Read Online Memory and Desire by Lillian Stewart Carl - Free Book Online

She got up and with a length of yarn brushed it through the window into the air. It made an indignant loop-the-loop, then winged away. Below the window stood Richard and Fred, arms folded. Fred was eyeing Richard as though the architect was a headsman sharpening his axe. Richard was eyeing the wall. From the row of tools on the ground he chose one that looked like a thin spoon. With it he smoothed the fresh mortar packed between the stones. Then he gave the tool to Fred and watched as he repeated the motion.
    Claire pulled her head back into the room. Richard was an artist, no doubt about it, unkempt house and all. But when it came to the Hall he was a martinet with his swagger stick. It was a matter of priorities, wasn't it?
    So, then, where had Melinda come in his priorities? Claire couldn't see them as lovers. Melinda dealt in broad pictures and bottom lines. Richard had a keen eye for subtlety and detail. He probably had a girlfriend, too, even though she'd have to be something to compete with the Hall. Melinda was something, yes, but while she'd have wanted attention, physical and otherwise, she wouldn't have demanded a commitment.
    Claire threaded her needle with gold yarn and began filling in the frayed decorative border at the edge of the canvas. She kept her back to the window and glanced from doorway to doorway more than once. But not even the bee returned to interrupt her reveries of plot, motive, and character. The one time she saw a movement in the doorway it was the calico cat, which considered her gravely for a few moments and then went on its way.
    At quitting time she closed and locked the window, stowed her supplies, and turned the face of the canvas away from the sun. Several other volunteers walked her out this time. She did not see Richard.
    Every window in the high street displayed a poster advertising The Play. Performances at eight p.m., June 20 and 21—ten days away. A red Jaguar was parked half on, half off the curb in front of the shop. Through the window Claire saw Elliot Moncrief buying a newspaper from Trillian Nair. His sweater was loosely draped over the shoulders of a polo shirt as though he was on his way to a tennis court, unlikely as Somerstowe was to have one.
    Weighing tea and scones against beer, Claire ducked into her flat to tidy up and then headed across to the Druid's Circle. Perfect timing, she thought when she saw Alec coming up the street.
    He was dressed in a rugby shirt and khaki pants, off duty. “It'll rain within the hour,” he said with a glance at the increasingly cloudy sky. Opening the door of the pub for Claire, he added, “I recommend the local ale. And Diana makes a cracking shepherd's pie, if you've an appetite."
    “I wasn't exactly doing hard physical labor,” Claire answered, “but yes, I have an appetite, and I sure didn't come all this way to drink Coors Light."
    From the gloom her eyes resolved a low beamed ceiling, a fireplace complete with electric fire, floral wallpaper hung with faded landscapes, and a bar backed by a kaleidoscope of beer advertisements. Above it hung a television tuned to a talk show. A public telephone occupied the far end. A slot machine sparkled and chimed in a short hallway to one side. Beyond it a stairway overflowed with the largest German Shepherd Claire had ever seen. His huge brown eyes gazed benignly, almost sadly, down at her, as though she wasn't a big enough mouthful to make it worth his effort to bite her.
    Behind the bar a stood a middle-aged man, his belly protruding coyly over his belt, his scalp peeking through his graying hair. His craggy features—those that were visible above his bristling beard—and shoe-button black eyes made Claire think of Rumpelstiltskin.
    “Claire, this is Rob Jackman,” Alec said.
    “Hullo,” said Rob, striking a note between bored and belligerent.
    “Nice to meet you,” Claire said. “I'd like some ale, please."
    Rob recited, “Marston Mercian Mild, Owd Rodger, Winkle Ivanhoe,