Rotten to the Core (28 page)

“What, you can cook?”

“You’ve eaten my food and survived. And I’m told I make a mean spaghetti sauce.”

“Sounds good to me. Sunday night?”

“Make it early. Say, sixish?”

“It’s a deal. I’ll bring some wine.”

“Thanks. And thanks for the help.”
Again.
She shut the van door and watched Seth pull away, all the while wondering if she would have gotten anything done in the last two months without his help. When she walked into the house, she found Lolly curled up in one of the old overstuffed chairs in the parlor; she opened one eye, then went back to sleep.

She had just volunteered to host a dinner party. How odd was that? Meg had almost never entertained when she was in Boston. It was so much easier to eat out in one of the many restaurants there. But that wasn’t an option in Granford. She felt a momentary panic: what if the appliances didn’t work? She didn’t have enough plates or glasses or cutlery. Heck, she didn’t have enough guests to call it a party. Who else should she ask? Christopher? Bree, certainly. Rachel? Gail? No, she seemed to recall that Gail had a husband and kids, which would just complicate things.

Half an hour later, she had left Christopher a message on his office phone, Rachel had told her she had two book ings for the B&B and couldn’t get away, and Bree had agreed to come, then asked shyly if she could bring Michael, to which Meg had agreed promptly. It was coming together. She started jotting down a market list, then backed up and made a note to herself: inventory pots and pans.

She realized she was smiling. She could picture the dining room with its old woodwork gleaming in candlelight, the broad table set with china. Happy people, enjoying her food. Maybe she was her party-loving mother’s daughter after all.

What
would
her mother make of all this? Certainly she hadn’t foreseen Meg’s decision to settle down in Granford, though Meg was still rather amazed that her mother hadn’t already descended on her with a fistful of fabric swatches and paint samples in hand, once she’d heard Meg’s plan to stay. But her mother didn’t do country
or
winter—and maybe she realized that her daughter needed a little time to lick her wounds in private. But Meg had a suspicion that once the weather warmed up, Mom would put in an appearance.

In any event, the house deserved a housewarming, or maybe she meant a rewarming. It had survived neglect and abuse, and she wanted to welcome it into the twenty-first century with laughter and warmth.

Thursday passed in a blur. Meg dutifully attended her class in the morning. On her way she ran into Christopher, rushing in the opposite direction. He stopped when he saw her and said, “Thank you, my dear, for your kind invitation, but I fear I have a prior commitment. I hope I may look forward to a rain check?”

“Of course, Christopher. I’m sorry you’ll miss my little party, but I certainly hope there will be more. I get the feeling that the house wants more people in it. It must have seen quite a history, when it was a more active farm.”

“No doubt. And the kitchen would have been the heart of it, as at any farm. I’m glad you’re working on that room now.”

“It’s turned out quite well, if I do say so myself. Although there’s more work to be done, as always. I’d love to have you over sometime.”

“That would be grand. Oh, and I needed to speak with you anyway. I’m planning on spraying the orchard tomorrow morning, weather permitting. We had a small problem with apple scab last season, and I’d like to ensure that it doesn’t persist this year. We’re using a fungicidal spray, but if we act now we can minimize later applications. I can explain in more detail in the morning, but I thought you and Bree should be involved.”

“I’ll be there. Thanks for letting me know.”

They went their separate ways, and as Meg walked into the lecture hall, she felt pleased that Christopher had included her in this task. It occurred to her that in fact, she probably had some legal obligation to know what was going on. She realized that she had forgotten to ask Christopher what chemical they were using, but she would find out in the morning. Maybe she could learn something about apple scab, just to be prepared.

After class, on a whim she drove to Northampton, where she knew Hampshire County public records were kept. She was eager to find more information about her property. The deeds might be interesting, but since she already had a good idea of who had owned the property—generations of the Warren family—Meg figured that wills might give her some better insight into the actual people who had occupied the house, what they owned, how they lived. Wills it was, then.

She made her way through the security screening at the door, then headed to the Registry of Probate on the second floor. Posted instructions made it clear that Meg would have to identify what wills she wanted by official number, then request those documents from one of the women behind the long counter. Next to the entrance there were banks of old-fashioned card files—apparently the earlier documents hadn’t been put into a database yet. She pulled out the first of the “W” drawers—and quickly realized how daunting her task would be. There had been a
lot
of Warrens in Granford over the centuries. Maybe she should content herself doing a trial run and just request one. She riffled through the card files again and decided on Eli Warren’s will; Eli had been a carpenter, and he’d done the last major remodeling of the house, more than a century earlier. Meg filled out the call slip and presented it to a clerk, who retrieved it in under two minutes, handing Meg a folded bundle of brown paper in a small manila sleeve.

Meg took her prize and went to the lone table, where she sat down and unfolded the brittle document with care. The will was dated 1892, and its handwritten script was easy to read. Eli had left his wife the right to use the house for the rest of her life, and he had divided the carpentry tools between two of his sons. A third son would inherit the house and land after his mother’s death. That must have been Lula and Nettie’s grandfather. Then as she read further, she came upon a section that made her laugh out loud, much to the surprise of the few other pa trons in the office. She followed the lines with a careful finger, incredulous:

Oh my.
Father Eli had found it necessary to give his daughter the right to use the privy and water from the well. Which rooms had she chosen? Where had the privy been? And just how dysfunctional had the Warren family been that Ellen could have been banned from the privy without written permission? Alas, nothing else in the document was as interesting, and Meg returned it to the clerk with a smile.

Meg made a list of the other wills to check out when she had more time, and left with regret. Out on the sidewalk again, she found she was still cheered by the silliness of the will. She mused over the details as she drove to the supermarket outside of Granford to stock up on what she needed for her party. Food, obviously. She was going to stick to something safe and easy: spaghetti with homemade sauce, green salad, garlic bread, and for dessert, an apple crisp. She debated with herself for maybe three seconds about baking an apple pie, but she knew that rolling out piecrusts was not her strong suit, and it didn’t seem right to buy ready-made crusts. Better to go with simple. She didn’t expect to find local apples at this time of year, so long after harvest, so she’d have to make do with imported ones. Still, it was a symbolic gesture, a salute to her own crop to come.

Things to cook in and things to eat from were bigger issues. Big pots she had, although they were of dubious cleanliness, but she could remedy that. But as for the rest . . . Her mother would no doubt have had matched sets of everything on hand in sufficient numbers for a small invading army. Meg, in contrast, had a handful of mismatched plates, glasses, and cutlery inherited from who knew how many tenants who had come and gone—and left their unwanted things behind—and the few things Meg had brought from Boston. She could go with paper plates and plastic cups, but her mother’s spirit sat on her shoulder and scolded her at the very idea.
Yes, Mom, you raised me better than that.
In the end she made a quick detour to the closest housewares store and picked up an inexpensive boxed set of china, and threw in a tablecloth, napkins, candles, and a few extra towels. This was her first party in her new home, and she wanted to make it nice. Meg felt the need to set the tone for her tenure in Granford, and paper plates shouted “temporary.” That was not the message she wanted to send.

 

 

The next morning’s weather looked encouraging, and Meg saw the university van approach the house and pull into her driveway. She was ready: she pulled on a warm jacket and headed outside, where she found Christopher supervising the unloading of a piece of apparatus she assumed was some sort of sprayer: a cylindrical tank on wheels.

He waved her over. “Good morning, my dear. The wind bids fair—or do I mean the opposite? We can’t spray in a wind.”

“Why are you down here, instead of up in the orchard?” Meg watched as Bree scrambled down from the back of the van, carrying a couple of reels of hoses.

Bree announced, “We have to fill the tank down here, where there’s a water supply.” She turned to Christopher. “You want me to mix?”

“If you would, my dear. You know your proportions?”

Bree snorted. “This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, Professor.” Bree turned away and headed toward a spigot on the side of the house that Meg hadn’t even noticed before. Bree turned the handle, and nothing happened. “Professor? Looks like it’s turned off.”

“Of course—we shut it off for the winter. Meg, if you could let me into your house, I know where the shutoff valve is located. Unless you’d like to take care of it?”

“Heavens, no! I’ve been to the basement maybe twice, and it still creeps me out. You go right ahead.” She opened the back door and let him in, and she could hear him tramping down the rickety cellar stairs. A moment later, the spigot started gushing water.

Christopher returned quickly, and Meg asked, “So what are you doing?”

“As I mentioned, today is our first spraying against apple scab. Are you familiar with that?”

“I checked it out on the Internet last night. Sounds nasty.”

“It can be, and the best approach is prophylactic spraying, so we’ll start today and return at intervals for the next few weeks, depending on how much rain we get that would wash away the spray. But you shouldn’t be concerned. You have a good number of scab-resistant trees, we’ve kept the trash and cuttings cleared out, and there is little history of scab in this orchard. This is a preventive measure.”

“What are you using?” Meg asked.

“It’s a fungicide called mancozeb, a cholinesterase inhibitor. It’s minimally toxic—low on the EPA scale. Doesn’t harm birds and dissipates quickly in the soil. We’re applying a diluted mixture, which Bree, under my supervision, will administer with the outlet gun. Yours is a small orchard, both in acreage and in tree size. We might save a little time were we to bring in the so-called heavy machinery, but we can manage easily in a few hours with what we’ve brought, and it’s much easier to transport and set up.”

Meg heard the sound of a motor starting, and Bree maneuvered the tractor into position and hitched the sprayer, its tank apparently now filled and ready, to the rear of the tractor.

“What about safety issues, Christopher? Respirators? Hazmat suits?”

“You
have
been doing your homework, I see. Even with the mildest chemicals, it is wise to protect oneself. I insist on chemical-resistant gloves, eye and face protection, protective headgear, and a respirator at all times. I’d far rather be safe than sorry, especially when I’m dealing with students.”

“Amen. I certainly don’t want to be responsible for any work-related injuries. Speaking of which, does the university cover insurance for this, even though it’s my land?”

“The university has made provisions for this case. But you’re right once more—we should review the documentation. Have you any more questions, or shall we begin?”

“Just one: how long will this take?”

“A couple of hours now, and again in a week or ten days. Come along and let’s get ourselves fitted out, then.”

A few minutes later, equipped with head and face protection, Meg stood at the border of the orchard and watched as Christopher guided the tractor slowly between the rows of still-bare trees while Bree wielded the spray nozzle. They worked slowly and deliberately to ensure even coverage, and Meg wondered once again if she would ever master all of the diverse tasks involved in getting a crop of apples to maturity. There was so much that could go wrong.