Central Park and took the risk of subway muggings in stride, but considered the countryside full of gun-wielding escaped convicts. Let Gina hear one word of murder and that brittle sophisticate was capable of catching the next plane south. Gina Melnick under the same roof with Lacy Honeycutt, even for a weekend, was something Kate preferred not to contemplate, so she talked cheerfully of settling in and promised she would soon be sending Gina designs of stunning beauty and originality.
“As long as you don’t start churning out bunnies and horsies and cute little kittycats,” Gina warned sardonically.
Mollified at getting her way, she rang off and Kate went out to the kitchen. There was still some cold coffee in the unplugged coffee maker, but in deference to the baby, she conscientiously drank milk.
There was no sign of Lacy or that he’d planned to do anything about supper, so she found a casserole that she’d left in the freezer last fall and set it on the back of the woodstove to thaw.
She dealt with the co-op’s management company in New York, then changed the bed linens and unpacked the suitcases she’d been too tired to tackle last night. Someone—Lacy? Bessie?—had cleared the drawers and closets of Jake’s country clothes, and she lined the shelves with fresh paper. The windows had been open all afternoon and fifteen minutes with dustcloth and vacuum dealt with the rest of the room’s mustiness.
When she went outside to cut a bowl of flowering quince, Kate heard the faraway whine of a chain saw. It sounded as if Lacy was getting a start on next fall’s woodpile.
She added daffodils to the quince and paused at the scraggly lilac bush. Winters down here weren’t really cold enough for vigorous growth, but the fifty-year-old bush by the kitchen door managed to push out a dozen or so spikes every spring, enough to perfume her bedroom when she carried them inside, but not today. The dark purple panicles were still as tightly closed as a clenched fist. It would take at least another week of warm weather to loosen them.
In the four years that she’d been coming to the farm, Kate had made few changes to the house beyond a new freezer and a gas range for the kitchen. Lacy always treated her with distant formality and Kate reciprocated by playing helpful guest instead of entitled resident. She usually skipped breakfast and tactfully slept in so that Lacy could enjoy Jake’s company unimpeded by her presence. After Jake added a new bath off their bedroom on the ground floor, Kate ceded the whole upstairs to Lacy and had seldom ventured up the staircase unless Jake wanted to show her something.
But the movers were coming tomorrow with the few pieces of furniture she had saved from the apartment and space would have to be found for them.
The front parlor was likeliest, Kate decided. It housed a perfectly horrible settee and matching side chair of horsehair and cracked leather, both of which could fuel a bonfire for all she cared. The rosewood Victorian armchair, pine sugar chest, and small, drop-leaf lamp stand, part of Jane Gilbert’s dowry from Gilead, were worth keeping and the faded chintz couch under the front windows was still comfortable, but the bowfront sideboard with its ugly parti-colored inlays had nothing to recommend it but age.
The settee and chair were not heavy and she tugged them out to the front hall with little effort. The sideboard was unbudgeable.
“What the hell you doing?” demanded Lacy.
Startled, Kate almost dropped the cheap tarnished pole lamp she had dismantled.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said.
“Don’t reckon you did with all the mess you’re making.” He stood with his thumbs hooked in the straps of his overalls and glared at her. “What’s the settee doing out in the hall?”
“The movers will be here with my things tomorrow and I’ve got to put them somewhere,” she explained. “This seemed the best place. I didn’t think you’d mind. You
“As long as you don’t start churning out bunnies and horsies and cute little kittycats,” Gina warned sardonically.
Mollified at getting her way, she rang off and Kate went out to the kitchen. There was still some cold coffee in the unplugged coffee maker, but in deference to the baby, she conscientiously drank milk.
There was no sign of Lacy or that he’d planned to do anything about supper, so she found a casserole that she’d left in the freezer last fall and set it on the back of the woodstove to thaw.
She dealt with the co-op’s management company in New York, then changed the bed linens and unpacked the suitcases she’d been too tired to tackle last night. Someone—Lacy? Bessie?—had cleared the drawers and closets of Jake’s country clothes, and she lined the shelves with fresh paper. The windows had been open all afternoon and fifteen minutes with dustcloth and vacuum dealt with the rest of the room’s mustiness.
When she went outside to cut a bowl of flowering quince, Kate heard the faraway whine of a chain saw. It sounded as if Lacy was getting a start on next fall’s woodpile.
She added daffodils to the quince and paused at the scraggly lilac bush. Winters down here weren’t really cold enough for vigorous growth, but the fifty-year-old bush by the kitchen door managed to push out a dozen or so spikes every spring, enough to perfume her bedroom when she carried them inside, but not today. The dark purple panicles were still as tightly closed as a clenched fist. It would take at least another week of warm weather to loosen them.
In the four years that she’d been coming to the farm, Kate had made few changes to the house beyond a new freezer and a gas range for the kitchen. Lacy always treated her with distant formality and Kate reciprocated by playing helpful guest instead of entitled resident. She usually skipped breakfast and tactfully slept in so that Lacy could enjoy Jake’s company unimpeded by her presence. After Jake added a new bath off their bedroom on the ground floor, Kate ceded the whole upstairs to Lacy and had seldom ventured up the staircase unless Jake wanted to show her something.
But the movers were coming tomorrow with the few pieces of furniture she had saved from the apartment and space would have to be found for them.
The front parlor was likeliest, Kate decided. It housed a perfectly horrible settee and matching side chair of horsehair and cracked leather, both of which could fuel a bonfire for all she cared. The rosewood Victorian armchair, pine sugar chest, and small, drop-leaf lamp stand, part of Jane Gilbert’s dowry from Gilead, were worth keeping and the faded chintz couch under the front windows was still comfortable, but the bowfront sideboard with its ugly parti-colored inlays had nothing to recommend it but age.
The settee and chair were not heavy and she tugged them out to the front hall with little effort. The sideboard was unbudgeable.
“What the hell you doing?” demanded Lacy.
Startled, Kate almost dropped the cheap tarnished pole lamp she had dismantled.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said.
“Don’t reckon you did with all the mess you’re making.” He stood with his thumbs hooked in the straps of his overalls and glared at her. “What’s the settee doing out in the hall?”
“The movers will be here with my things tomorrow and I’ve got to put them somewhere,” she explained. “This seemed the best place. I didn’t think you’d mind. You
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