Рита Браун: Rest In Pieces

“This fall is going to be full of surprises. I feel it in my bones.” Tucker smiled and wagged her stumpy tail.

Mrs. Murphy gave her a look. The cat was not in the mood for prophecy. Anyway, cats knew more of such things than dogs. She didn’t feel like confirming that she thought Tucker was right. Something was in the air. But what?

Harry placed the check in the drawer under the counter. It was face up and she peered down at it again. “Yellow Mountain Farm.”

“There is no Yellow Mountain Farm.” Susan bent over to examine the check.

“Foxden.”

“What? That place has been empty for over a year now. Who would buy it?”

“A Yankee.” Harry closed the door. “Or someone from California.”

“No.” Susan’s voice dropped.

“There is nothing else for sale around Yellow Mountain except Foxden.”

“But, Harry, we know everything, and we haven’t heard one word, one measly peep, about Foxden selling.”

Harry was already dialing the phone as Susan was talking. “Jane Fogleman, please.” There was a brief pause. “Jane, why didn’t you tell me Foxden had sold?”

Jane, from the other end of the line, replied, “Because we were instructed to keep our mouths shut until the closing, which was at nine this morning at McGuire, Woods, Battle and Boothe.”

“I can’t believe you’d keep it from us. Susan and I just met him.”

“Those were Mr. Bainbridge’s wishes.” Jane held her breath for a moment. “Did you ever see anything like him? I mean to tell you, girl.”

Harry fudged and sounded unimpressed. “He’s good-looking.”

“Good-looking? He’s to die for!” Jane exploded.

“Let’s hope no one has to do that,” Harry remarked drily. “Well, you told me what I wanted to know. Susan says hello and we’ll be slow to forgive you.”

“Right.” Jane laughed and hung up.

“Foxden.” Harry put the receiver in the cradle.

“God, we had some wonderful times at that old farm. The little six-stall barn and the gingerbread on the house and oh, don’t forget, the cemetery. Remember the one really old tombstone with the little angel playing a harp?”

“Yeah. The MacGregors were such good people.”

“Lived forever, too. No kids. Guess that’s why they let us run all over the place.” Susan felt old Elizabeth MacGregor’s presence in the room. An odd sensation and not rational but pleasant, since Elizabeth and Mackie, her husband, were the salt of the earth.

“I hope Blair Bainbridge has as much happiness at Foxden as the MacGregors did.”

“He ought to keep the name.”

“Well, that’s his business,” Harry replied.

“Bet Miranda gets him to do it.” Susan took a deep breath. “You’ve got yourself a new neighbor, Sistergirl. Aren’t you dying of curiosity?”

Harry shook her head. “No.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh, Harry, get over the divorce.”

“I am over the divorce and I’m not majoring in longing and desire, despite all your hectoring for the last six months.”

“You can’t keep living like a nun.” Susan’s voice rose.

“I’ll live the way I want to live.”

“There they go again,” Tucker observed.

Mrs. Murphy nodded. “Tucker, want to go over to Foxden tonight if we can get out of the house? Let’s check out this Bainbridge guy. I mean, if everyone’s going to be pushing Mom at him we’d better get the facts.”

“Great idea.”

2

By eleven that night Harry was sound asleep. Mrs. Murphy, dexterity itself, pulled open the back door. Harry rarely locked it and tonight she hadn’t shut it tight. It required only patience for the cat, with her clever claws, to finally swing the door open. The screen door was a snap. Tucker pushed it open with her nose, popping the hook.

For October the night was unusually warm, the last flickering of Indian summer. Harry’s old Superman-blue Ford pickup rested by the barn. Ran like a top. The animals trotted by the truck.

“Wait a minute.” Tucker sniffed.

Mrs. Murphy sat down and washed her face while Tucker, nose to the ground, headed for the barn. “Simon again?”

Simon, the opossum, enjoyed rummaging around the grounds. Harry often tossed out marshmallows and table scraps for him. Simon made every effort to get these goodies before the racoons arrived. He didn’t like the raccoons and they didn’t like him.

Tucker didn’t reply to Mrs. Murphy’s question but ducked into the barn instead. The smell of timothy hay, sweet feed, and bran swirled around her delicate nostrils. The horses stayed out in the evenings and were brought inside during the heat of the day. That system would only continue for about another week because soon enough the deep frosts of fall would turn the meadows silver, and the horses would need to be in during the night, secure in their stalls and warmed by their Triple Crown blankets.

A sharp little nose stuck out from the feed room. “Tucker.”

“Simon, you’re not supposed to be in the feed room.” Tucker’s low growl was censorious.

“The raccoons came early, so I ran in here.” The raccoons’ litter proved Simon’s truthfulness. “Hello, Mrs. Murphy.” Simon greeted the sleek feline as she entered the barn.

“Hello. Say, have you been over to Foxden?” Mrs. Murphy swept her whiskers forward.

“Last night. No food over there yet.” Simon focused on his main concern.

“We’re going over for a look.”

“Not much to see ’ceptin for the big truck that new fellow has. That and the gooseneck trailer. Looks like he means to buy some horses because there aren’t any over there now.” Simon laughed because he knew that within a matter of weeks the horse dealers would be trying to stick a vacuum cleaner hose in Blair Bainbridge’s pockets. “Know what I miss? Old Mrs. MacGregor used to pour hot maple syrup in the snow to make candy and she’d always leave some for me. Can’t you get Harry to do that when it snows?”

“Simon, you’re lucky to get table scraps. Harry’s not much of a cook. Well, we’re going over to Foxden to see what’s cooking.” Tucker smiled at her little joke.

Mrs. Murphy stared at Tucker. She loved Tucker but sometimes she thought dogs were really dumb.

They left Simon munching away on a bread crust. As they crossed the twenty acres on the west side of Harry’s farm they called out to Harry’s horses, Tomahawk and Gin Fizz, who neighed in reply.

Harry had inherited her parents’ farm when her father died years ago. Like her parents, she kept everything tiptop. Most of the fence lines were in good repair, although come spring she would need to replace the fence along the creek between her property and Foxden. Her barn had received a fresh coat of red paint with white trim this year. The hay crop flourished. The bales, rolled up like giant shredded wheat, were lined up against the eastern fence line. All totaled, Harry kept 120 acres. She never tired of the farm chores and probably was at her happiest on the ancient Ford tractor, some thirty-five years old, pulling along a harrow or a plow.