Martin's childhood home.
I gave Flocken some credit for trying to keep the kitchen, the downstairs bathroom, and his bedroom clean. Beyond that he had not troubled, and observing the pain it caused him to move, I could not blame him. I tried to imagine Martin as a child running out this kitchen door to play, climbing up the stairs to the second floor to go to bed, but I just could not do it. Despite the immeasurable difference loving parents would have made, I could not see this place as anything but lonely and bleak. So great was my wish to be away that I negotiated for the farm in an abstract way. Flocken obviously relished details of how the church members would have to work their butts off to build their own shelter, so I managed several references to the strict work habits my church required and encouraged. He nodded his gray head in agreement. This man did not want anyone to have a free ride, or even a pleasant one.
He and Mary Anne began to discuss the selling price, and suddenly I realized I had won. All it took was someone asking, someone he was convinced Barby and Martin would not want the farm to go to.
I wanted to leave.
I leaned forward and looked into his mean old eyes.
"I'll give you this much and no more," I said, and told him the sum.
Mary Anne said, "That's a fair price."
He said, "It's worth more."
"No, it's not," I snapped.
He looked taken aback. "You're a tough little thing," he said finally. "All right, then. I don't think I can take another winter here, and my sister in Cleveland has a spare bedroom she says I can have." And just like that, it was accomplished.
I shook his hand with reluctance; but it had to be done.
Chapter Two
The PURCHASE went swiftly since there was no loan to approve. I'd thought I'd have to do a lot by mail, or perhaps make a return trip, but it wasn't necessary, to my relief. The essential work had been accomplished after three days were up. By the time I drove my rental car back to the airport in Pittsburgh, I'd paid two more visits to the bookshop, eaten in every restaurant in town, and rigorously avoided Cindy's Flowers. If I could have announced who I really was to someone, I might have passed the time with people who knew the man I loved, but I had to stay in character when I wasn't in my motel room. The chances seemed distant that someone would find out the real reason I wanted the farm, someone who liked Joseph Flocken enough to tell him. But I couldn't risk it. So I was virtuous, and ran in the morning, tried not to eat too much out of sheer boredom, cruised all the local shopping, and was heartily sick of Corinth, Ohio, by the time I left.
I swore I'd never wear my hair in a bun again.
I wanted Martin to meet me at the airport, so passionately I could taste it, but of course he'd want to know why he was meeting a flight from Pennsylvania, and I didn't want to give him his wedding present in the airport. When I got off the plane in Atlanta I felt more relaxed than I had in a week. Carrying my luggage as though it were feather-light, I located my old car in the longer-term parking, paid the exorbitant amount it took to get it out, and drove off to Lawrenceton reveling in the familiarity of home, home, home. When I passed the Pan-Am Agra plant on my way in to town, I had to stop. I had only been in the plant a couple of times before, and felt very much out of place. At least Martin's secretary knew who I was. "I'm glad you're back," Mrs. Sands said warmly, her grandmotherly voice at odds with the luridly dyed black hair and lavender suit. "Maybe now he'll be happier."
"Something wrong?"
"Oh, he got some mail from South America that made him angry, and he was on the phone all day that day, but he's back to normal now, just about. Go on in." But I knocked, because he was at work; so he was looking up when I came in. He dropped his pen, rolled back in his chair, and came around the desk in a second.
After a few minutes, I said, "We should either lock the door or postpone this until tonight."
Martin glanced at his watch. "I guess it'll have to be tonight," he said with an effort. "I should have an appointment sitting out in the reception area by now. Mrs. Sands is probably wondering what to do. However—I don't mind keeping him waiting..."
"No," I said, trying not to giggle. "I have to confess, it makes me feel a little self-conscious knowing Mrs. Sands is sitting out there. Tonight, then?" "We'll go out to eat," he said. "I know you won't feel like cooking, and I won't get through here until seven, so I won't have time." Martin's cooking is limited to grilling steaks, but he never minds doing it.
"See you then," I whispered, giving him one last kiss. He tried to pull me back, but I wiggled away and grinned over my shoulder at him as I left the room.
"Bye, Mrs. Sands," I said in what I hoped was a collected voice. It probably would have been more effective if I hadn't suddenly realized my blouse wasn't tucked into my skirt any longer. I scooted across the room quickly, catching just a glimpse of the dark-complected man waiting to see Martin; a man with a heavy, piratical mustache, thick black hair, and ropelike arm muscles. He looked more like a nightclub bouncer than a job applicant. I called my mother from the townhouse to tell her I was home, and learned what had happened in town in the few days I was gone. "Thanks for the flowers, Aurora. I don't know what the occasion was, but they were lovely."
I started. I'd forgotten all about sending the flowers from Ohio. I mumbled something deprecating.
"Have you seen Martin yet?" Mother was asking. She sounded as if the question were loaded. I could see her at her desk at Select Realty, thin and elegant and self-possessed, remarkably like Lauren Bacall.
"Yes. I stopped by the plant. But he didn't have much time. We're going out tonight." If I'd had antennae, they would have been pointing in Mother's direction. Something was afoot. "How's John?" I asked. "He's just fine," she said fondly. "He's been planting a garden."
"In the backyard?"
"Yes, something wrong with that?"
"No, no," I said hastily. If I'd ever doubted my mother adored her recently acquired second spouse, I knew differently now. I could not imagine in a million years my mother allowing someone to dig up her carefully groomed backyard to plant tomatoes.
I hung up shaking my head, decided to put off retrieving Madeleine from the vet until the next day, and carried my bag upstairs to unpack, happily, in my own bedroom.
I scrubbed my out-of-state trip away in my own shower. I dried my hair. I took a nap. After I woke up, I went down to my basement to pop a load of clothes into the washer. The neighbor who'd been collecting my mail brought it over. I thanked her and she left. I stood by the kitchen counter leafing through the assorted junk. Suddenly, I let all the pleas from new resort areas and all the sweepstakes offers slip through my fingers to land in a heap on the beige formica.
Perhaps because I was tired, or shaken out of my usual routine ... I don't know why. Suddenly I was asking myself, Why am I marrying Martin? There were gaps in his history. He was more than he seemed. There were moments when I found him a man of frightening capabilities. He could be tough and ruthless and hard. But not with me.
I was getting maudlin, silly. I shrugged physically and mentally, shaking off the dramatic notions I'd entertained. I sounded like the heroine of one of those romance novels, the gals who think with their vaginas. I tried to imagine Martin and me posing for one of those covers, me with my bodice artfully slipping, him with his "poet shirt" strategically ripped. Then to complete the picture I added my favorite glasses in their bright red frames, and the half-glasses Martin wore when he read. I laughed. By the time I had put on makeup and chosen a dress, one Martin had bought me and made me promise to wear with no one but him, I felt better.