Read Online The Orchard by Charles L. Grant - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles L. Grant
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wasn’t the moon.
Thirty minutes later, still wandering, he felt an unseasonal chill seep through his jacket. He held his arms closer to his sides, hunched his shoulders a bit, and looked around to get his bearings. A lopsided smile. He was on Denise’s street and wasn’t surprised, rather hoped as he sped up that it was some sort of omen, or a signal from his unconscious that he wasn’t nuts, only lonely.
“Aw, poor fella,” he said, laughing at himself as he turned into her yard.
She lived in a small two-bedroom cottage squeezed between two large mock-Tudors whose hedges seemed determined to absorb the smaller house. He took the slate walk at a run, took the steps to the porch in a single leap, and had his finger on the doorbell before he could change his mind.
She opened the door as if she’d been waiting.
“Hi!” he said brightly, thinking glumly that even Leslie could be more clever than that.
She was pleased to see him, it was obvious, but she was also puzzled. The freckles across her forehead almost vanished in a frown, while the dimples on her cheeks deepened when finally she smiled.
“Well, hi. You selling something?”
A jerk of his head over his shoulder. “A walk?
It’s a nice night. We could stop for a burger someplace. Maybe catch the late show? It’s a spy story, I think.”
She laughed and waved him in. “Hey, Brett, don’t you believe in telephones?”
It wasn’t a refusal, but here, in this house crowded with furniture and soft lights, he felt abruptly claustrophobic. The unease must have showed, because she grabbed a sweater quickly from the newel post and took his arm.
“Lead on, good-lookin’. Tonight I’m all yours.”
Halfway down the block in silence, and she tugged at his arm. “Something the matter?”
Her hair was short and auburn, her face and figure round, and in her jeans and sweater she looked a full decade younger than his own thirty-nine.
“Something bothering you, cop?”
He denied it with a shake of his head. “Just restless. I took a chance you were home.” He winked. “I got lucky.”
“You sure did. I was supposed to spend the weekend in Hartford, at some stupid banking conference. I changed my mind at the last minute because, don’t you know, bankers are so damned boring.”
She was an officer in the Savings and Loan on Centre Street, destined it was said for the presidency one of these days. That surprised him. Most bankers he had known in the past were singularly conservative, and Denise definitely was not of the same mold; they also grew cautious the more time they spent behind the desk, and if anything, she was even more enthusiastic than the day she’d first walked through the door. All that energy was amazing to him, and he didn’t know where she got it.
“Me, too,” she said.
“Huh?”
“I can’t for the life of me figure out what hold all that money has over me.” She turned away, but he saw the smile. “I guess I’m just naturally greedy.”
“Right.”
“I mean, it’s dirty, you know. That money is absolutely filthy.”
“Sure.”
“You wouldn’t believe what I look like when I get home.”
“I know.”
She stopped, made him turn. “Brett, I’ll enjoy the burgers, and I’ll enjoy the film, and I’ll probably enjoy the conversation, too, once I get used to being fed one word at a time.”
He rubbed his temple, his chin, and felt more than a bit silly. “Sorry.”
They walked again and decided on the luncheonette for their meal. And as they ate, he found himself responding to the most innocuous questions with baleful stories of his life, particularly how he had married Grace Black when they were juniors in college, had Les a year later, and little Alice five years after that.
“Too young,” he said. “Once we grew up, we grew apart.”
Three years ago, Grace had left him, with Alice. And on the road to her mother’s a truck had skidded, and the car she was driving slammed into it, and under.
He
Thirty minutes later, still wandering, he felt an unseasonal chill seep through his jacket. He held his arms closer to his sides, hunched his shoulders a bit, and looked around to get his bearings. A lopsided smile. He was on Denise’s street and wasn’t surprised, rather hoped as he sped up that it was some sort of omen, or a signal from his unconscious that he wasn’t nuts, only lonely.
“Aw, poor fella,” he said, laughing at himself as he turned into her yard.
She lived in a small two-bedroom cottage squeezed between two large mock-Tudors whose hedges seemed determined to absorb the smaller house. He took the slate walk at a run, took the steps to the porch in a single leap, and had his finger on the doorbell before he could change his mind.
She opened the door as if she’d been waiting.
“Hi!” he said brightly, thinking glumly that even Leslie could be more clever than that.
She was pleased to see him, it was obvious, but she was also puzzled. The freckles across her forehead almost vanished in a frown, while the dimples on her cheeks deepened when finally she smiled.
“Well, hi. You selling something?”
A jerk of his head over his shoulder. “A walk?
It’s a nice night. We could stop for a burger someplace. Maybe catch the late show? It’s a spy story, I think.”
She laughed and waved him in. “Hey, Brett, don’t you believe in telephones?”
It wasn’t a refusal, but here, in this house crowded with furniture and soft lights, he felt abruptly claustrophobic. The unease must have showed, because she grabbed a sweater quickly from the newel post and took his arm.
“Lead on, good-lookin’. Tonight I’m all yours.”
Halfway down the block in silence, and she tugged at his arm. “Something the matter?”
Her hair was short and auburn, her face and figure round, and in her jeans and sweater she looked a full decade younger than his own thirty-nine.
“Something bothering you, cop?”
He denied it with a shake of his head. “Just restless. I took a chance you were home.” He winked. “I got lucky.”
“You sure did. I was supposed to spend the weekend in Hartford, at some stupid banking conference. I changed my mind at the last minute because, don’t you know, bankers are so damned boring.”
She was an officer in the Savings and Loan on Centre Street, destined it was said for the presidency one of these days. That surprised him. Most bankers he had known in the past were singularly conservative, and Denise definitely was not of the same mold; they also grew cautious the more time they spent behind the desk, and if anything, she was even more enthusiastic than the day she’d first walked through the door. All that energy was amazing to him, and he didn’t know where she got it.
“Me, too,” she said.
“Huh?”
“I can’t for the life of me figure out what hold all that money has over me.” She turned away, but he saw the smile. “I guess I’m just naturally greedy.”
“Right.”
“I mean, it’s dirty, you know. That money is absolutely filthy.”
“Sure.”
“You wouldn’t believe what I look like when I get home.”
“I know.”
She stopped, made him turn. “Brett, I’ll enjoy the burgers, and I’ll enjoy the film, and I’ll probably enjoy the conversation, too, once I get used to being fed one word at a time.”
He rubbed his temple, his chin, and felt more than a bit silly. “Sorry.”
They walked again and decided on the luncheonette for their meal. And as they ate, he found himself responding to the most innocuous questions with baleful stories of his life, particularly how he had married Grace Black when they were juniors in college, had Les a year later, and little Alice five years after that.
“Too young,” he said. “Once we grew up, we grew apart.”
Three years ago, Grace had left him, with Alice. And on the road to her mother’s a truck had skidded, and the car she was driving slammed into it, and under.
He
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