Read Online Time Out of Mind by John R. Maxim - Free Book Online Page B

spending a sol itary two or three hours there and then catching a late train back. But it couldn't hurt. And he liked it there. He went again on Thursday night. Gwen called from London on Friday to ask how he was getting on. Fine, he said. Hurry back. One more week, she told him. Love you. On Friday evening he packed a bag for the weekend.
    The real estate agent, a fortyish woman named Marge, was friendly and helpful, but she didn't really have the feeling that she had a live one in Jonathan Corbin. He wanted to look at Victorians and she'd shown him six. The last two were closer to a Federal style and Corbin didn't even want to look inside. They weren't right. What is? she asked. I'm not sure. But you'll know it when you see it? I think so. Right.
    Just above the Post Road, not far from Greenwich Avenue, a heavily overgrown piece of property caught Cor bin's eye. On it stood a house that he could barely see because it was largely hidden by two old and neglected willows. He asked Marge to turn around.
    “ That one?”
    ‘‘ I think so.”
    She pulled into the gravel driveway, past a For Sale sign that had fallen over.
    “ Isn't this one listed with you?” he asked.
    “ It's listed with everyone. Has been for almost two years. I have to tell you it's not in real good shape. The property will eventually go to someone who just wants the land.”
    “ They'll tear down the house?”
    “ Wouldn't you?”
    “ Let's look inside.”
    Even before Marge opened the lockbox on the door, Cor bin knew what the inside would be like. A small room on the right, a stairway straight ahead, a kitchen all the way back. There would be a rose-colored runner on the stairs, held down with brass rods. The kitchen would smell like vegetable soup. Upstairs, he didn't know. He could only imagine what the bedrooms would be like.
    But he was right about the first floor.
    “ Do you know who lived here before?” he asked the agent.
    ‘ Two or three families that I can remember since I was a kid. The last was an old man named Mullins. As you can see, he wasn't able to keep it up. He moved to a senior citizens' home and then he passed on. An estate lawyer's handling the sale.”
    “ Outside”—Corbin pointed—“was there ever a trellis over the driveway with wisteria vines on it?”
    “ There was until it fell down, yes. You know this house?’'
    “ No.” Corbin looked away. “Houses like this always seem to have them.”
    ” Uh ... listen. Mr. Corbin—”
    “ Jonathan.”
    “ Jonathan. You're not really interested in this place are you?”
    ” I guess I am. Yes.”
    “ You said you were single?”
    “ I'm sort of engaged.”
    ” I hope it's more than sort of. This really isn't the kind of neighborhood a single man would be happy in. All cou ples, most with teenage kids or older. You might find it hard to make friends.”
    “ Marge, you don't sound real hot to make a commis sion.”
    “ I'd love the commission. I need a new car. But I'd want to make it on a house you'd like living in. You can get a good price on this place but it would cost you at least an other thirty thousand to fix it up. Maybe twenty if you're a heck of a handyman. Are you?”
    “ Not especially.”
    “ You want to sleep on it?”
    ” I suppose I should.”
    “ I'll show you some other places tomorrow. There's a real nice one over in Riverside.”
    “ Fine.”
    But at nine the next morning, Corbin handed her a check for the binder on the Mullins house.
 
    “ Tell me about Connecticut,” Gwen had asked. “It began there, didn't it?” It did and it didn't. ”I think you've really gone crackers this time,” she told him. The day she returned from London he drove her to Greenwich in the secondhand Datsun he’d bought as a station car.
    “ You don't like it?” Corbin was disappointed. “But it's sort of like the Homestead. Or it will be when it's fixed up. You'll have a place to go weekends.”
    “ You might have discussed this with me,