Going Through the Notions(8)
The pale blue sky over the deserted country road was streaked with gray clouds tinged with pink, as if they were lit from above with a rose-colored spotlight. Like one of those Renaissance paintings with angels dancing in the heavens.
On the outer edge of the village of Millbury, I drove by the dead-end road leading to Cyril Mackey’s salvage yard with its eclectic collection of rusty garden gates, birdbaths, old Coca-Cola machines, and bicycles in various states of disrepair. A sign on the building in the back that was his office and also supposedly his home said, KEEP OUT. I thought it might be worthwhile to stop and chat with Cyril the next time he was open.
A few minutes later, I pulled up in front of our lovingly restored 1842 Greek Revival home with black shutters flanking its many windows. Six fluted Doric columns supported the triangular-shaped pedimented gable, and provided a grand porch that spanned the width of the house.
In the front yard, masses of yellow coreopsis, pink phlox, Jacob’s ladder, and purple Russian sage grew in glorious profusion behind a classic white picket fence.
We’d purchased the house almost thirty years ago for a vacation getaway. It had been a stretch at the time, but I was careful with our budget. We worked on it every chance we got, and rented it out for about ten years. When Joe, sick of the rat race, convinced me to take early retirement from teaching last year, we were able to pay off what was left of the mortgage.
It seemed as soon as one thing was fixed, though, something else broke. Like playing a never-ending game of Whac-A-Mole with a house. Greek Revivals were notorious for roofing problems because of the low pitch of the roof, and Joe always had some kind of project going on.
I grabbed as many bags of groceries as I could carry, opened the front door, and headed into the wide central hall. I sniffed the air appreciatively. One benefit of no restaurant in town, apart from the diner, was that Joe had become an excellent cook, and spoiled me with a gourmet meal every night.
The house was light and airy because of its twelve-foot-high ceilings and the six-over-six double-hung windows, some of them tall enough to literally step through onto the porch. I hurried past the living room with its grand proportions and original millwork, the dining room with its iron-fronted fireplace, and the double parlor divided by pocket doors.
In the cherry-paneled library was the old steamer trunk that we used as a coffee table. Joe and I had gone to the auction one night, and on impulse I placed a bid. The metal trunk turned out to be stuffed with all sorts of beads, fabrics, hand-embroidered bed and table linens, and sewing notions. It was the inspiration for the store.
I found Joe in the kitchen, which was the only part of the house we hadn’t renovated yet.
“Hello, my hero. Smells amazing in here. What are you making?”
Joe took the bags, set them down on the scarred butcher block table, and enfolded me in his big arms. I allowed myself a few moments to breathe, enjoying the feel of his body against mine before I peered over his shoulder.
“Oh, boy, crab cakes. My favorite.”
“Together with a salad of greens and herbs tossed with a champagne vinaigrette and a saffron rice pilaf. Will that please the lady?”
“Most definitely.” I grinned at him.
He still looked good. To me anyway. Of course, his hair had turned gray a few years ago, he was a little thicker around the middle, and he had his share of physical ailments, but he’d always been a well-built guy. Not bad for sixty-three. Reluctantly, I let go of him as he moved over to the stove to turn the heat down under the pan.
Joe went out to the car for the rest of the groceries, while I stocked the refrigerator and put the dry goods in the walk-in pantry. The delicate perfume of roses on the trellis drifted in through the kitchen window.
It was such a lovely evening that we decided to eat outside. Joe carried our dinner plates, and I brought a bottle of wine and two glasses.
On the flagstone patio, mismatched wicker chairs painted a pastel green sat around a long iron table. Six-inch pots of basil, thyme, and oregano formed a fragrant centerpiece, and wisteria clambering above us on the pergola provided a welcome shade. Orange nasturtiums spilled over the sides of a fluted stone urn in one corner.
I took a bite of my crab cake, murmuring with pleasure at the crisp crust and succulent perfectly seasoned crabmeat. Joe poured the wine, and I filled him in on the day’s events as we ate.
“Poor Angus. I keep thinking about him sitting in that jail all alone. Betty was so traumatized she says she’s not going back. I guess the visitations will be up to me now.”
“He’s been a good friend to us, Daisy. Remember the winter when the pipes burst?”
It was only a few years into our home ownership in Millbury. We were in New York, living paycheck to paycheck, and the renters had called in a panic. It was right before the end of the school term, I was knee-deep in grading papers, and Joe couldn’t take time away from some critical negotiations as representative for the electricians’ union . Joe and I had panicked a little ourselves. How would we handle things long distance, and how would we carry both mortgages if the renters decided to pull up stakes and move out?