Houses of Stone, KATHY [classic literature books TXT] 📗

of the Modern Language Association, kneeling at her feet. Karen savored the image: Meyer submissive and stammering, like some bucolic swain, with her foot planted firmly on his bowed neck.

The picture was as absurd as it was unlikely. "Maybe I did overreact," she admitted. "I doubt my rudeness fazed Bill, though. He'll be back. Want another drink before I start my report?"

"Yes." Peggy rose and followed her into the kitchen. "I wouldn't say no to a cracker and a crumb of cheese, either, if you have them. I haven't had anything to eat since this morning; stopped off at the house to change clothes and pick up the car, and then drove straight through."

"No wonder you look so tired." Karen went to the refrigerator. "I'm sorry; I should have asked. How is your friend?"

"Dead," Peggy said. "The funeral was yesterday."

Chapter Eight

We paused before a House that seemed A Swelling of the Ground— The Roof was scarcely visible— The Cornice—in the Ground—

Emily Dickinson, 1863

The package of cheese slipped from Karen's hand. She bent over to retrieve it. "I'm so sorry," she mumbled, painfully aware of how inadequate the words must sound. "What ... I mean, was he ... What I really mean is, do you want to talk about it?"

"Not at length." Peggy had already helped herself to the Scotch. "But I don't mind answering the questions you were courteous enough not to ask. 'What' was AIDS. He's been sick a long time, and it was not a merciful death. He was a close friend, I guess you'd say. I was married to him."

Karen's hand slipped again. The cheese fell onto a plate this time. "I didn't know you were married," she gasped, forgetting tact in astonishment.

" 'Was,' I said. We split up fifteen years ago, after he found the courage to admit he preferred his own sex. I had," Peggy said without expression, "suspected that earlier."

"But you went to be with him when ..."

"When he asked for me. Sure I did. I got over my anger and hurt a long time ago. He didn't want to hurt me. He was a nice guy; we could have been friends if he'd been able to face the truth. It wasn't as easy to do that twenty years ago."

"It still isn't easy, I guess." Still reeling mentally from the barrage of revelations, Karen offered a plate of cheese and crackers like a burnt offering. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Peggy grinned. She still looked tired—small wonder, Karen thought remorsefully—but it was her old smile. "I'm not infected, if that's what you mean. He called me as soon as he found out, even though he was sure it hadn't happened until after we separated."

"That was a decent thing to do."

"He was a nice guy," Peggy said again. "As for my mental state—well, it hasn't been a pleasant week, but I'll survive. When you're my age, you become more accustomed to losing friends." She stuffed a cracker into her mouth and added indistinctly, "The intellectual challenge you are about to offer will distract and divert me. Tell me all."

The distraction proved effective; it was Karen who called a halt to the discussion, though the hour was still early and they hadn't covered all the possible ramifications.

"You must be exhausted, Peggy. I'll take you back to the motel. Unless you want to stay here tonight."

Peggy admitted she was ready for bed, but she refused the invitation with all her old acrimony. "I'll bet the mattress is almost as thin as the towels. The old lady didn't exactly knock herself out furnishing this place, did she?"

"It's adequate. Are you sure you don't want company? I'll stay with you if you like."

"The only company I want is this genealogy." Peggy tucked it and the notes she had made into her bag. "Don't get sentimental and mushy, Karen, I don't need a shoulder to cry on. You needn't pick me up tomorrow. I know how to find the place now. Suppose I get here about nine? I'll bring doughnuts or something equally unhealthy. We'll finish planning our campaign, and then drive out to have a look at the house. Do you suppose your friend Cameron will be working there tomorrow?"

"Probably." Karen located her keys and opened the door. "Watch the steps, they're steep. Why do you want to see the house? I told you—"

"I am not questioning your data," Peggy said, determinedly patient. "I just want to see the damned place, okay?"

"Okay, okay." Karen unlocked the trunk and put the briefcase inside.

"Cautious little creature, aren't you?" Peggy said. "Do you haul that manuscript with you everywhere you go?"

"Yes, I do. There's no safe hiding place in the apartment. It wouldn't take much strength to force the door."

"That was not a criticism, just a simple question." Peggy settled herself with a grunt and reached for the seat belt. "I have to admit I keep losing sight of how valuable the damned thing is. Not in monetary terms but—"

"I wouldn't lose sight of the monetary terms," Karen said grimly. "How much do you suppose Bill would pay for a copy?"

"Please don't say things like that," Peggy pleaded. "The idea opens up too many horrible possibilities. Bill's not the only one who would pay for a copy, you know. You shouldn't have called him a son of a bitch."

"He is a son of a bitch."

"Who knows?" Peggy murmured. "Life is full of surprises. That is what makes it so interesting."

Cameron was descending a long ladder when they caught sight of him. Karen deduced he had been painting the shutters or woodwork of an upper window, and had left off when he heard the car.

"Who's that?" Peggy demanded, staring. "Not the prim and proper business gent we had dinner with? Wow! Who'd have thought he had such a good-looking pair of—"

"Shhh! He'll hear you."

"He can't possibly hear me. Anyhow, what's wrong with expressing admiration of a shapely body? Men do it all the time. The rest of him isn't bad, either. Except