They can be real friendly and helpful, but they can also say nasty things about each other and squabble a lot.”
She hadn’t answered my question about how others saw my grandmother, but I could figure it out. She wasn’t the town favorite.
We rumbled over the metal grating of the drawbridge. I hung my head out the window for a moment. In Tucson, creeks were often just trickles. This one was the width of a river.
“We’re on Scarborough Street now,” Ginny said. “The streets off to our right lead down to the commercial docks, where the oyster and crab boats are. The streets to the left border the college. In a few blocks we’ll be crossing over High Street, which is Main Street for us. Want to drive down it?”
“Sure.”
We passed a school, went a block farther, then took a right onto High. The street had a mix of houses, churches, and small shops, all of the buildings made of brick or wood.
Some of the houses edged right up to the sidewalk; a few had tiny plots of grass in front of them. Pots of bright chrysanthemums perched on windowsills and steps. The sidewalks on both sides of High Street were brick and ripply, especially around the roots of the sycamore trees that lined the street. But even where there weren’t roots, the brick looked softened, as if the footprints of two and a half centuries had been worn into it.
“It’s pretty,” I said. “Are there a lot of wisteria vines around here?”
“People grow it,” she said, “but actually, the parcel of land that became the town was won in a card game called whist.
That was the town’s original name. Some upright folks in the
1800s, who didn’t approve of gambling, added to it. I guess we’re lucky they weren’t playing Crazy Eights.”
I laughed.
“There’s my shop, Yesterdaze.” Ginny slowed down and pointed to a storefront with a large, paned window that bowed out over the sidewalk. “Next door is Tea Leaves.
Jamie, the owner, makes pastries to die for.
“The town harbor is ahead of us,” she went on. “Only pleasure boats dock there now. I’m going to swing around to Bayview Avenue and show you where I live. You know you’re welcome to stay with me if things get difficult.”
“Difficult how?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I find it isolated out there on the other side of the Wist. And Scarborough House seems awfully big without a family to fill it up.”
“Is that why my grandmother invited me? She can’t get anybody else to come?”
“I doubt that’s the reason. Mrs. Barnes has never liked company- Whoa!” Ginny exclaimed, hitting her brakes hard, sending shoe boxes tumbling over the seat from the back of the station wagon.
A guy in an open-topped Jeep, impatient to get around a car making a turn, had suddenly cut in front of us. The backseat passengers of the red Jeep, two girls and a guy, held on to one another and hooted. The girl in the front seat turned briefly to look at us, laughing and tossing her long hair. The driver didn’t acknowledge his near miss.
“Jerk,” I said aloud.
Ginny looked amused. “That was your cousin.”
“My cousin?” I twisted in my seat, to look down the side street where the Jeep had made another sudden turn.
“Matt Barnes,” she replied.
“I thought he was in Chicago.”
“Your uncle moved there, and Matt’s mother is somewhere in the North, I believe.”
“Boston,” I told her. It had been an ugly divorce, I knew that much.
“Matt has spent nearly every summer in Wisteria. He transferred to the high school here last winter and is living full-time with your grandmother. You didn’t know that?”
I shook my head.
“She bought him the Jeep this past summer. Rumor has it he’s getting his own boat. Matt’s usually carting around jocks or girls.”
Spoiled and wild, I thought. But things were looking up.
No matter what he was like, spending two weeks with a guy my own age was better than being alone with a fierce seventy-six-year-old. I’d just fasten my seat belt and go along for the ride.
“Does my grandmother drive?” I asked.
“Pretty much like Matt,” Ginny replied, laughing.
When we got to Bayview, she pointed out her house, a soft yellow cottage with gray shutters, then returned to Scarborough Road.
We crossed the Wist, rumbling over an old bridge, drove about a quarter mile more, then turned right between two brick pillars. The private road that led to my grandmother’s started out paved, but crumbled into gravel and dirt. Tall, conical cedar trees lined both sides. They did not bend gracefully over the drive, as trees do in pictures of southern mansions, but stood upright, like giant green game pieces.
At the end of the double row of trees I saw sections of sloping gray roof and brick chimneys, four of them.
“We’re coming up behind the house,” Ginny said. “The driveway loops around to the front. You’re seeing the back wing. That picket fence runs along the herb garden by the kitchen.”
“The house is huge.”
“Remember that you are welcome to stay with me,” she said.
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”
Now that I was here, I was looking forward to the next two weeks. I mean, how much of a terror could one little old woman be? It’d be fun to explore the old house and its land, especially with a cousin my age. Four hundred acres of fields and woods and waterfront-it seemed unbelievable that I didn’t have to share them with other hikers in a state park.
A wave of excitement and confidence washed over me.
Then Ginny circled the house and parked in front.
“Megan,” she said, after a moment of silence, “Megan, are you all right?”
I nodded.
“I’ll help you with your luggage.”
“Thanks.”
I climbed out of the car slowly, staring up at Grandmother’s house. Three stories of paned windows, brick with a shingled roof, a small covered porch with facing benches-it was the house in my dreams.
I took my luggage from Ginny, feeling a little shaky. For the second time in twenty-four hours, I walked up the steps of the house. This time the door swung open.
Well, what is it?” asked a short, heavyset woman whose hair was tipped orange from an old peroxide job.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Barnes.” My voice sounded timid as a child’s.
Ginny climbed the porch steps behind me. “Nancy, this is Megan, Mrs. Barnes’s granddaughter.”
Nancy’s response was to turn her back and retreat into the house. I glanced questioningly at my mother’s friend.
“Nancy comes in three times a week to cook and clean for your grandmother,” Ginny informed me in a low voice.
“Is she always this friendly?”
“ ’Fraid so.”
Without stepping inside, I peered down the long, unlit center hall. Nancy stopped at a door near the foot of the stairway, knocked, then entered. When she returned to us, she spoke to Ginny. “Mrs. Barnes wants to know
