You have to understand, for me this was an exotic adventure. Though I told myself repeatedly that other people traveled by themselves to unfamiliar places all the time, I was highly nervous. I’d studied the map repeatedly during the plane trip, I’d sat in the airport parking lot anxiously checking over the Ford Taurus I’d rented, I’d marveled over the fact that no one in the world knew exactly where I was.
My first impression of Corinth, Ohio, was of how familiar it seemed. True, the land configuration was slightly different, and the people dressed a little differently, and maybe the prevailing architecture was more heavily red brick, more often two-story… but this was a small farming center grouped around a downtown with inadequate parking space, and there were plenty of John Deere tractors in the big sales lot right outside town.
I checked in to the Holiday Inn and called a realtor.
There were only three listed; Corinth was modest about its salability. The company that advertised specializing in farms (“agricultural acreage”) was Bishop Realty. I hesitated, my hand actually on the receiver. I was about to do some lying, and I wasn’t used to it.
“Bishop Realty, Mrs. Mary Anne Bishop speaking,” said a brisk voice.
“This is Aurora Teagarden,” I said clearly, and waited for the snicker. It was more like a snort. “I want to look at some farms in the area, specifically ones that are not in the best shape. I want somewhere pretty isolated.”
Mary Anne Bishop digested this in thoughtful silence.
“What size property did you want to see?” she asked finally.
“Not too big,” I said vaguely, since I hadn’t wriggled that information out of Martin.
“I could line some things up for you to see tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Bishop said. She sounded rather cautious about it. “If you could tell me-are you actually planning to farm the land? If I knew what you intended to do with it, maybe I could select properties to show you… that would suit you better.” She was trying awfully hard not to sound nosy.
I closed my eyes and drew a breath, glad she couldn’t see me.
“I represent a small but growing religious community,” I said. “We want a property that we can repair ourselves, and modify to suit our needs. We’ll be doing some farming, but mostly we want the extra land for privacy.”
“Well,” Mrs. Bishop said, “you’re not Moonies, are you? Or those Druvidians?”
Druids? Branch Davidians?
“Gosh, no,” I said firmly. “We’re Christian pacifists. We don’t believe in drinking or smoking. We don’t dress funny, or ask for donations on street corners, or preach in the stores, or anything!”
With an effort, Mrs. Bishop joined in my light laughter. The realtor gave me clear directions to her office, recommended a couple of restaurants for supper (“If you’re allowed to do that”), and said that she’d see me in the morning.
I located the soft drink machine, bought a Coke, and watched the news while sipping a bourbon-and-Coke made from the second half of my airline bottle. I was glad Mrs. Bishop wasn’t there to see the conduct of this purported member of a religious cult.
After a while, feeling strangely anonymous in this little town where no one knew me, I drove around, staring through the fading light at the town Martin had known so well growing up. I went past the ugly brick high school where he had played football. Through a light drizzle in the gray spring evening, I peered at the houses where Martin must have had friends, acquaintances, girls he’d dated, boys he’d gone drinking with. Some of them, perhaps most of them, were surely still here in this town… maybe men he’d gone to Vietnam with. Perhaps they mentioned it as seldom as he did.
I felt as if I were eavesdropping on Martin’s life.
I had a book in my purse, as usual (tonight it was the paperback of Liza Cody’s
No one bothered me, and the waitress was pleasant, so I had a nice time. I took the light rain as a sign I should not walk or run tonight, though I’d virtuously brought my sweats and running shoes. As a palliative to my conscience, I did some stretches and calisthenics when I got back to my room. The exercise did relieve some of the cramped feeling the plane and the long car ride had caused. I checked in with Amina, who told me Martin had indeed left a message on her machine not thirty minutes ago.
I smiled fatuously, since no one was there to see me, and called him. The minute I heard his voice, I missed him with a dreadful ache. I pictured his meticulously groomed thick white hair, the black arched brows and pale brown eyes, the heavily muscled arms and chest. He was at work, he’d told Amina’s machine, so I could imagine him at his huge desk, covered with piles of paper that were nonetheless neatly stacked and separate. He would be wearing a spotless white shirt, but he would have taken his tie off when the last employee left. His suit jacket would be hanging on a padded hanger on a hook in his very own bathroom.
I loved him painfully.
I couldn’t remember ever having told Martin lies before, and I kept having to remind myself of where I was supposed to be.
“Is Amina talking a lot about the baby?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. She’s scheduled to take Lamaze in a couple of months, and Hugh’s gung-ho about coaching her.” I hesitated a moment. “Did you take Lamaze when Barrett was born?”
“I don’t remember taking the course, but I was there when he was born, so I guess Cindy and I did,” he said doubtfully.
Cindy. Wife number one, and mother of Martin’s only child, Barrett, now trying to become a successful actor in Los Angeles.
Martin was saying, “Roe, is Amina being pregnant giving you ideas?”
I couldn’t tell how he felt from his voice. He’d spoken so much about Barrett lately I’d felt it wasn’t a good time to talk about another child.
“How do you feel about that?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I’m pretty old to be changing diapers. It’s daunting to think of starting all over again.”
“We can talk about it when I get home.”
We talked about a few other things Martin wanted to do when I got home. By a pleasant coincidence, I wanted to do them, too.
After I hung up, I picked up the little Corinth phone book. Before I could reconsider, I flipped to the
Now, this may sound fishy, but up until that moment I hadn’t thought of Martin’s former wife being in Corinth.
I discovered I was burning with the urge to see Cindy Bartell. A particularly ridiculous jealousy had flared in my heart; I wanted to
Wise or not, I decided to lay eyes on Cindy Bartell while I was here. I took off my glasses and relaxed on the slablike motel bed, with an uneasy feeling that I was being seriously stupid, and wracked my brain to try to remember what Cindy did for a living. Surely Martin had mentioned it at some point or other? He was not one to discuss his past much, though he seemed fascinated with the placidity of mine…
I almost fell asleep fully dressed, and when I forced myself to get up and wash my face and put on my nightgown, I had dredged up the fact that Cindy Bartell was, or had been, a florist.
The little telephone book informed me that there was a listing for a Cindy’s Flowers.
I fell asleep as if I’d been sandbagged, still not having decided if my good taste and good sense would keep me away from Cindy’s shop.
The next morning I showered briskly, put my mass of long, wavy hair up in a bun that I hoped would make me look religious, went light on the makeup, and cleaned my glasses carefully. I wore a suit, a khaki-colored one with a bronze silk blouse, and modest brown pumps. I wanted to look ultrarespectable, so Mrs. Bishop would be reassured, yet I wanted the religious cult front to be objectionable enough to tempt Joseph Flocken to sell the farm
