One Bad Apple Page 5

  Meg mustered a smile. “Thanks, Seth. I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t found you.”

  “Hey, that’s what neighbors are for.”

  “You’re a neighbor?”

  “Yup, just over the hill there—for the last three centuries, give or take.”

  “Wow,” she said, feeling stupid. One more thing she didn’t know about her house: who the neighbors were.

  When Seth started punching numbers into his cell phone, Meg turned to survey her latest mess. She couldn’t use the kitchen. The rug she had pulled up still lay in a crumpled heap in the front room. One more thing to add to the discarded stuff she had been piling up in the barn. She made a mental note: find out about trash collection, or whether there was a town dump. While Seth was making calls, she might as well finish clearing out the rug and its shredded underlay, and pry out the tacking bars.

  After half an hour or so, she heard the sound of machinery outside. Looking out the window, she saw what she assumed was a Bobcat, with a narrow shovel attached in the back. She heard a rapping at the front door, and hauled it open to find Seth. “We’re going to dig a trench now,” he said, looking for all the world like a boy with a new toy.

  “You guys want some coffee or something? Is there anything I need to do?”

  “Coffee’d be great, but let’s see how the trench goes, with the ground frozen and all. You’re lucky—we can keep it narrow. And it’s a good thing you don’t have a paved driveway, because then you’d have a real mess.”

  Meg laughed. “Thank heavens for small favors. You mind if I watch?”

  “As long as you stay out of the way. I don’t want you falling in.”

  Meg bundled up and stood on her back steps, bouncing from foot to foot to keep warm, and observed while the small machine slashed into her driveway, as well as into the flower bed under her kitchen window. She sighed inwardly: she hadn’t been here long enough to know what might have been growing there, but whatever it was wasn’t going to grow again.

  Seth kept a critical eye on progress, but occasionally he would bend down and pick something up. After the third time, he motioned her over. “You want to get a box or something?”

  “Why?” Meg had to shout over the noise of the machine.

  “Anytime you dig around these old places, you turn up artifacts. I thought you might want to save them.”

  “Sure. I’ll get something.” In the kitchen she located a shoe box she had been using for receipts and brought it out to him. He emptied his pockets of several unidentifiable lumps.

  Chilled and bored by the process of digging, Meg went back inside and busied herself with small chores. In less than an hour she realized the machine had fallen silent. She went out the kitchen door and contemplated the trench that ran some twenty feet from her foundation to the lawn. Peering in, she could clearly see that the system was in trouble: a heavily rusted cast-iron pipe had fractured, and even now yuck was seeping out through the dirt that had clogged it. Seth came over to stand beside her.

  “Sorry, it’s not good. The main pipe gave out, and the septic tank is pretty well shot.”

  At least he’d prepared her for the worst. “How long will it take to replace them?”

  “Tank’s on its way, and I’ve got pipe in the van. The vendor’ll haul the old tank out and drop the new one in. I can have things hooked up by the end of the day. I’ll give my brother Stephen a call, tell him to head over here and help out.”

  Meg had no idea if the speed of this process was normal for plumbers, but she had the feeling Seth was making a special effort. The least she could do was let him warm up. “Are you ready for coffee now?”

  “Sure. Oh, and here’s your archeological trove. No treasure chests loaded with gold, I’m afraid, but some neat stuff.”

  “Thanks.” Meg eyed distastefully the sodden clumps in the shoe box he handed her. He followed her into the kitchen, where she laid the box on the table and filled two sturdy mugs with hot coffee. She heard the Bobcat start up again, and then the sound faded into the distance. “He’s leaving already?

  “Yup. Tight schedule—I had to sweet-talk him into fitting you in. Look, I’m sorry about yesterday …”

  “You’ve already apologized, you know.”

  “Yeah, but I try to avoid screwups like that. Gives us plumbers a bad name, you know.” Seth pulled the shoe box of artifacts toward him and poked around. “This is part of the job I love. You never know what’s going to turn up. Let’s see.” He rummaged through the muddy fragments with one finger. “A coin—looks like an 1895 Indian head penny, nice. A spoon, definitely twentieth century. A couple of marbles. You know, it seems like any place where there’s been a kid over the last century, I end up finding marbles. And here’s a nice piece of china. Too bad it got broken.” He handed Meg a shard. He was right: it was a pretty piece of blue willowware, almost half of its original bowl shape. It looked old.

  “Neat. Don’t you find yourself wondering how these things got lost? Did somebody miss them? Or was it trash? What did they do with trash in the old days, for that matter?”

  “Threw it down the privy, up to a point. Then town dumps. You have to remember, people didn’t make as much trash as we do now. And there were plenty of thrifty Yankees around here— if you could save something or reuse it, you did. So I’d guess this pretty little bowl was broken a long time ago, from the look of it.”

  Meg pointed to a piece he hadn’t mentioned, a much-rusted, large, and ornate multitoothed gear. “What’s this?”

  Seth picked it up and turned it in his hands. “Part of a—” He stopped himself and grinned at her. “Maybe I’ll let you figure it out.” He dropped it back into the box with a thunk, then turned his head to listen. “That’ll be the guy with the tank. Damn, where’s Stephen?” As Seth left the kitchen, he was pulling out his cell phone again. Meg peered out at the newly arrived truck carrying a bulky concrete object she assumed was her new septic tank. For its cost, it was disappointingly prosaic, but if she was lucky she’d never see it again anyway.

  The truck was soon joined by a dented, not-new sports car. The man who climbed out bore a clear resemblance to Seth, although his hair was darker and he walked with a swagger. This must be the brother, Stephen. Seth approached him, clearly annoyed, and they argued briefly before Seth directed him toward the Chapin van while he went to talk to the truck driver.

  In short order the old tank was hauled out, and the new tank was off the truck and in the ground, even though Stephen looked a bit sulky about taking orders from Seth, and moved slowly.

  It was little more than an hour later when Seth knocked again. “You’re good to go. Want to try out your drains?”

  “With pleasure,” Meg answered. She went to the kitchen sink and turned on the tap. The water disappeared with no hesitation. “Hallelujah! It works! And it’ll keep working, right?”

  “Of course it will. Chapin Brothers does good work.”

  “I hope so. Hey, listen—can I get you something?” Meg racked her brain to recall if she had any food in the place.

  Stephen had come up behind Seth on the step, crowding him. “Hey, I could use something hot. It’s freezing out here.”

  Grudgingly Seth moved into the room, and his brother pushed past him. “Hi,” he said to Meg with an engaging grin. “I’m Stephen Chapin, the other half of Chapin Brothers. I’d offer to shake hands, but …”

  Meg waved at her sink. “Please, wash! It’s such a treat to be able to use the water again. And let me make some fresh coffee.” She waited while Stephen washed his hands thoroughly, then she filled the pot and set the coffeemaker brewing. She was pleased to find a forgotten bag of cookies in a cupboard, and distributed a handful on a slightly chipped plate, which she set in the center of the table. “There. Sit down, you two. Coffee’ll be done in a minute.”

  As she waited for the coffee to finish, she studied the brothers. The kinship was evident in their bone structure, but there were clearly difference
s. Seth had been unfailingly cheerful, at least around her. Stephen was another matter. He was darker in coloring than his brother, and seemed more intense. He was also fidgety, tapping his fingers on the table. When Meg set a mug of coffee in front of him, he flashed her another smile. “Hey, thanks. Seth says you’re new to the area. I’d be happy to take you around, show you what’s fun around here.”

  Was he flirting with her? “Thanks for the offer, but I unfortunately don’t have much time for fun, Stephen. I don’t know if Seth told you, but I’m trying to get this place ready to sell, and it keeps me busy.”

  That smile came again. “Ah, come on. You need to get out of the house now and then, don’t you? Why not?”

  “Stephen, she said no.” Seth’s voice was mild, but there was an edge to it.

  Stephen turned to look at him. “Oh, yeah, right. She’s one of you worker bees, right? No time off for good behavior. Sorry, Meg—big brother here has put the kibosh on fun.”

  There was a clear tension between the two brothers, and hidden currents that Meg didn’t understand—or want to. It was none of her business. All she wanted from them was working plumbing.

  Seth made an obvious effort to change the subject. “Have you ever looked into the history of this place, Meg?”

  Meg shook her head, confused by his abrupt shift. “Haven’t had time, but I suppose I should. The Realtor asked the same thing. She thought it might be a good selling point.”

  “Who’s your Realtor?”

  “Frances Clark.”

  Seth nodded. “She knows the market around here—she’ll do a good job for you. But as for the history, it’s definitely worth doing. Some of the land grants around here go back to the 1600s, when this part of the country was first surveyed. The records should be in Northampton or Springfield, if you ever have a free afternoon. Ask at the library in Northampton first—they have a lot of material on local history. You know, this whole area used to be called Warren’s Corner, after that intersection of this road and what’s now the highway. They changed the name to Granford in the early nineteenth century.”

  “I’ll put it on my to-do list.” Which now covered several pages. “How do you know all this, anyway?”

  “I’ve lived here all my life, and I like history. But I mentioned it because there’s a meeting of the Granford Historical Society tonight, and you might be interested in going and talking to some of the local historians. Maybe they could help. I’d be there myself—I’m on the board—but I promised my sister I’d help her install a new sink. She runs a B and B over toward Amherst.”

  Stephen drained his coffee cup and stood up. “Well, then, we’d better head over there. Wouldn’t want to keep Rachel waiting, would we? And I’m sure Meg here will have a rip-roaring good time at that society of yours.” His tone was snide.

  Seth gave him another exasperated look, then stood up more slowly.

  Meg followed them to the back door. “Seth, where’s this meeting, and when?”

  “At seven, first Tuesday of every month. The society owns a building on the green in town, but they meet in the basement of the church next door, because the heating’s better. They’re a good group. You’ll like them.” He checked his watch. “Oops, gotta go! I’ll send you the bill, no hurry. Let me know if you have any more problems. Oh, and watch out for the open trench, if you decide to go out tonight. And you’re probably going to need some more gravel for the driveway, unless you’re thinking about paving it. I know a guy …”

  Meg laughed. Seth seemed determined to solve all her problems. “Let me know later, okay? You’ve got places to be.”

  Stephen grinned at her as he followed Seth out the door. “Have fun with the old fogies tonight. You would have had a better time with me.”

  And then they were gone. With a start, Meg realized that she could shower now, and went upstairs to take advantage of that immediately. While she soaped and rinsed—and made a mental note to replace the trickling shower head—she debated whether she really wanted to go out that night, much less to a meeting. But she’d spent far too much time indoors of late, and it could be a good business move. After all, the more she could find out about the house, the better. For a brief moment she wondered what it would be like to have the kinds of roots in a community that Seth had—three hundred years, hadn’t he said? But she had no intention of staying in Granford long enough to put down any kind of roots. She’d go to the meeting for information only.

  5

  Meg bundled up well before she headed out for the meeting: down coat, scarf, hat, heavy gloves. The wind was cutting. She had lived in Boston for years and hadn’t minded the cold there. Maybe the stone and concrete of the city held the heat; maybe the buildings blocked the worst of the wind. Here in Granford, icy blasts swept across open fields and seeped through her coat. She hurried to her car, which was freezing but out of the wind, then started it and sat shivering while the heater came slowly to life.

  Seth had told her that the Granford Historical Society met at the church on the green, in the center of town. There were a few cars in the lot when Meg pulled in, and she hurried to the door to get out of the wind. Inside it was marginally warmer, and she wandered through the poorly lit corridors looking for the meeting room. Luckily it was the only one with lights on. Meg poked her head in tentatively, to be greeted by a woman of about forty or so who was wrestling with an elderly slide projector. She looked up quickly when Meg entered, and her gaze was frankly curious.

  “Hi! I’m Gail Selden. You looking for the historical society meeting? I haven’t seen you here before.”

  Relieved that she had found the right place, Meg entered the room. “No, I’m new in town. I just moved to the house at 81 County Line Road.”

  “Ah, the Warren place. Welcome! You wouldn’t know anything about projectors, would you? I go through this every time we use this old monster.”

  Meg shook her head. “Sorry, no. Now if it was PowerPoint, maybe.”

  Gail laughed. “Heaven forbid we should use anything that modern! This thing is approaching antique, and I’m not sure we can still get bulbs for it, but I just keep my fingers crossed that it’ll keep going, because we can’t afford a new one. Take a seat. I think a few more people said they planned to come—it’s not every month we have a guest speaker.”

  Meg looked around at the twenty or so folding chairs that had been set up in rows, less than half occupied. “What’s the talk about?”

  Gail had apparently succeeded in bringing the projector to life, and was fiddling with the switch that advanced the anticipated slide carousel. “There, got it. There’s a professor from UMass who’s going to be talking about nineteenth-century agriculture in this area. I brought along some old tools from our collection so we can get a sense of how things were done. So, what brings you here? Please, sit.”

  Meg took a seat in the front row, while Gail leaned against a folding table covered with rusty farm implements. “As I said, I just moved in, and I thought maybe I should find out more about the house, its history. My real estate agent said it might help when I sell it.”

  Gail’s face fell. “You’re selling? I was hoping that someone would stick around this time. I know it’s been rented out for quite a while, and the tenants have been okay, but they just don’t put much into keeping the place up, you know?”

  Meg smiled, while feeling a pang of guilt. “Tell me about it! Every time I get something fixed, something else falls apart. Today it was the drains. Actually, it’s my mother who owns it, so I guess she’s the one responsible for renting it out.”

  “Well, maybe when you sell we’ll get some long-term people in. It’s a great house, and it comes with a lot of the original land. The wetlands on one side are protected, you know.”

  Meg nodded, but Gail had already turned to greet a couple of new arrivals whom she obviously knew. Meg studied the room: low ceilinged, wooden floor, the walls covered in paint-crusted bead board. How old was the church? This room looked as though it h
adn’t changed in a hundred years. She turned in her seat, keeping an eye on new arrivals. A few people headed for a table set up at the side, where a large coffeemaker burbled, and set down cakes or plates of cookies covered with plastic wrap. Meg checked her watch: ten past seven. Apparently the schedule was flexible.

  She heard Gail’s voice again. “Ah, here you are! I was beginning to wonder if you’d bailed out on us.”

  “Not at all, dear lady, but I must confess I was tardy in assembling all my slides. But I wouldn’t miss this—the subject is dear to my heart.”

  Christopher? Meg knew of his interest in orchards, particularly hers, but she hadn’t thought he was an historian as well.

  Christopher handed a tray of slides to Gail and made his way to the front. “Meg! How delightful to see you again, and so soon.”

  Meg stood up to greet him. “Christopher, I had no idea you’d be here. Seth Chapin—my new plumber—thought I might be interested in learning a bit more about the history of my place, so here I am.”

  “So your plumber arrived at last. And your problems are resolved?”

  Meg nodded. “They are, I hope. I have a new septic system.”

  Gail came up to Christopher and laid a hand on his arm. “We ought to get started—I think this is everyone.”

  Christopher surveyed the sparse crowd. “Ah well, I guess it’s to be expected. But you know me. I’m always happy to talk about farm history. You’ve met Meg here?” When Gail nodded, he went on. “She’s graciously promised to allow us to continue to use her orchard for our research.”

  “Assuming, of course, it survives the proposed changes,” Gail said, shaking her head. “But let’s not get started on that again. You go on and talk.”

  “With pleasure.” Christopher went to the front of the room and took a position beside the rickety screen. Gail went to the projector and clicked on the first slide. Christopher began. “As I’m sure you all know well, Granford, like so many early New England towns, was founded by a small group of farmers in …”