candy?" Meg asked.
"I fired her." He fixed an ironic gaze upon her. "I beg your pardon for failing to consult you, but if you had heard some of the things she said you'd agree with my decision."
"What things?"
"I thought you disapproved of gossip."
He had her there. And she had no reason to doubt his implication that "some of the things" Candy had said were directed at her. "You can't run the store by yourself," she said. "You'd better find—"
"I am in the process of taking the necessary steps," her partner said. "At least I was, until you arrived."
"I'll ask around," Barby said quickly. "I know a couple of kids who are looking for work, but as I said, they don't know anything about the jewelry business."
"And as I said: thanks." He looked at Meg. "May I be excused now?"
Meg offered him her hand. "I hope the strain hasn't been too much for you."
He took her hand with all the enthusiasm of a man being offered a dead fish, but a hint of genuine amusement warmed his formal smile. "Probably harder on you than on me, Ms. Venturi."
"I've got to run, honey," Barby announced, struggling with her napkin, her chair and an oversized purse. "Wait, Riley, you can walk me back to the shop, and I'll tell you about—about somebody else I just remembered."
Riley clearly wasn't crazy about the idea, but he offered his arm and slowed his stride to match Barby's tripping steps. A waitress hurried to Meg's side. "I'm sorry, Miss Venturi, did you want to order?"
"Yes, just a minute," Meg said absently, watching the oddly assorted pair move toward the door. Barby's arthritis must be acting up, she was clinging to Riley's arm and he had put his hand over hers.
The restaurant was only half-full; the remaining diners appeared to be housewives and tourists lingering over a second cup of coffee, except for two men who had obviously lingered too long over something else. Their conversation had been loud and punctuated by guffaws of laughter, which stopped abruptly when Barby and Riley passed their table. One of them, a short, stocky man whose belly hung out over his unbuckled belt, stumbled up from his chair. His friend caught his arm and steered him back to his place, saying something Meg didn't catch.
The waitress had gone, leaving a menu. As Meg reached for it the swinging door flew open and Kate came through like a bullet from a gun. Seeing Meg, she jolted to a stop. "I didn't know you were here. Somebody should've told me."
"I haven't been here long." Meg added with a grin, "Go ahead and throw them out, Kate; that's why you came, wasn't it? Do you need any help?"
"Not with those two lily-livered creeps," Kate said, flexing her stringy arms. "They know I don't let people get sloshed in my place. Oh, well, I guess they can wait awhile. It's good to see you, honey. What have you been up to?"
Meg explained that she had been shopping, and Kate nodded approvingly. "That always perks a girl up. What'd you buy?"
Meg displayed her purchases and listened patiently to Kate's criticisms—"You don't need to buy cheap stuff like that, honey, why didn't you go out to the shopping center, there's some nice stores out there." Neither of them saw the man until he stumbled over his own feet and fell forward, catching himself in the nick of time by grabbing at the next table.
"Dammit," Kate hissed, starting up. "Rod Applegate, I told you last time—"
"Please, Kate." Applegate had smoothed his hair and straightened his tie, but his attempt to look dignified was somewhat marred by the fact that he had forgotten to fasten his belt. He was younger than Meg had thought; his potbelly and puffy face made him look older. He went on, taking great care with his sibilants, "I jus' want to say hello to Meg. Hello, Meg."
"Hello," Meg said.
"Been a long time."
"Has it?"
"How 'bout if I buy you a drink—have a little chat?"
He pulled out one of the empty chairs. Kate, who had been vibrating like a taut bowstring, let fly. A hard shove propelled Applegate into the arms of his friend, who had
come up behind him. "Get him out of here, Jim," Kate snarled. "And don't either of you come back."
Taller, heavier and less drunk than his friend, Jim managed to stay on his feet. Arms wrapped around Applegate, who stared in owlish surprise at Kate, he began, "Listen, you know why
"I don't care why. Out, I said."
"But I gotta warn Meg," Applegate whined. "Tell her 'bout that sumbitch—"
"Out," Kate said.
"But I gotta—"
"Come on, Rod." Jim turned himself and his buddy around. Like an uncoordinated set of Siamese twins, they stumbled toward the door.
"Am I supposed to know him?" Meg asked.
"He was in school with you, I guess. A couple of years ahead."
The hint was enough to spark Meg's memory; stripped of excess flesh, the features were indeed those of a boy she remembered vaguely, and without fondness. He had been a bully and a loudmouthed jerk even then. "What did Mr. Riley ever do to him?"
"Hired—and fired—Candy." Kate's eagle eye was still fixed on the wavering pair, who had stopped at the cash register to pay their bill. "Rod is Candy's husband. Ex, I should say."
"What? I didn't know Candy was married!"
"It only lasted a couple of months. He's a drunk and Candy is ... is a natural-born old maid. It was over long before Riley appeared on the scene, but Rod's the kind who has to blame somebody for his own failures. Excuse me a minute, honey, I better get up there, they're giving Ruby a hard time—"
Her approach ended the argument over the check. Jim pushed his friend toward the door, but Applegate was determined to have the last word. "Get even with that sumbitch," he bellowed over his shoulder. "Can't treat people that way an' get away with it. Gonna kill that—"
The slam of the door cut off the final epithet.
"Old maid" was a euphemism for words Kate would have employed if she had been speaking to a contemporary instead of someone she still thought of as an innocent little girl. But the history of Candy's romance was as clear to Meg as if Kate had spelled it out. Candy had married Rod Applegate because he was her last, perhaps her first and only, chance, and had discovered that the "intimacies of marriage," to use another euphemism, were not to her taste—particularly with a boorish clod. Poor Candy was not only a romantic, but a witless one; the contrast between her vapid fantasies and Applegate's direct approach to sex must have been brutal.
