Red Delicious Death (23 page)

“Have a good time!” Meg called out to her retreating back. She turned back to the barn. “I guess I should close up—I wouldn’t want to lose my tractor. Did you stop by for a reason?”

“What, the pleasure of your company isn’t enough of an excuse? Actually, I wondered if you had any plans for dinner.”

“Not that I can remember. Did you have any ideas?”

“My mother wondered if you wanted to come to supper.”

“Oh.” Meg was panic-stricken for a moment. On one hand, it was about time she met Mrs. Chapin, one of her closest neighbors; she had been here for six months already. On another hand, this was Seth’s mother—was she ready to “meet the relatives”? On a third hand, Meg wondered whether Seth’s mother had already formed an opinion about her, and whether it was a good or a bad one. “Um, I guess so?”

Seth had been watching her with a half smile, as though he could read her tumbling thoughts. “You don’t have to if it would make you uncomfortable, but I know she’s been wondering when she’d finally meet you.”

Meg shook herself. “I’d like that. Do I have time for a quick shower?”

“Sure. I’ve got some paperwork to catch up on. Let me know when you’re ready to go.”

Meg fled to the house, and went upstairs to the shower.
Meg, grow up. You’re acting like a teenager.
Of course she would be delighted to meet Seth’s mother. She knew that Seth’s father had died some years ago, and that Seth and his sister, Rachel, had dinner at their mother’s house regularly. They both seemed to talk about her fondly, so she couldn’t be that bad . . . unless maybe she was one of those clingy, needy people? Only one way to find out.

Meg toweled her hair dry and rummaged through her closet to find something clean to wear, then slapped on a minimal amount of makeup. She fed Lolly and gathered up her bag with her keys, along with a light sweater to ward against evening chill. She pulled the kitchen door closed behind her and crossed the driveway to Seth’s office.

“Office” was probably too dignified a term for the jumble of boxes, the stacks of papers, and the odd tool or fixture that cluttered Seth’s working space. The only halfway clear area was the desktop; the desk itself looked like it had come from a yard sale.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” she drawled, leaning against the doorjamb.

Seth looked up from the invoices he had been sorting. “It’s a work in progress, but at least it’s weatherproof. Still not mouse-proof, but I can take care of than later. As long as they don’t nest in the invoices.”

“I do not want to think about mice. Are you ready?”

“Just about. You nervous?”

“Why? Should I be? Is there something I need to know about your mother?”

“Nope. She’s a perfectly nice lady.”

“I hope so. You might have given me a little more warning, though.”

“What, so you could worry about it longer? It’s no big deal.”

Easy for you to say
, Meg thought.

It was a beautiful evening. The sun was still high in the sky, and fields and leaves were in the full flush of summer green. Birds dove after insects hovering above the grass, and the air thrummed with the sound of late bees weaving their way among the wildflowers.

“You want to walk?” Seth asked. “I can show you where our boundaries cross.”

“It does seem silly to drive. Is there a path?” Meg asked.

“Sort of. Can you see anything?”

Meg studied the landscape in the direction of Seth’s house. There seemed to be a faint indentation in the ground, meandering more or less in the right direction. But there were no markers as such. “I think I see something,” she said dubiously.

Seth nodded. “You do. Since there weren’t kids at the Warren place—your place—to play with, we didn’t come this way too often when we were growing up. But if you go back further to the nineteenth century, this would have been the path from your house to town, if you were on foot. Ah, now you can see the houses.”

They had stopped at the top of the rise. Off to their left lay Meg’s orchard, the late sun filtering through the trees. Ahead of them Meg could see a pair of similar-looking white colonial houses nestled in the green meadows. One of them was Seth’s house, which she had seen only once before, briefly and at night, under less-than-ideal circumstances; the other one must be his mother’s. From this elevation she could make out the highway and the low roofline of Granford Grange a mile or so beyond, although the town center even farther away was obscured by stands of tall old trees.

“How old are the houses?” Meg asked as she followed Seth along the broad, indistinct path.

“Mom’s is probably the same age as yours. Mine’s a generation younger, built for one of the Chapin sons when he married, around eighteen hundred.”

“No barns?”

“They shared the one, which used to lie between the houses—you can still see the stone foundation. But it’s long gone. If it had been in decent shape, Dad would have used it for the business, but he couldn’t save it. Reused some of the lumber, though.”

After another few minutes they reached the back door of Mrs. Chapin’s house. “Mom doesn’t stand on formality, and nobody ever uses the front door,” Seth said. “You ready?”

“I guess.” Meg smoothed her shirt down and took a deep breath. There was no reason to be nervous, right?

Seth called through the screen door, “Mom? Where are you?”

“Upstairs, sweetie. Be right down.”

“No hurry,” he yelled back. He held the door open for Meg. She stepped into a mud room, beyond which lay the kitchen. She inhaled, and smelled old wood and polish and cloves and roasting chicken. It all smelled wonderful—like a home. She followed Seth into the kitchen. It faced southeast, so it didn’t get direct sunlight at this hour, but Meg saw a lot of old wood, worn smooth by generations of hands, and bright flashes of color. This was truly a lived-in kitchen: she inventoried a scattering of cooking implements, antique and modern; mementoes obviously made by children, or grandchildren. The refrigerator was layered with calendars, notes, and drawings, in no obvious order. In comparison, Meg’s kitchen seemed bland and soulless.

Her contemplation of the room was interrupted by the arrival of Seth’s mother, who looked very much like an older version of Seth’s sister, Rachel. “Sorry to keep you waiting. So you’re Meg!” said the woman. She approached quickly, and Meg quailed for a moment, bracing for a hug that never came, and was relieved when Seth’s mother instead offered a hand. “I’m Lydia Chapin. Welcome! I hope you’re hungry—I don’t get to cook for other people very often these days, so I probably made way too much.” She swatted her son on the arm affectionately.

“Hey, I’m over here at least once a week,” he protested. “Give me a break!”

“I know, I know. But your sister’s tied up all summer and every weekend. I never get to see my grandkids.”

“Stop whining, Mom, or Rachel will dump them in your lap for the rest of the summer.”

“Then we could put them to work in that orchard of yours. Right, Meg?”

Meg smiled, swept along by Lydia’s warmth. “I’d have to check child labor laws, but it would probably be good for them.”

“Hard work never hurt anybody, young or old. And too many kids these days don’t have a clue where real food comes from. How’s your orchard doing, by the way?”

“Fine, or so I’m told. I’m sure you know it’s all very new to me, but it’s fascinating—there’s so much that I never knew. And I’m just beginning to find out what I’ve got.”

“I remember some good cooking apples—we usually borrowed a few, didn’t we, Seth?”

“Who, me?” Seth tried to look innocent.

Lydia ignored him. “We’ve got a couple of trees out back, Meg, but with growing kids, sometimes our crop didn’t last long. Chances are that we share some of the same varieties—people used to swap cuttings all the time in the old days.” Lydia bustled around the kitchen, opening cupboards and getting out glasses. “I would have had you over sooner, but work’s been busy,” she said.

Meg glanced quickly at Seth—he’d never mentioned his mother’s work. “What do you do?”

“I manage the books for a construction firm in Chicopee—I understand you and I have number crunching in common. I tried to retire after my husband died, but I got bored pretty fast. I don’t do it for Seth, because his father and I raised him to know all sides of his business if he hopes to succeed, so he can darn well figure it out for himself. Right, Seth?”

“Yup. But you handled the books for Dad.”

“In the beginning I had to, because we didn’t have enough money to hire anyone else. But I enjoyed it, and of course, I knew the business better than anybody.”

“You need any help with dinner, Mom?” Seth asked.

“Of course not. I could do this in my sleep. But you could set the table.”

“Will do.” Seth disappeared toward what Meg assumed was the dining room.

Lydia opened the oven door to check on the roasting chicken, then stirred a casserole of rice in the microwave. “You want something to drink? I’ve got wine.”

“That sounds good,” Meg said. “Your house reminds me of mine, only busier.”

“That’s a very polite way of saying it’s a mess, but I’m happy.” Lydia poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Meg. “Cheers. Nice to have you here. So, tell me something about yourself. What brought you to Granford?”

Meg fumbled for an answer. “You probably know most of it. My mother inherited the house from some relatives she hardly knew, and when I lost my job in Boston, she sent me out here to fix it up and sell it. I thought that would be quick and easy, but obviously I was wrong. And then I found out there was an orchard, except that it was about to be destroyed for commercial development, and I discovered I hated the idea. So now it looks like I’m staying, and I’m going to try to make the orchard viable. That’s the short version.”

“You’ve had a few bumps along the way.” Lydia eyed her critically. “But you look like you’re handling it. And I know you’re probably nervous about the bumps you’ve caused me and mine, but I’m telling you now, I don’t blame you. You were trying to do what you thought was right, and I don’t hold it against you. It was his own fault, not yours, and that’s all I’m going to say about that.”

Seth came back before Meg could respond. “Table’s ready. Where’s the food?”

“Manners, Seth. Meg and I are engaged in polite conversation. We don’t just rush to the table like hogs to a trough.”

“When have I heard that before? Oh, right, here—several thousand times.”

The next few minutes were devoted to transferring food from kitchen to table, and Meg had to admit that she was hungry, too. Farm work was hard, even if she wasn’t hauling things around, and she had much more appetite than in the past. When everything was arrayed on the dining room table, Meg asked, “Do you grow your own vegetables?”

They settled themselves around the table before Lydia answered, “Mostly, especially this time of year. The lettuce is from my garden. The chicken came from up the road—I can’t eat those mutants they try to sell us at the grocery store. I would have given you apple crisp, but last year’s crop is gone, so you’ve got strawberry-rhubarb instead, both home-grown.”

“I haven’t even had time to think about growing something for myself to eat, although I can see where there was a vegetable bed out back. Maybe next year, when I have a better idea of what happens when.”

“I do it because I like to garden, and the food’s healthier. I don’t know whether I save any money, but there are other factors that I give more weight to.”

Seth interrupted, “Heck, when we were growing up, it was the equivalent of ‘time out.’ If we were acting up, Mom would send one or another of us out to weed the garden, which gave everyone a chance to cool off.”

“Ah, Seth, you see right through me.”

“Always did, Mom.”

They all dug into the unquestionably excellent food. Conversation between mouthfuls drifted to local politics and town events. “What’s going on with that restaurant in town? They have food yet, or just pretty menus?” Lydia asked.

“Construction’s nearly finished,” Seth volunteered, “and they’re decorating. I know Nicky’s been trying out dishes. Have you met her yet, Mom?”

“Nope. I wanted to get to the Select Board meeting, but I was running late that day. How’d it go?”

“Not bad. I think most people were happy with what they heard. Mrs. Goldthwaite’s still in a snit, though.”

“Caroline Goldthwaite’s always in a snit. What is it this time?”

“I haven’t wanted to ask. She knows Tom and I outnumber her on the Board, so she more or less held her tongue at the meeting. Mostly she sat there and radiated disapproval. If she had her way, she’d preserve the town in amber.”

“At least if it was in amber, it wouldn’t decay any further,” Lydia said tartly. “Meg, what’s your take on the restaurant? Didn’t they hear about Granford from a friend of yours?”