by Wendy Tyson
Megan bit her lip in an effort not to smile. No one did righteous indignation quite like Merry Chance.
“Some people,” Megan said.
“Some people is right. Why did they even move to Winsome? Who bothers coming to a close-knit community if you’re only going to wall yourself off from everyone?”
“The von Tresslers have not exactly reached out to the townspeople, have they?” An understatement, Megan knew. When Melanie and David von Tressler completed the giant home on the hill overlooking Winsome a few months ago, many speculated about why such a wealthy couple would choose this small Bucks County town. Sure, the schools were good. And the town was convenient to Philadelphia and New York City. And for many, the slower pace beat the frenetic feeling of city life. But from what she could tell, neither of the von Tresslers worked outside that mansion, and their only son was a grown man.
Megan had heard the rumors—everything from “they want to get away from the big city,” to “they’re running from someone,” to gossip about deadly accidents and affairs and deceased relatives. Winsome was a small town, and like small towns everywhere, people talked—whether they knew what they were talking about or not.
Every time Megan had stopped by the nursery since the von Tresslers began construction, Merry had been openly aghast at the lack of neighborliness the couple showed: declining her repeated invitations to dinner and fundraisers, and never once frequenting her store. Merry’s skin was butterfly-wing thin, but she had a point. The von Tresslers had been standoffish. Megan found them a curious family. A husband, a younger wife, a solitary son, and a house that could shelter ten families. Why Winsome, indeed.
“Cremated the body. I heard he had a heart attack,” Merry said.
“That’s what I heard, too.” Megan glanced back outside, but the women were no longer there. “Sudden and deadly.”
“And now people are showing up to mourn. I wonder who that young woman was. A niece, perhaps? Or maybe an estranged daughter from another marriage. It was a fall/spring marriage, after all.” Merry shrugged. “With all that money, I’m sure the memorial service will be extravagant.”
While Merry rambled on about the alleged von Tressler fortune, Megan thought about the sobbing woman, her obvious misery. “My god, she’ll eat you alive,” one of the women had said in an effort to halt the tears. Who would eat her alive, Megan wondered? Melanie von Tressler? Megan thought so—and not because this Claire was a niece or even an estranged daughter. No, if Megan had been a gambler, she’d say there was more to Claire and David than blood relation. Those tears were rooted in the kind of grief one feels when they lose a partner. Megan understood. She’d lost her soldier husband, Mick Sawyer, when they were just starting married life together, and the grief was always there. A persistent, deep ache.
David von Tressler had meant something to the designer-wearing Claire. Something, perhaps, that Melanie von Tressler wouldn’t appreciate. But Megan wouldn’t say that to Merry. No use feeding the storm of gossip enveloping the von Tresslers. Instead, Megan picked up her potting soil and slung it over her shoulder. The reality of her days involved farm work, animal husbandry, renovating the adjoining Marshall property, and keeping the café afloat. Right now she had a farmers market to prepare for. She had little time for people who had little time for the people of Winsome.
Merry, whose fuchsia-colored glasses now hung from a lanyard around her neck, frowned. “Are you going to the memorial reception?” Merry asked.
Surprised by the question, Megan shook her head. “Why would I? I only met David and Melanie a few times. We weren’t exactly friends.”
“They are part of our community.”
Megan smiled. It hadn’t sounded that way a moment ago. “I’m busy. Plus, I don’t think it’s open to the public, and I wasn’t invited.”
Merry must have heard the unspoken “nor were you” because she frowned and turned away to look out the window. “You must be curious, Megan. After all, they did steal your contractor. And every contractor within a twenty-mile radius.”
“No time to be curious.”
“Always business with you. Where’s the joy in that?”
“If there was no joy in it, I wouldn’t do it,” Megan said.
Merry faced Megan. Her eyes looked sad, burdened even. “There’s more to life than Winsome, Megan. Don’t you want to know how the other half live?”
“I’ve had a few glimpses, and I remain unimpressed. Have a good day, Merry.”
Megan walked out of the nursery feeling lower than she had when she’d arrived. Her words had been true. She loved what she did and didn’t begrudge the rich von Tresslers—or anyone else. It had taken a long time to feel comfortable returning to Winsome, but now that she had, she had everything she needed right here. Still…the women, the grief, Merry’s sadness all coalesced into a gut-punch of dread.
Outside, the sky had taken on a brooding character. Clouds assembled overhead, their dark edges portents of the storms to come. Megan tossed the potting soil into the truck’s toolbox and climbed into the cab. So much for sunshine. As she started the truck’s engine, it started to drizzle, the kind of steamy drizzle that provided no relief to the summer heat.
Before she could leave Merry’s parking lot, the rain was pounding down in unrelenting streams. Her windshield wipers were ineffective, and as she drove slowly down the road, she almost missed the Lexus with Connecticut plates parked along the road next to Merry’s Flowers. In it sat a red head, a platinum blond, and a brunette. From the looks on their faces and the angry gestures they were making, they were in the midst of a heated exchange. Based on the flat tire on the passenger side of the vehicle, if they were headed to the von Tressler memorial, they would be very late.
Megan pulled alongside the car. Red opened the window enough to talk with her, and Megan asked if they needed assistance. “I can help you put on your spare.”
They looked at each other uneasily before Platinum finally spoke. “We called Triple A.” She tapped the windshield. “With this rain, no way we’re getting out of the car.”
“Suit yourselves.” Megan had started to roll her window back up when Platinum waved excitedly at her. She made a rolling motion with her hand, and Megan eased the window back down.
“On second thought, do you think you could give Claire a ride? She needs to be somewhere by two. We tried Lyft but that’ll take another eighteen minutes just to get to us.”
Megan glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 1:53. She also needed to be somewhere by two, but she had offered to help. “Sure,” she said.
Claire leaned over. Her eyes, while still wet, seemed clearer. “Thank you. It means a lot.”
“No problem.”
While Megan waited for her guest to get situated in the truck, she called Ryan, her contractor, to say she’d be late. He sounded annoyed, and she didn’t blame him. Time was money—and eventually she would run out of both when it came to fixing up the old Marshall property.
“Thanks again,” the woman said. “In case you haven’t figured it out already, I’m Claire.”
“Megan Sawyer. Where are we headed?”
The woman read her an address from her phone.
“The von Tressler estate?” Megan asked.
The woman nodded. Tears once again sprouted from round green eyes, but the woman seemed to do a better job this time of holding them back.
“You knew David, then,” Megan said. “Family?”
Claire didn’t answer. She turned her head to look out the window, her slim frame huddled against the seat. The rain had slowed, but thunder boomed, and the darkening clouds continued to gather overhead. Megan was worried about the damage the storms would do to her fields. And while tornadoes were rare in eastern Pennsylvania, they weren’t unheard of. Bibi had said just this morning that this was tornado weather. She’d been through enough growing seasons to k
now.
“Yes, I knew David,” Claire said finally. She offered no more.
Megan turned the truck past her own road and kept going, up toward the mansion overlooking the town center. Perhaps she’d probed her passenger enough. It was none of her business after all.
The memorial had brought visitors from the tri-state region, and parking attendants and valets were outside in suits and clear raincoats, directing traffic and parking vehicles. Megan pulled into the circular driveway in front of the Greek Revival house and waited to drop her charge off at the double-doored entrance, one in a long line of mourners.
Thunder boomed again, and Claire jumped. “Sorry,” she mumbled. She looked at Megan with downcast eyes. Her once carefully coifed hair hung limply against hollow cheekbones. She’d managed to clean up the mascara, but her eyes appeared naked and sad. Megan noticed slender fingers, unpolished nails chewed down to the quick. “I’m obviously rattled,” she said.
“It’s okay.”
“David…well, I’m not ready to say good-bye.”
“He must have meant a lot to you.” A parking attendant waved, and Megan pulled forward, in front of the house’s entrance. She shifted into park to let the woman out.
“For a while, he was my world. He still should be.”
The parking attendant opened the truck door and said, “Name?”
“Mrs. Claire von Tressler.”
Claire must have read the confusion on Megan’s face because she said, “I told you I knew David.” She grabbed her purse and the flowers from the divider between them. Closing her eyes for a split second, she seemed to careen backward, into the seat. When she opened them again, she pushed herself out of the vehicle with weary resignation.
“Wish me luck,” Claire said.
“Good luck.”
Claire von Tressler disappear into the house, looking tiny and lost against the larger-than-life background.
Two
Megan had arrived home to find the contractor busy, so she went down to the old farmhouse to change into work clothes before returning to her farm chores. In the kitchen, Bibi was stirring a pot of vegetable soup and scolding Sadie, Megan’s dog, for begging.
“Now be a good girl,” Bibi murmured.
“Bibi, when we met David and Melanie, did they introduce themselves as a married couple?”
Bibi looked up and frowned. “David and Melanie?”
“Yes. The von Tresslers.”
Bibi gave the soup another stir and put the wooden spoon on a trivet on the counter. Smells of onions and home baked bread wafted through the warm room. Megan’s stomach rumbled. She’d forgotten to eat lunch again. Lately, worries over the Marshall house renovations and their dwindling bank accounts had been keeping her up all night and stealing her appetite.
“Bibi?” When Bibi still looked perplexed, Megan said, “The house you called a monstrosity.”
“Ah, now I remember. The old man and his child bride.” She tossed a piece of bread to Sadie.
“That’s why she begs, you know,” Megan scolded.
“Nonsense.” Bibi tossed her another piece of bread. “She’s a good girl.”
Megan threw up her hands in frustration. Bibi would do what she wanted. “The von Tresslers,” Megan said again. “They came into the café one day and ordered nothing but coffee, then complained that it was too strong—remember? You were talking to them. Did they say they were married?”
Bibi’s face scrunched in concentration. In her mid-eighties, she was a study in motion—most of the time. Today she looked tired, mirroring how Megan felt. Bibi’s short hair was curled slightly from the humidity, and she wore a “Winsome Cooks” apron over a striped shirt dress. Sneakers adorned her small feet. Megan felt a surge of love for her grandmother, the most steady person in her life. Aside, perhaps, from Megan’s boyfriend, Winsome veterinarian Dr. Daniel “Denver” Finn.
“I remember they sat side by side despite having a perfectly good chair across the table. I remember his hands all over her, and I recall that she seemed to neither invite nor dissuade his attention. I recall that they bickered. Then they complained the coffee was too strong, I offered another cup, and they asked for tea. When they left, they paid only for the tea—despite drinking the coffee, too—and left a fifty-cent tip.” She cocked her head. “How’s that for a memory?”
Megan smiled. “Pretty darn good. Married?”
“They said they were new in town and lived on the hill. Never specifically called themselves married. Why?”
Megan told her grandmother about the scene at Merry’s shop and the ride to the von Tressler memorial reception. “I met the von Tresslers at the café as well,” Megan said. “It was a while ago. They were building the house and had come to town to check on the progress. David was gracious but standoffish. Melanie didn’t speak except to ask where the restroom was. I saw them later, in town.” Megan thought back to that day. Why this was bothering her, she wasn’t sure—other than the fact that the von Tresslers had usurped all of the good construction crew in the area, including her original contractor, and she was left with a barebones firm from nearby Doylestown.
“Well, they have no time for us, we have no time for them. Anyway, I heard the woman might be moving now that the husband has passed.”
“What about the son?”
“What son?” Bibi asked. “There is no son. No children at all.”
“Hmm. I thought I saw them with a son the day they came to check on construction. At least I assumed it was their son.” But then, I also assumed Melanie was his wife, Megan thought. Just then, her cell phone beeped. She had a text from Ryan, the contractor. “Ryan’s ready for me,” Megan said. “If you need me, I’ll be up at the Marshall house.”
“It’s our house now, you know. No need to call it the Marshall house.” Bibi sliced a piece of bread, slathered about a pound of butter on it, and stuffed half in her mouth. When Megan glared—Bibi had high cholesterol—Bibi shrugged and smiled.
“Yes, we should call it something else.” But we never will. The house had been dubbed “the Marshall house” years ago, after it was abandoned by a previous owner. The nickname had stuck. Megan sighed. Pulling on a pair of old sneakers, she glanced again at her grandmother. “You’re impossible, you know.”
“I think these days I’d be called strong and independent.”
Megan laughed. As usual, her grandmother was right.
It took Megan a few minutes to get up to the property that abutted Washington Acres Farm. The field between the two properties was muddy and rutted, and Megan had to watch where she was walking. The rain hadn’t helped matters, and the cuffs of Megan’s pants were soaking wet.
The Marshall property constituted an abandoned historic home situated on a large triangular plot of land that bordered state forest on one side, a road on another, and Washington Acres on the third. Long empty, with significant weather and foundation damage, it had been a beast to restore.
Megan and Bibi wanted to make it into an inn and sustainable agricultural learning center for the farm. Last year when renovations began, their original contractor ran into costly and time-consuming issues. Rather than spend the time and money then, they’d opted to construct the new barn on the property, which was to house not only plantings and equipment but would also be a commercial kitchen suitable for classes and events. The barn was mostly finished and ready for action; the house was in its last stages of completion.
Had it not been for Melanie and David, the whole thing would be finished by now—and bringing in money. When the von Tresslers began their project, they tempted away local contractors with lucrative offers. The loss of Duke Masterman, her prior contractor, had been a blow. Now the Marshall project—which had been slated to open in April—had been delayed until July. And once again there were problems, one of which Ryan wanted to discuss today.
Ry
an Craig was a tall, muscular man in his forties, with ruddy, tan skin and squinty blue eyes. Megan spotted him standing in the field behind the Marshall house. He and a member of his crew were staring across the field, at the overgrown weeds and wildflowers that had been allowed to grow during the years the house sat abandoned.
“Ryan,” Megan said as she approached. “Is now a good time?”
“It’ll do.” He pointed at the field. “We found some issues with the plumbing.”
“What do you mean by ‘issues’?”
Ryan’s gaze traveled across the property. “We had to dig up the septic tank, which is out there, under that mess. Wanted to let you know because it means delays, and money. Wanted to see what you wanted to do.”
Megan eyed the disaster of a yard. The mess could be cleaned up, but septic issues were often expensive. “Do I have a choice?”
“Not really.” He shared a litany of concerns about the current plumbing and the septic tank. Although not an expert, Megan agreed with his assessment. She just wished he’d uncovered a cheaper problem.
“Look,” he said with empathy in his eyes, “I can have my men dig up the old pipes out to the tank. We won’t call in the experts until we absolutely need them. May take an extra day or two, but with this rain, we can only do so much anyway. We’ll try to keep costs—and yard damage—to a minimum.”
Megan thanked him. While he returned to his crew, she surveyed the property. Once the Colonial was finished, it would be modest but lovely—an open reception area featuring local materials and art, three guest bedrooms with en-suite bathrooms, and a beautiful innkeepers’ quarters. They already had people inquiring about staying there. Together with the teaching barn and the pizza farm they’d opened last year, they could offer comfortable rooms, farm-to-fork food, cooking classes, and even the “true farm” experience for those who wanted it. Megan would maintain the organic café and small store in town, and eventually—fingers crossed—they’d be firmly in the black. It would be a dream come true for her, for Bibi, and for Megan’s farm manager, Clay Hand. But a lot had to be done before they could get there. Like new plumbing.
