Firefly Rain Page 17

  “Actually, I was going to offer you some,” she said, shutting the door. She turned the key and the engine grumbled itself to life, masked in part by the hiss of the air-conditioning and the last twenty seconds of a Nickel Creek song.

  “Oops, I’m sorry. I forgot about the volume on that.” She reached over and turned the music down. “I like to keep the windows rolled up and sing along.”

  “Why keep the windows rolled up, then?”

  She shot me a quick smile. “Because I can’t sing, that’s why. Now, where am I taking you?”

  “Home,” I said, and thought about the word for a moment, “but I suppose you want actual directions.”

  “Those would help,” she agreed, and she threw the car into drive. It swung smoothly out into the street as the next song started.

  “It’s real simple. You just want to find your way to Harrison Farm Road and head out of town. I’m a ways down on the left.”

  Ahead of us, one of the town’s four stoplights turned red. We coasted to a stop and waited, the engine humming. “So just drive around and you’ll tell me when you see it?”

  I smiled. “Something like that. Look, I do appreciate this, but it is a ways out there, and I can walk. Besides, you don’t hardly know me. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Adrienne—somehow, I’d started thinking of her that way since we’d left the library, despite the fact that she hadn’t shown me any more familiarity in those few minutes than she had inside—shook her head with annoyance. “You do know, Mr. Logan, that it is sometimes permissible to let other people do you a favor. If you must console yourself, remember that Sam Fuller knows I’m taking you home. That should be sufficient precaution to make you feel better about my willingness to let a semi-stranger into my car. Not that I think you’d do anything untoward, mind you. You don’t have that feel to you. Frankly, you feel more like the men who sneak peeks at Carolina Woman—a little shy, a little nervous, all hopeful that someone’s just going to fall into their arms.” She glanced over at me. “I’m not offending, I hope?”

  “Not yet,” I answered. “Though I’d wager I know a little bit more about women than you give me credit for.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you think you know something,” she clarified. “But that doesn’t mean you do.”

  Outside, the last of the buildings that marked downtown Maryfield sped by. Fields opened up on both sides of us now, knee-high corn and soy poking their heads up out of the soil.

  I felt myself growing distinctly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking—it felt a little too much like a letter in the sort of magazine I used to read in college—so I cleared my throat and made a deliberate effort to change the subject.

  “How long have you been in Maryfield?” I asked. “I don’t remember you from my last visit, and you sure as heck don’t look like Miss Rose or Miss Lillian.”

  “They retired three years ago,” she answered. “Miss Rose first. They were talking about moving to Florida, but they never got that far. I think they bought a house just outside of town and moved in together. You still see them in the grocery store from time to time. They’re sweet ladies. They like to come in and check on me, and see if I need any help.”

  “And do you?”

  “No, not really.” She sounded sad. “We loan out almost as many movies as we do books these days.”

  “That’s a shame. How’d you end up here, anyway?”

  She laughed, then. “What is this, Mr. Logan, twenty questions? Careful, you’ll run out before you know it.”

  “I never was any good at math,” I told her, rolling down my window. “And I figure I’ve got at least fifteen or so left.”

  “Well, you’ve got at least one. I started here right after Miss Lillian retired. I’m from Banner Elk, up in the mountains. I got my degree in library science at Appalachian State, then applied for the job here. They hired me. There’s nothing more to it than that, I’m afraid.”

  “Seems simple enough. Do you live in town?”

  “I do. I don’t even know why I drove today, except that I can’t find my umbrella and with the way it rained the other day…” Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged. “It’s a good thing that I did, wouldn’t you say?”

  “A good thing indeed,” I agreed. “And now I’ll stop being a nosy jerk. No more questions, I promise.”

  A new song started. She jabbed at the fast forward button, skipping it. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I just hate that one. It’s stupid and melodramatic and, well, never mind. This next one’s better, I promise.”

  “Your car, your music,” I told her. “I wouldn’t care if you were playing ‘Foggy Mountain Breakdown’ backward to listen for secret messages hidden in the banjo line.”

  She shot me a funny look. “I think most people might have a problem with that, actually.”

  “I tried it with my Led Zeppelin records once. All I got out of it was something that sounded like ‘funnurph nurgle beer.’ Nothing vaguely evil about it. And your music is fine, honest.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so.” We rode on for a while longer in silence, doing that thing where you take turns looking over at one another but look away when it seems like the other person might meet your eyes.

  It felt like high school all over again.

  Finally, I saw the familiar chimney coming up on the left. “There it is,” I said, pointing. “The next driveway is mine.”

  We pulled up in a shower of gravel, then thumped to a stop.

  “Thank you,” I said, and I undid my seat belt. “And I know I’ve said that a lot today, but that one was important.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, and she fiddled with the volume. I cracked my door.

  “Look,” I said, “it was a long way out here and it’ll be a long way back. Do you want to come in for a while, have a glass of something to drink?”

  She cut the engine and turned to look at me. “It’s very nice of you to ask, Mr. Logan, but like you’re saying, it’s a long drive back, and I’m not sure I want to do it in the dark.”

  “Then why’d you turn off the car?” I asked. “Come on, I won’t bite. Honest.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” she said, and she pulled the keys out of the ignition. “So why don’t you give me the tour?”

  “Gladly,” I replied, stepping out of the car. “Welcome to my home.”

  I slammed the door behind me with a sound like a coffin lid coming down for the last time, and started walking toward the house. After a moment, she followed.

  sixteen

  This is very nice,” Adrienne said as we tromped up onto the porch. “It goes all the way back to the tree line?”

  “Well past it,” I replied, fumbling for my keys. “I own the whole patch of woods down there. I used to call it the Thicket when I was a kid. Now it’s just something I don’t have to mow.”

  “I think that goes for pretty much the whole property,” she observed. “Why is that stand of pine trees out there by itself?”

  I grimaced. “I’ll show you later. It’s not really the sort of thing that you can explain well.”

  She shrugged. “All right.”

  “Trust me,” I said. The lock clicked, and I opened the door. “Welcome to the ancestral Logan estate.” I stepped back away from the door and made a silly sort of bow. “After you.”

  “Oh, no.” A smile thought about crossing her face. “It’s your house. You should go first. It might be dangerous in there.”

  “You have no idea,” I assured her, and I stepped in. A quick look around told me that the kitchen—toy soldiers and all—was just as I had left it, which was to say more or less fit for human habitation. Even the empties were lined up neatly against the back of the counter, and there weren’t quite enough of them there to give a truly bad impression. “Sorry about the mess,” I said. “I didn’t know I’d be having company, except maybe Sam and Asa.”

  “That’s quite all right.” I could feel, as well
as hear, her step into the house behind me. It was a pleasant sort of heat. “This is very nice. Did your mom decorate it?”

  I nodded and stepped farther in. “Mother did, yes, though my grandmother did the basics. My grandfather built the house, you see, and Father just inherited it. I’m third generation in here, more or less.”

  She stepped past me and did a little spin as she looked around. “Are you going to do anything with it?”

  “I don’t think so,” I confessed. “Mother always had much better taste than anyone else in the family, except maybe when it came to Father. Besides, I’m not sure how long I’m going to be staying, and I don’t want to start something I won’t be around to finish.”

  “That seems like a sensible attitude.” She stopped spinning, and I imagined that there was just a hint of disappointment in her voice. Then it was gone, and she was pointing down the long hall. “What’s down here?”

  I moved past her, careful not to touch. The kitchen was just wide enough to allow that, and I squeezed into the hallway. “The rest of the house. Do you want the grand tour?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  I turned to face her and took a few steps backward. “Well then, allow me to show you the Logan house, built on the ruins of the old Logan farmhouse, which was in turn built on the Logan cabin, which, near as I can tell, was built on top of the old Logan family tent. We’ve been here a long time. Grandfather Logan built this particular place when he first got married. He married late and his folks had passed away, so he wanted a new home for his family—not to mention the fact that the old farmhouse was falling down around his ears. The rest was built in bits and pieces through the years, some when Mother moved in after she and Father got married, some when I came along. There’s no real plan to it, except that nobody in the Logan family ever liked visitors, so you won’t see a lot of windows facing the road.”

  “There’s one,” she interrupted, pointing into the bathroom. “Seems an odd place, if that’s the only one.”

  I stretched out and pulled the bathroom door shut. “It’s not the only one, but it’s close, and Mother said guests should get a little light for their washing up. Besides, the curtains are always drawn in there.”

  “They weren’t that I saw,” Adrienne contradicted me, her voice a little too bland to be serious. “You ought to be ashamed, if that’s the washroom you’re using. Someone might look in and see you.”

  “Someone,” I replied with all the dignity I could muster, tentatively taking her hand to pull her along the corridor, “would have to be very lost and about nine feet tall. If’n Bigfoot wants to get a peek at my wares, then he’s going to get a great view. Beyond that, I don’t worry about it.”

  She giggled and let me lead her farther on. “Is that the living room?”

  I peered in. “Living, dining, knickknack—you name it. It needs a good dusting before it’s fit for company, though.”

  “I’m not company, I’m your ride,” she responded. Her fingers slid out from between mine. Two steps and she passed me, picking up one of Mother’s porcelain figurines. “This is very nice,” she said, turning it over in her hands. “Where did it come from?”

  I caught up to her and peered at the object she was holding. It was a porcelain representation of some kind of finch, red head and short beak and black wings all pressed back against a stocky little body. Mother had collected them, and there was an entire aviary set up in there for those who cared to look at it. “Don’t know, really,” I said, and I gently took the figurine away from her. “Mother would haunt flea markets and estate sales for things like this, and every so often one would arrive in the mail. Father never liked them much, and I just knew that if I got close to them, I’d break one sooner or later. So I never learned too much about them.”

  “They’re beautiful,” Adrienne said. “Turn it over. The manufacturer’s mark is usually on the bottom.”

  I did, and there it was. “Son of a… gun,” I said. “Can you read that?”

  She leaned in closer, which might or might not have been my intention. “No, I can’t make it out.”

  “You could look a little closer,” I offered.

  Adrienne looked up at me. “I could,” she said, and she took the bird back out of my hands. “You really ought to dust in here more.” Carefully, she set it down on the shelf where she’d found it and strolled farther into the room.

  She looked everywhere, picking out every bit of furniture and gewgaw that the generations of Logans had managed to accumulate and display over the years. Porcelain figures, Depression glass, lace doilies—each of them passed under Adrienne’s scrutiny and met with her approval. After a while, I began to see the room through her eyes. It had been a forbidding place to me when I was younger, dark and full of things I couldn’t or shouldn’t go near. Now, though, I could start to understand why it was the way it was, why Mother had brought those things into the house and kept them there, and how important it had been to her to carve out a place like this in Father’s home.

  Finally, we came to the fireplace. Adrienne stood in front of it, leaning carefully on the mantel and looking down into the hearth. “How long has it been since you had a fire in here?” she asked, not looking back at me.

  I stood behind her, my eyes carefully fixed on the chimney. “Not since Mother died, I’d guess. Carl might have done something. There’s a pile of firewood around back, and it was dry when I got here. Maybe he’s been using the place, not that I mind.”

  “Carl?” She didn’t turn.

  “Carl Powell. Friend of Mother and Father’s. I hired him to be the caretaker when Mother died.”

  “Ah.” She took a deep breath. “You should have people over here more, you know. It’s too much house for just you.”

  “I’m not sure it is,” I said softly. She turned and looked up at me, her expression asking for an explanation, but I didn’t have one I’d care to give.

  “Come on,” I said instead. “Let me show you the rest.”

  With a long look behind her, Adrienne followed.

  The rest of the tour was brief. My bedroom elicited a few giggles from her and a blush or two from me, especially since I hadn’t made the bed or put away the previous night’s laundry. A man ought not have a woman he’s trying to impress see his boxers wadded up on the floor. Other rooms got fast inspections and faster explanations. Adrienne’s interest was still back in the knickknack room—that much was clear. I wasn’t sure if I was pleased or bothered.

  “That’s it,” I said when we’d gone through all the open rooms. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “No,” she replied, and she pointed past me. “What’s in there?”

  I turned around to see what she was gesturing at. “Ah. Mother and Father’s bedroom.”

  “Oh. May I see it?”

  I thought for a minute. It certainly was presentable, and probably the nicest room in the house. It certainly wouldn’t lower her opinion of me any to see it.

  But it was Mother and Father’s room, their private place. Aside from me (and Carl, my suspicious conscience reminded me, that impression in the covers hadn’t made itself), no one had seen it since Mother’s funeral. I’d known Adrienne—Miss Moore—maybe half a dozen hours.

  Things were moving awful fast.

  Maybe it was time things moved in a way I wanted them to.

  “Certainly,” I said. “Mother was always very proud of it.” I reached out and put my hand on the knob, turned it.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  I flashed Adrienne a weak smile. “Hang on a minute. The door sticks sometimes.” I put a little more strength into it and twisted the knob harder. Nothing happened.

  “Do you need to unlock it?” Adrienne asked. “I always forget to do that when I lock my bedroom.”

  “I don’t recall having locked it,” I muttered through gritted teeth, both hands on the doorknob now. “As I said, sometimes it just gets stuck. The wood expands in the humidity and all that.”r />
  “It’s okay,” she said reassuringly, laying a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t have to see it now. Maybe another time the door will cooperate a bit better.”

  “Maybe,” I said reluctantly, and I let go of the doorknob. “I’ll get that worked on in the meantime.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.” She slipped her hand all the way back down to her side. “Now, could I have that drink you offered?”

  I shot the door a look of pure hatred, then turned my back on it. “Certainly,” I said. “Beer, milk, juice, lemonade?”

  “I don’t suppose you have any Pepsi?” she asked as she led the way into the kitchen.

  “Afraid not,” I said. “Carl does my shopping for me, and I don’t think he believes in that stuff. You’d think a man with no teeth wouldn’t worry about tooth rot.”

  Adrienne laughed. “Maybe he knows something you don’t. And a glass of water would be fine.”

  “Water it is.” I walked over to the cabinet and pulled down a glass—an old McDonald’s collectible with Charlie Brown on it. “Ice?”

  “Yes, please.” The scrape of metal on tile told me she’d pulled out a chair; the hiss of air escaping a cushion said she’d sat down on it. I grabbed a handful of ice cubes from the fridge and dropped them into the glass. They hit with a musical tinkle, filling it halfway. I filled it the rest of the way with tap water, thought about a beer, and decided against it. I’d need a beer later, God knew, when I started really thinking about what had happened in that basement. As long as Adrienne was there, though, I didn’t want anything in my system that would relax my control one little bit.

  Women, as an acquaintance of mine during my college years had said, generally ain’t impressed by nervous breakdowns.

  I put the glass down in front of her and pulled up the next chair at the table. “There you go.”

  She took it, took a sip. “Aren’t you having anything?” she asked.