A House by the Side of the Road (7 page)

“That I do,” said Meg. She cupped the pretty mug in her hands, feeling warmth on her palms. “It's a bit run-down.”

“Louise tended to save her money,” said her neighbor, nodding. “And what she spent, she spent on books. Then, when she went into the home, she wasn't near careful enough about who she rented to. I'd think the hot-rod kid didn't help the place any.”

“Who?” asked Meg.

He looked disgusted. “Bit of nonsense who lived there before you. She'd barrel down this road in her fancy sports car like she thought she was at Indy. Nearly run me down the morning she left while I was coming home from the hives I keep across the way. Didn't see me in the fog, I guess. A morning a lot like this one—we get fogs like that every so often. Oh, she was a pretty thing, all blond hair and big eyes. Kept to herself. But I never saw her doing a lick at Louise's place. And she drove too doggone fast.”

*   *   *

Meg unloaded her purchases, dumping them onto the grass near the driveway, and unlocked the kitchen door. She went through the house and into her bedroom to change into older jeans before spending the afternoon kneeling on the grass.

She sat down on the edge of the bed to unlace her shoes, facing the squat, ugly dresser she had kept to put in the toolshed but hadn't yet moved. The bottom drawer was not quite flush with the ones above it. She stood up and shoved at it, but it wouldn't fit in place. Turning, she kicked it with the bottom of her foot. No use. When she pulled on the drawer above, it moved smoothly, almost loosely, in its tracks.

She yanked the loose drawer all the way out and set it on the floor, then removed the bottom one. They looked to be exactly the same size, but they probably weren't. Reversing them solved the problem. Both drawers closed all the way.

She sat down again and pushed off her shoes, glancing out the window at the honeysuckle and the side yard. It was a beautiful afternoon. It was pleasant to live here, not to worry about shutting and locking the windows when you left the house just because the screens could be slid out of their tracks by an eight-year-old. Except on the chilliest nights, she could leave the window open a good foot all the time.

She looked at the dresser more carefully. No, she told herself. Don't be stupid. If anyone had come in, he would have done more than remove the drawers from a dresser and accidentally reverse them while putting them back. Besides, why would anyone want to remove the drawers from a dresser?

Still, she got up and went into her study. The computer, the only valuable thing she owned, was just as she'd left it, her desk seemingly untouched.

I guess being alone can make your mind do funny things, she thought. But she found she was shivering, although the room was warm.

*   *   *

By late afternoon, the missing pickets had been replaced and the loose ones reattached. The tedium of the work had been relieved by a game of catch with Jane. Still, it had been too many hours of bending and wrenching and pounding nails. Meg straightened and sighed, a dull ache tensing the muscles in her lower back. She looked around. When the fence was painted, it would look good.

A red pickup came along the road, crossed into the wrong lane, and stopped on the shoulder. The driver rolled his window all the way down and leaned out, lifting a Pittsburgh Pirates cap as he did so.

“Looks like the new hammer worked pretty well,” he said.

“Sure did,” replied Meg. She was unreasonably pleased to see him again.

“So this is your place? There used to be another woman living here.”

“She moved,” said Meg. “It's mine now, fence and all.”

“Well, welcome, neighbor.” He smiled. “My name's Jack Deutsch. Like a Hollander, but spelled e-u-t-s-c-h. I'm about a mile down this road.” He pointed ahead of him. “On the other side.”

Meg shifted the hammer to her left hand and held out her right across the fence. Jack stretched out of the cab to shake it.

“Meg Kessinger,” said Meg, “I'm glad to meet you.” She wished she weren't still wearing her Boy Scout shirt which, by now, was looking rather disreputable, and that she had on a better pair of jeans. “I just moved in a couple of days ago.”

“Met the Ruschmans?” he asked. “Next place down?”

“Yes,” she said. “All four of them.”

“You couldn't have better neighbors. The people in the next house on your side”—he pointed over his shoulder back down the road—“don't live here much of the year. But if you need something Christine doesn't have, feel free to bang on my door. My name's on the mailbox by the road.”

“Thanks,” said Meg, confident that thinking of something Christine didn't have was a challenge she was equal to. “And I've met John Eppler and Michael Mulcahy, who is, I guess, kind of across the road from you.”

“I'm a little further,” said Jack. Meg got the impression he'd been tempted to add “not further enough.” “Anyway,” he went on, “if you run out of nails or need a heat gun…”

Meg laughed. “I'll definitely be needing a heat gun, though there are places where I may just opt for a sledgehammer.”

“Got that, too,” he said, grinning. He settled his cap more firmly, pulling it down over sandy hair. His eyes were blue, and they crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

Meg watched the truck until it disappeared around the curve, then turned toward the house. On the far side of the driveway, the ugly brown dog stood watching her.

“The yard looks better, doesn't it?” asked Meg. “It's going to have a puppy in it soon, and you'd better be nice to him. Or her.”

The dog's tail relaxed toward the ground.

“See, you're getting used to me,” said Meg. “I don't see any reason for us not to be civil to each other.” She walked up the steps to the front door.

When she came outside again after dinner, coffee cup in hand, the dog was still there. She was lying under a maple tree near the driveway but sat up as Meg emerged.

“I've got some cookies,” said Meg in a singsong voice, putting a small plate down on the porch and then walking slowly toward the gate at the side of the yard.

The dog didn't move as Meg opened the gate, turned back, and sat down on the steps.

“They're really good cookies, from Christine's house,” she said conversationally. “Harding didn't get any. He wanted some awfully badly, but he didn't get even a bite. Unless Teddy gave him some. I suspect Teddy gives him anything he wants. Do you know Teddy?”

The dog did not reply, but she was standing now and had moved closer.

“Oh, don't be silly. You must. He lives right over there.” She pointed toward the west. “If you wanted just a little bite, I could spare it.”

She broke off a corner of cookie, stood up, and tossed it lightly. It landed a few feet on the other side of the gate. The dog took several steps, sniffed at the offering, and then took it delicately.

“There's more,” said Meg, looking out toward the road. “But I think it's terribly rude to expect to be served. If you want to share, you should come close enough so I wouldn't have to get up.”

She ought not to feed someone else's dog. Some people felt strongly about such things. Tough. The dog was watching her hungrily. She tossed half a cookie onto the grass about six feet away.

“You can have that if you want,” she said quietly but in a cheerful tone. “I'm paying hardly any attention to the fact that you're even here. You can tell, because I'm not looking at you. I don't really care if you want it or not. But it's really, really good.”

She turned her back on the dog and started to whistle
Eine kleine Nachtmusik.
The dog walked into the yard and ate the cookie, then sat down calmly and looked at Meg.

“You like Mozart?” asked Meg, glancing toward the dog and then away. “Good for you. Some dogs don't like anything but country and western. I'm glad to see you have broader tastes, since it appears we're neighbors.”

The dog didn't move.

“All right,” said Meg. “One more. But then you have to go home to your own house. Your person, or your people, may be worried. Feel free to come back anytime.”

She held out a whole cookie, gazing off to the dog's left. The dog stood up and stretched and then walked slowly forward. She stopped and reached for the food, taking it gingerly from Meg's hand.

“So, good night,” said Meg. She stood up. The dog backed away slightly, holding the cookie in her teeth. Meg went into the house.

*   *   *

She was propped up in bed reading when Christine called. It was the first time the phone had rung.

“We've got our choice. We can be the Atlanta Braves or the Houston Astros. Do you care, Coach? I do.”

“No, I don't care. Why do you?”

“Okay, then we're the Astros. Because the Astros, for some reason, have gray pants and the Braves have white, that's why.”

“Ah. I'm surprised you didn't have to fight for the uniform then.”

“Are you kidding? All the other coaches are
men.
Like they've ever washed the pants? Ha!”

Christine had a list of the times the diamond was available, and they worked out a practice schedule.

“Do you make a habit of calling people at ten forty-five?” asked Meg. “Don't you have to get up and milk the cows or something?”

“Oh, yeah,” laughed Christine. “That's why we moved to the country. So we could have
cows
and get up at four-thirty. There are plenty of cows along this road, but not a one of them belongs to us. I
like
cows. I just don't like their schedule. I wouldn't have called so late if I'd realized it was. I've been reading a sewing magazine and didn't notice the time. I was engrossed.” She paused. “It was a real seam-ripper.”

Meg laughed. “Wrench yourself away; there's work to do. Make me a list of the team members while you're burning the midnight oil. And note the positions they played last year—if they played last year—along with whatever you know about them. Bring it over tomorrow and have lunch.”

“I can tell you're good at delegating,” said Christine. “I don't like that in a person.”

“Can I hang up now?”

“In a minute. Did you hear about the break-in?”

The disconcerted feeling that had plagued Meg during the early afternoon came back. “What break-in? Where?”

Christine chuckled. “Would you believe someone broke into the Salvation Army store?”

“What
for?
”

“That's the big mystery. What for, exactly! Probably kids on a dare or something. Nothing was even taken, so far as anyone knows.”

“How bizarre.”

“Tell me about it. But excitement is hard to come by in this town. Anyone with a taste for it is driven to odd activities.”

*   *   *

The numbers on the clock by Meg's bed said 2:22 when she woke up. She lay, blinking at it, wondering what had awakened her. Then she knew. A dog was barking near the house, a throaty, challenging bark.

Meg tensed. She was glad she had taken two nails and driven them into the window jamb. It still opened easily, but no more than five inches, so she could leave it open at night without feeling unprotected. The other windows in the house were shut and locked; she had taken care of that before getting to bed. Dogs bark, she told herself. They just do, at almost anything.

The barking stopped. Meg lay in bed, staring upward at nothing and listening to complete silence. I should, she thought, have thrown rocks instead of cookies. She went back to sleep. In the morning, the dog was still there, lying on the mat outside the front door.

Seven

The phone rang while Meg was painting the fence. She raced inside, the screen door slamming behind her.

“Mike Mulcahy,” said the caller. “How's it going?”

“Slowly,” replied Meg. “But I like the place; I really do. I've got the fence repaired. I was painting it when you called.”

“Oops. Sorry to interrupt. Don't you have to, like, find paying work?”

“You offering?”

He laughed. “If you can type, spell
deposition,
and repress hostile glares at people you figure are guilty as hell, sure. Why not? Like I said, I lost my secretary. And since it's your fault, you kinda owe me.”

“What do you mean, my fault?”

“The woman who lived in your house, Angie Morrison, was my secretary. She rented month-to-month, and when I told her you were taking the place, she decided to leave town.”

“Oh, please!” said Meg. “It's my fault there's no rental property in this burg?”

“There is, actually. I don't think she left because she'd have to move. I think she wanted a more exciting life. However, if I can get some leverage by making you feel guilty, why not try?”

“Charming,” said Meg. “And lawyers wonder why they have such bad reputations. But no, I'm not looking for paying work. Scratch that. I'm usually looking for paying work, but I brought my job with me—writing vocabulary worksheets for middle-school kids. My next deadline's a few days off, though, so I'm taking a little time to settle.”

“How about taking a little time to have dinner? You need to get a sense of the elegant night life this town has to offer.”

Meg hesitated, feeling unprepared. “I don't know … I've got so much to do.”

“You have to eat.”

“Yeah, but…”

“We'll make it quick. The Main Street Cafe has great onion burgers. You can show up in paint-spattered overalls, and nobody will even blink.”

“Okay,” said Meg. “I'll meet you there. What time?”

“Six-thirty,” said Mike. “Eat lunch early. The portions are large.”

*   *   *

Christine rode up on a bicycle at noon and admired the fence.

“It's going to take me the rest of my adult life to paint it,” said Meg. “And it's hopelessly boring. Any chance Jane likes to paint? Pays better than baby-sitting.”