Charlaine Harris - A Fool and His Honey

The man who answered agreed to go see if Karl and Martin had made it into town yet.

“Yes?” Martin asked crisply, after a lengthy pause. He was using his business voice.

“Martin, someone was outside during the night,” I told him.

This was what I loved about Martin. He didn’t say, “Are you sure?” or “That’s ridiculous!” He asked, “How did you find out?”

After I described the footprints and my line of reasoning, there was another appreciable pause.

“I guess the light wasn’t good enough this morning for me to notice the tracks. You’re locked up now?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Baby asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Then go upstairs, look in my suitcase, and get out the gun.”

“Okay.” Jeez, I hated guns. But I was scared enough to listen.

“It’s loaded. You remember how I showed you how to take off the safety, how to fire?”

“Yes.”

“If the footprints are blurry, there’s nothing to worry about. Whoever made them is long gone. But just in case, it would be good if you had the gun handy. Wouldn’t it make you feel better?”

“I guess so.”

“Okay, now. You call the woman who was over last night, Margaret what’s-her-name, see if she can come stay with you. I’m going to do a couple things here in town and then I’ll be right back out.”

“Okay.” What could he have to do in town? Maybe Martin had thought of something to improve the farm’s security. What we needed out here was a large ferocious barking dog, I decided.

After a few more exchanges, we hung up. I hightailed it up the stairs and rummaged through Martin’s suitcase for his automatic. I hated to even touch the thing, but stronger than that loathing was the desire to protect myself and the baby in this Ohio farmhouse.

Thirty minutes later, I was feeling much more secure. Martin’s Ruger was near at hand but not obvious, stashed in an otherwise empty drawer in the kitchen, and Margaret Granberry, who’d been glad to come over, was having a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. She was also holding Hayden, who of course had woken up just as I was saying hello to Margaret.

I was ready to take him from her to give him his bottle.

“I’ll do it,” she volunteered.

Oddly enough, I almost told her no. No, to the first offer of help I’d had with this baby. I had actually opened my mouth to demur, to say that I was used to it, to protest that this was my job.

I forced myself to smile and say, “Here.”

Margaret pushed the coffee cup all the way across the table so she wouldn’t spill hot liquid on the baby by some accident, and took Hayden gently in her arms. I’d shaken the bottle and tested the formula, so I handed it to her and she began to feed him.

“Have you had children yourself?” I asked, relaxing when it was evident the baby was fine.

She shook her head. “Nope. I don’t want to give you more of our history than you want, but Luke and I have been married for ten years. The first few years, we could afford hospitalization insurance, so getting fertility testing was just out of the question. About three years ago, Luke’s mom passed away, and she left her money in a trust fund for us. But by that time… I’m quite a bit older than Luke, and though we went on with the fertility testing, we didn’t have much hope. Rightly, as it turned out.”

Almost happy to have company in my predicament, since it made me feel not so inadequate, I told Margaret. “I’m not fertile, either.” When she seemed interested, I told her about my unpleasant experiences with a top gynecologist in Atlanta, and Martin’s indifference to our having our own baby. Suddenly I realized how much I was saying, and I apologized. “I don’t like to talk about my reproduction problems at home,” I said wryly. “It’s like people know I failed, and they look at you like you’re lacking something. Getting pregnant is so easy for so many women.”

Margaret shifted Hayden slightly, held up the bottle to see how much was left. Hayden protested, and she smiled and slid the nipple back in his mouth. “Luke can’t understand how women can talk about something as personal as fertility problems,” Margaret said. The cold sun lit her red hair until it almost seemed to give off warmth. “It does seem strange to think that in this day and age there are some medical problems beyond fixing.”

“I know,” I agreed fervently. “You keep thinking that this can’t be an end of it, there must be something else they can do. If they can accomplish so much in other fields, why can’t they fix you so you can have a baby?”

“Martin was married before, right? To the Cindy who runs the flower shop?”

“Martin has a grown son. You might not know if you haven’t been living in Corinth that long, but Barrett’s an actor. He’s got a recurring guest spot on one of those nighttime soap operas. That’s why I think Martin had a kind of ‘been there, done that,’ attitude about having another baby.”

Margaret nodded. “It’s snowing again,” she observed, glancing out the curtainless window before turning her attention back to Hayden.

“I’m ready for Martin to get back. I live in the country at home, but somehow the snow makes this place feel even more isolated,” I confessed, thinking I sounded pretty whiney and should probably shut my mouth. Growing up in the same general area, maybe Margaret was accustomed to the deafening silence of the snowfall. Had it been very lonely for her out here? “Did you see Craig and Regina much?” I asked.

“Not at first,” she answered, after a moment. “We’re so much older, and they were newlyweds. And Luke and I are both busy. But they got bored playing house after a while, and then we saw them more and more.”

“What did you think of the marriage?”

“That’s a big question.” Margaret Granberry hunched her head to her shoulder to push her flaming hair back behind her ear while she continued to feed the baby. “Were-are-you and Regina close?”

“No. I hardly know her.”

“In that case… I’ll tell you, I never could quite figure out why Regina and Craig got married. Their friend Rory was here all the time, and between you and me, I think there was something of a mйnage a trois going on… strange though that is to think of in Ohio farming country!” She laughed, and I tried to politely join in.

Margaret noticed my lack of enthusiasm. “I’m sorry,” she said, a smile belying her contrite words. “We tried that Missionary Bible Church last weekend, and the people there were so fire-and-brimstone, the contrast with our lovebirds out here was really sharp.”

“Martin’s parents went to that church,” I said. “At least, his stepfather made Martin and Barby go after he married their mother. They had a terrible experience there.”

“I heard about it from one of the women in my book readers’ club,” Margaret said. “His sister Barbara, Barby? She got pregnant, right? and they drove her out. I hope you don’t mind me bringing it up. It’s a famous piece of local history.”

“That was after Martin’s mother died, and Barby was just sixteen or fifteen, very young. Isn’t it just bitter, when you can’t conceive, how easily other women can?” I made myself drop that line of whine. “Martin’s stepdad got up in front of the church and denounced Barby and asked the congregation to pray for her.”

“What happened?” Margaret’s light eyes were bright with interest.

“Martin punched out his stepfather,” I admitted. “Then he joined the army.”

“What happened to his sister?”

“She was put in a home for unwed mothers, I believe.” When Martin told me the story, and it was one he hated to remember, it was because he was explaining why his family farm was in the hands of a man who hated him.