MARGO LOUD
STEINER
CHILL GREETED MARGO when she opened her
front door. Camille, her new dog, something she didn’t expect to have, didn’t
greet her. It only took Margo a few minutes to discover why.
“It’s not your fault,”
she told the dog. “I left you too long.” She went for paper towels and a
plastic bag.
Margo had walked in her
front door to see Camille, her late elderly neighbor’s Japanese chin. She’d
been named for Camille Claudel, the woman’s favorite artist. The dog huddled between
the sofa and wall, only her tail showing.
Margo had dog-sat frequently
for her while her neighbor went on holiday or visited her grandchildren.
It was a sad day when she
had discovered the body. She had gone inside her own home long enough to drop
leftovers from the restaurant where she’d eaten on the kitchen table then went
through the pine grove to Maud’s house. She had a present for the woman, a mug
with Camille’s portrait she’d painted.
The house was dark. As
she used the key Maud had given her, she feared the worst and her fears were
justified.
Maud’s son didn’t want
the dog. Margo thought she would keep her until she could find someone to take
her, except Camille settled in. She was pleasant company. When she Facebook-messaged
Bethany with a photo of Camille curled up on the bed, her daughter told her to
keep her, adding, “We always liked her and she’s cute.”
“Now I don’t have to
worry about you being alone,” Bethany claimed when Margo texted her about the
dog. Margo didn’t need to remind her that her daughter had regularly switched
countries between Germany and the United States, leaving her mother alone for
the better part of a school year.
“You never were before,”
Margo reminded her.
“I didn’t want to call
attention to it,” Bethany said.
Margo talked to the dog
as much as she had to her daughter, except Camille would give Margo’s face a
quick lick and curl up in her lap.
“You know,” she said to
the dog, “the sale of mother’s house will give us financial security. Your dog
treats are guaranteed.”
The house was chilly. In
winter the house could be drafty, but this was late fall.
Camille watched her clean
up the dog mess and start a fire in the black iron stove. She was a great fire
builder. A fire saved on heating oil and often she picked up faggots and fallen
branches from the woods behind her house.
Her mobile rang.
“I forgot to invite you
to Thanksgiving,” Heather said.
Just like my sister,
always planning ahead. Halloween wasn’t for another three weeks. “Sounds good,”
she said.
HEATHER
LOUD POWERS
HEATHER STRUGGLED TO hold the box
against the front door to keep it from falling on the top step. She rang the
doorbell. Let Gray be home, let him be home, she thought. She grabbed
the box tighter in case he opened the door and everything fell out.
Her husband reached the
box before it fell. “What’s this? Why didn’t you call for me to help?”
“I should have, but I was
halfway up the walk when I thought of it. I wasn’t sure you were home. I didn’t
see the car. Pick an excuse, any excuse.”
“The car’s in the garage.
What’s in the box?”
“My mother’s good
dishes.” Heather had been able to get the service for six safely wrapped and
into the biggest carton she could find. Her mother used the set only for
special occasions. It was delicately decorated. When you held it to the light,
you could see your finger shadow through the china.
She hadn’t been
frightened that Margo would want it. After all she made table settings for
clients. Her worry was that Margo would put it into the estate sale so she
could have half of the money. Maybe she should have asked her sister, but it
wasn’t worth the risk.
“Did you finish?” Gray
asked.
“One more day or maybe
two.” Tomorrow, Heather would work the 9-2 shift at the library. Margo had said
she would start in the morning, but Heather told her better that the two of
them do it together. Heather did not want to lose control.
“Do you want me to check
your pricing?” Grayson asked.
Heather had removed her
coat but still had to hang it in the hall closet. Walking over to her husband,
she put her arms around his neck. “That’s a good idea. I’m sure you’ve a good
idea of market value.” Their representative from the estate sale firm had said
that they would price everything we couldn’t. He also said the women should inform
him what they would accept if someone wanted to bargain, but Grayson had their
only interests at heart.
Some of Medora’s
furniture had become antiques over the years. Some had come from Aunt This and
Uncle That over the last hundred years or more. None of the furniture was
wanted by either sister.
The sisters did not want
to be there during the sale. Unlike Margo, who had far fewer good childhood memories,
Heather’s were much warmer and cozier. Heather had heard the stories about the
time Medora’s brother had cut holes in the soft chair, the apple pie that had
fallen off the maple table and everyone was relieved because Aunt Julia was a
terrible baker and now no one had to pretend that the pie was any good.
When Grayson went into
the kitchen and poured two glasses of Pinot Noir, Heather sank into the couch.
For the first time since she had arrived at her mother’s house earlier she
could relax.
Grayson has turned out to
be the perfect husband for her, although when she met him while she was getting
her master’s in library science at Simmons, he seemed much too stuffy. He still
was stuffy, but stuffy brings quiet.
That he earned a good
living as the Chief Financial Officer of an education publishing company made
her working unnecessary. He insisted what she earned she should keep. Regularly
she squirreled her measly paycheck away over the years until her savings
reached the five figures.
Grayson was frugal (read
stingy) and he had invested wisely enough to pay for Grace’s studies. They had
bought their house right before the market went crazy and paid it off in
fifteen years. Heather had furnished it from garage sales, selecting only
quality pieces. Margo didn’t get all the artistic talent she would tell friends
who complimented her on her taste.
Overall, she had lucked
out in life, one of comfort. Some money would come from the sale of Medora’s
house. She was lucky. Now if she could only find the ring.
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