Margaret from Maine (9781101602690) (14 page)

He found the grill by a combination of following his nose and making logical deductions about its likely location. When he pushed through the large, padded doors, he spotted the bar and headed toward it. You couldn't miss it. It was the good kind of bar, dark and hospitable, with heavy stools arranged beside it and a glistening rack of wineglasses above. The river ran outside in the ghost of the dying sunshine, its gray curl running quiet and muted in the faded twilight. A large, mullioned window cut the river into squares as it passed.

“Evening,” the bartender said.

The bartender was a short, broad man, dressed in a black wool vest and a clean blue shirt. He had a monk's tonsure, a reddish rim of hair that reminded Charlie of a baseball diamond. His eyes had a merry cast; he seemed to find life humorous, which was probably a good trait in a bartender, Charlie decided.

“Evening,” Charlie said and slid onto the bar stool closest to the window. “I'd like a beer, please . . . what do you have on tap?”

The bartender—Hans, Charlie saw by his name tag—went through a list of beers and Charlie stopped him on Bass.

“A pint of Bass then,” Hans said.

“Please,” Charlie said and looked around the grill.

Three couples sat at a table beside a large fieldstone fireplace. Otherwise, the place was empty.

“Early in the season?” Charlie asked when Hans slid his Bass in front of him.

“A little,” Hans said. “A couple warm days and people will come out of hibernation. It's supposed to be great weather this week.”

“Any blooms?” Charlie asked.

“Some. Just starting in places,” Hans said. “The warm weather will make them pop.”

Charlie sipped his beer. It tasted great. He reached for a bowl of Goldfish and realized he was hungry. He ate a few Goldfish and turned to watch the river running by. The group at the table behind him laughed at someone's comment, and Hans cocked his hip against the bar and watched a baseball game with the volume off.

Margaret came in when Charlie had finished half his beer. She wore her new jeans and a navy sweater but she had changed her hair somehow and Charlie admired it. She was understated; that was what he loved about her appearance. She was like a brown paper package—not a great analogy, and not a flattering one, Charlie decided, but one he could build on—that he valued for its lack of ostentation. Her beauty did not depend on clothes or on jewelry, and Charlie stood and put his arm on her chair back to guide her into the place next to him.

“You're beautiful,” he whispered and kissed her cheek.

“Hardly glamorous attire,” she said, “jeans and a sweater.”

“On you they work.”

“Well, you're easily impressed, but thank you. Isn't this a pretty room?” she said and turned to see the fireplace and the window. “I like this inn.”

“So do I,” Charlie said and smiled at Hans, who came over to take their order.

“You're having a beer?” she asked.

“Guilty.”

“I think I'd like a glass of wine or maybe a scotch. Would you think I'm a complete lush if I had a scotch?”

“On the rocks?” Hans asked.

“Yes, please. Dewar's if you have it.”

“We do,” Hans said and went to fix her drink.

“My father of all people taught me to drink scotch,” she said. “It was his one small vice. He said it was like visiting a thoughtful friend as long as you didn't do it too often.”

“Funny you should say that, because I was just thinking about the cocktail hour,” Charlie said. “My parents called it the cocktail hour, but I'm not sure people call it that anymore.”

“Shame to lose an important tradition,” Margaret said and smiled.

“I'm enjoying this place,” Charlie said. “The Ruggles Inn. It has a good feeling.”

“It's really lovely, Charlie. I've told you before, but you're spoiling me. I'm a cowherd. A dairy woman.”

“Is a shepherd only a shepherd if he herds sheep? Or can you be a shepherd if you drive cattle?”

“Either way I'd have to be a shepherdess, wouldn't I?”

“I suppose so.”

Hans brought Margaret's scotch and set it before her.

“Cheers,” Margaret said and lifted her glass.

“Something witty, witty, witty,” Charlie said.

Margaret raised her eyebrow, questioning.

“Sorry,” Charlie said. “Cheers. That was my brother's little joke. Whenever you were supposed to observe a social nicety, he would simply say the thing instead. Like, if he went up to new people, he might say, ‘Icebreaker, icebreaker, icebreaker.' Always three times.”

“I like it,” Margaret said.

“His favorite was ‘Meaningful good-bye, meaningful good-bye, meaningful good-bye.' People thought he was a little crazy.”

“Obviously this was before the accident at the quarry?”

Charlie nodded. He tapped her glass and took a drink. Margaret followed.

“Sounds like a fun guy,” Margaret said. “We haven't talked much about him. All I know is that he was injured.”

“He was a good guy. It sounds a little strange, but he was the most balanced person I ever met. He should have been a tightrope walker. You give him just about anything to do that involved balance and he could do it before anyone else. It was a little uncanny. Skateboards, bikes, even just walking on the railing of a fence . . . he was wizard at it.”

“You say wizard?”

“I do,” Charlie said and then decided he wanted to change subjects. “Are you hungry?”

“Getting there.”

“We need to plan our day tomorrow.”

“Let's do that tomorrow. Right now I just want to enjoy being with you.”

“I'm glad.”

“I called home. Everything's good there. Gordon was a little cross with his grandfather about something or other, but no emergencies. Blake came over and peeked in on them. You think you can't step out of your life, but surprise, you can.”

“Did Blake tell them we were having a wild, illicit getaway?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Good.”

Margaret turned slightly and slid her leg against his. She gave him a look, a look he had begun to recognize as
that
look. He smiled and dangled his leg against hers.

“How's your scotch?” he whispered.

“Whiskey, whiskey, whiskey,” she answered.

He leaned across the short distance between them and kissed her lips.

* * *

In the eighth inning, the Red Sox rallied from behind to take the lead against the Orioles. Something in the satellite reception had gone fuzzy—a storm over the Midwest and sun flares nine million miles away had caused the transmission to turn slightly ghostly. It made no difference to Benjamin Kennedy, who slept in his La-Z-Boy in front of the television, his head tilted to one side, his feet, encased in saggy white socks, extended forward on the footrest. It was 9:32. In eight hours he would rise and slip back into his boots and walk out to the milking parlor and he would stand amid the pooling cattle, guiding them, hooking them to the suck machines, glancing out the door frame to check the weather. But for now he slept. He slept in the same room where his father had slept before him, and his father before him, and once again, another father before that. His own son, Thomas, would not sleep in this room again, because his son now slept in a white bed suspended on a turn-wheel that the nurses could move to prevent bedsores. At this passing thought, Benjamin drew in a sharp breath, a strangled snore, and it scared the cat, Wink, who had gone to sleep on the rug beside the old chimney. The cat turned and saw the channel changer slide off Benjamin's lap, and for an instant the cat believed it was a mouse, or some other small creature, running down Benjamin's leg. The cat's pupils dilated sharply, and its body gathered, but then its vision clarified, and it tucked its chin against its white chest and returned to sleep, its ears cocked to the wall in case a mouse should enter there, deep in the lath work and horsehair that had clung to the wall since the moment the house had risen from the ground.

Chapter Sixteen

A
t dessert, well after the dining room had filled, Marco showed up. He wore a black tuxedo with a frilly white shirt, and for a moment Charlie mistook him for a sommelier arriving to make a late wine suggestion. He stood in front of the table, a little chubby and frazzled, and then he shucked his cuffs back and made a cigarette appear in his fingers.

“Oh, perfect,” Margaret said, laughing and clapping.

“I'm Marco,” the man said in what may have been a fake Italian accent.

He made the cigarette disappear, then reappear in his other hand.

“So you're not a waiter?” Charlie asked, teasing him.

“I am the world's greatest magician,” Marco said, deadpan. “Isn't it obvious?”

He made the cigarette disappear again. Then he drew a deck of cards out of his breast pocket.

“Can you shuffle?” he asked Margaret.

She took the cards and scrambled them together. Charlie watched. He enjoyed seeing her delight. Nothing threw her; nothing disappointed her. Clearly, she had needed a little break from her routine, and Charlie felt pleased and honored that he had a part in it. Now as she handed the cards back to Marco, he watched her gaze up at the magician, her eyes filled with light, her expression asking to be dazzled.

To be honest, Charlie hardly followed the trick. It was of the “pick a card, any card” variety, and though Marco carried it off with adequate aplomb, Charlie concentrated on watching the trick reflect in Margaret's pleasure. She laughed at Marco's jokes and took every request seriously. She did not try to hold back, or to trick Marco at his own game, but obliged him by taking his magic seriously. When Marco finally revealed her chosen cards, she bubbled up in a happy murmur, clapping and smiling. A glance at Marco let Charlie understand he seldom found a more appreciative audience.

“Anything after Marco is going to be a disappointment,” Charlie said as Marco moved to the next table. “Talk about spoiling you.”

“Wasn't he fabulous?”

“The greatest magician in the world, no less.”

“I don't think we can prove that he wasn't, do you?”

“He is in my book.”

“I'd love to sneak out and get a breath of air,” Margaret said, her face still glowing with excitement. “Would you mind? It's so cold in Maine and it feels so wonderful here. I can't get enough of this spring air. Let me just run back to the room for my coat. I'll meet you in the lobby. Is that okay?”

Charlie held her chair back and she hurried off while he walked to the lobby. Someone had started a woodstove that was hooked into the backside of the grill chimney. The woodstove pushed a deep, soothing heat and Charlie stood with his back to it. He wondered again if they weren't too early for the spring buds. It could fluctuate, he imagined, but the plants required a certain level of light without which they would remain curled in their casings, waiting. He imagined someone could identify a metaphor in the annual blooms, but he hadn't the energy for the moment. He turned and faced the woodstove, then smiled when he saw Marco appear out of the dining room, obviously warm from performing. A line of sweat had bisected his temple.

“How did it go?” Charlie asked.

“Same old, same old,” Marco said, stopping for a moment to stand by the stove. He appeared out of breath.

“Margaret loved your work,” Charlie said. “It made her night.”

“People either love magic or they don't. You'd be surprised how sharply divided people can be. I show up at some tables, and I'm a guest of honor. At other tables . . . you can tell they want me to bug off.”

“How long have you been doing it?”

“Oh, years, really. Not here, but magic, most of my life. The management here thought it might liven the place up during the slow season.”

“So what's your guess as to why some people like magic and some don't?”

Marco shrugged.

“You really want to know?” he asked and patted his forehead with a white handkerchief.

“Sure.”

“People who don't like magic don't think life has any more surprises for them,” he said. “They see everything as a con. Magic is simply theater and you have to let yourself go to enter it. So it's a good trait in your girlfriend that she likes it. At least that's what I think. That's what I've observed, anyway.”

“Sounds right to me.”

“You down here for the rhododendron?”

“That's part of it.”

“A little early, I'm afraid. But you never know. Magic, right?”

Marco left and a moment later Margaret appeared. She handed Charlie a sweater and stood beside him while he slipped it over his head. When he had the sweater on, she reached across and straightened it a little at the back. It was such an intimate thing to do, such a wifely thing to do, that Charlie couldn't help smiling.

“Marco says people who like magic still have the capacity to be surprised,” Charlie said as he held the door for her. “He says it's a good trait that you like magic.”

“If Marco says it, then it must be true.”

“I think I'm getting jealous of Marco.”

She took his arm and pressed her body against his. The air, Charlie admitted, felt wonderful. The river made a deep, restful hum as it passed. Somewhere above the inn Charlie heard the rapids that gave the place its name.

“Thank you for dinner,” Margaret said. “It was delicious.”

“Was it all right?”

“It was great, Charlie. I could have eaten anything, I was so hungry, but it was well prepared. And the wine was excellent. You're turning me into a lush. I don't usually drink this much. There's no real occasion except with Blake.”

“We're on vacation, so vacation rules apply.”

“Is that what Marco says?”

He nodded. She leaned toward him and kissed a spot beneath his ear. They continued to walk. The night felt chilly, but occasionally Charlie felt a fold of warmer air that moderated things. Now and then through the trees a cat's paw moon raked the branches.

“I had one of those moments as I was getting my jacket that made me stop,” Margaret said. “I realized that for plenty of women it's not so completely out of the realm of possibility to visit a nice country inn with a man she cares about. Do you know what I mean? This has been an extraordinary couple of days, but it makes me realize I have set the bar pretty low for myself. I've been asleep, a little. Or maybe numb. You're waking me up and I'm a little worried about that.”

“Numb?”

“Well, not to Gordon. Not to my responsibilities. But to my own journey, as Blake would say. She's big on the journey thing. I guess I've grown a little bit of a shell. It's safe and dry in the shell, but it's also a little dull.”

“Did you ever consider dating anyone at all?”

She shook her head.

“Not that kind of gal,” she said, “although I've often wondered if it would be easier if I were.”

“Marco would say you've been waiting for me.”

“Oh, really?” she said and bumped her shoulder into his. “Is that what you think?”

“That's what I know.”

“You think we were destined to meet?”

“Star-crossed lovers, no doubt.”

They arrived at a small turnout with a view of the rapids. Charlie steered her to a bench and sat beside her. He tasted moisture in the air from what he guessed must be the Ruggles. An old willow, bent and misshapen, leaned over the river and dangled a few of its tendrils into the water. Margaret moved closer.

“So what's Blake going to say about all this?” Charlie asked.

“Oh, she'll be crazy to hear all the details. She'll want to know about you, though I've already told her some of it. Her marriage . . . I think I mentioned . . . is not going great at the moment. Her husband is gone a lot, trying to build his business, and Blake is left holding the bag pretty often. Donny's a good guy, but he seems a little surprised to find himself married with a child. I don't know. Then Blake puts pressure on him and that only chases him away more and more. It's complicated, but that's why she'll want to hear about you so much. You are a delicious little story that doesn't come along every day. A nice distraction.”

“So that's what I am? A distraction, huh?”

“You are a glorious distraction,” she said and held his arm. “What is it about men and women that makes it so difficult? A lot of my friends are struggling in their marriages. All this yearning we do, men and women. We all hope for something to be dramatic, but it usually isn't, is it?”

“There's that old poem when the narrator says he isn't Hamlet. He's just a small actor to swell a scene. I think that's the line. We act like we're center stage, but really we aren't.”

“Do you know a lot about poems, Charlie?”

“Actually, no. I have a good memory, though, and I retain things. I know movie lines, too. My mother always said I had flypaper between my ears.”

“One of the things you've made me remember is that it can be easy between a man and woman. It doesn't have to be wrapped in a hundred things. I know we don't have all the usual concerns on a trip like this, but still it feels natural and simple.”

“How about for you and Thomas?”

“You mean before everything? I don't know what to think about him right now. It's a little like a movie star dying young, you know? We remember them for what they were. It's hard to imagine him around today, being a husband, a father, all of that. Maybe we would have grown in different directions. You never know. But we felt solid at the time. That's one of the things I see in Blake's situation. She's a good person and so is Donny, but they have this battlefield over the house and work and who does what and who should be doing more. I think they have their heads down and don't see each other clearly anymore. Maybe I'll try to say that to her when I get home.”

“Will she listen?”

“Blake is very open. Donny, not so much. They're like Chevy Chase in the
Vacation
movie when they're driving past everything without slowing down to look. The good stuff is on the pull-outs and the side roads. But they keep thinking they have to get someplace and you want to remind them there isn't anyplace to go. They're there already.”

“How did you get so smart?” Charlie asked.

“Oh, I'm far from smart. Maybe the cows slow me down, that's all. It sounds funny, but I'm grateful to them. You can't rush a cow.”

“That should be a bumper sticker.”

She slid her hands up under his sweater for warmth. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. She squeezed tighter against him.

“You make me want to talk,” she said. “Sorry if I'm going on. I spend all my time talking to Gordon and Grandpa Ben, so I don't use these particular muscles very often.”

“Not at all. I like hearing your thoughts.”

“What about you, though? Why aren't you married, Charlie? That's what I can't understand. Women must have tried to snatch you up.”

“A few have, maybe. But then I was in the service and I was injured and all of that took time. And at West Point, well, that's just a crazy place. I feel like I'm ready now. Or getting ready. And now Marco made you appear, presto chango.”

“I sure appeared, all right.”

“I'm glad you did.”

A wind came down the river and made the willow move. Charlie felt her shiver next to him. He used his arm to tuck her closer.

“Ready to go back?” he asked, his lips against her hair.

“To our beautiful room overlooking a beautiful river?”

“Yes, that room.”

“And will the Eagle Scout make another fire?”

“The Eagle Scout is yours to command.”

“Okay, three quick breaths,” she said and pushed away from him for a second. She stood and took a deep breath. She let the air out slowly.

“Spring, spring, spring,” she said.

* * *

She listened to the river late at night, her ear against Charlie's chest, her skin on his skin. She slept in little fits and starts, but she didn't mind. She liked being awake, because she didn't want this day, these few days, to end quickly. The fireplace had died down and the last coals burned with a red glow. Occasionally she smelled smoke, and it reminded her of bonfires outside, burning off the spring clippings around the dairy barn, brush piles pushing green smoke into the May air.

She sent her thoughts to Gordon, wishing him gentle sleep; she thought of her husband, Thomas, and her eyes moved a little beneath their lids.
Forgive me,
she thought, but that was wrong, that was incorrect. She had left with Charlie deliberately. It had been a choice. And if it was a sin, as the old priests would have told her in childhood, then she accepted it. But she did not believe it was a sin. Charlie was a joy. He was a welcome, kind spirit who had crossed his life with hers. She vowed not to regret a moment of her time with him.

A little later in the night she woke to find herself worried. The fire had gone out and the room had become chilly. She reached for his hand and he settled around her, spooning her, his heat perfect and comforting. The world tried to push in: details about the cows, the decision to spray biosolids on the apple orchard, Blake and her marriage, a health plan changeover for Thomas, the ongoing but stalled renovations on the second farmhouse, but she resisted such thinking.
Not now,
she thought. She pushed back into Charlie's arms and he tightened his body around her, and she admitted she liked feeling a man beside her in the small hours. Yes, it was a fact. It was a luxury. And as she settled into him she heard his breathing change and then his lips touched her ear.

“I'm here,” he said, apparently sensing her restlessness.

She took his arm and tightened it around her. Maybe light began to appear in the east, a mere glimmer, but she felt her body give way. And she took his heat and kept his arm over her chest, and for a while she slept as she hadn't slept in years, deep and full, the wind calling her to come outside, to fly with it, to see the morning sun chase its reflection across the river.