The Way Home (8 page)

The fact was, he treated her as if she were his kid sister. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t read anything into his companionship except that she offered a pleasant change from his own company. There were, as he’d told her, only so many hours a day a man could fish.

Meg didn’t care so much about what might happen if her stepfather found out about her improbable new friendship. The most he was likely to do was shout at her, the way he always did when something upset him. Of greater concern was the knowledge that, at the end of summer, when Ty left Regret, he was going to be taking a piece of her heart with him.

The only real question was just how big a piece it would be. She wanted to believe that she wasn’t foolish enough to let herself actually fall in love with him. Just because her whole body tingled with awareness whenever he was near and her pulse beat a little too fast, that didn’t mean she was in love with him. Did it?

She supposed that, if she were smarter, she’d ease away from Ty now, try to soften the hurt she knew was to come. It wasn’t as if she thought his feelings were going to undergo a sudden change; that he would see her as a woman rather than a child. That wasn’t going to happen, and she was going to get hurt. But she’d made up her mind to enjoy whatever time she had as his friend; to savor the laughter and companionship while it lasted. And when summer ended, she wouldn’t feel a single regret.

The sky arced overhead in a clear blue bowl, holding the promise of a beautiful summer day. But Meg wouldn’t have noticed if dark clouds had been piled up on every horizon. Her steps were quick, her golden hair bouncing on her shoulders as she hurried along the sidewalk.

“Momin‘, Meg.”

“Good morning, Mr. Guthrie.” Meg slowed her pace to smile at the old man. From fall through spring, Amos Guthrie was the janitor at the school. He spent his summers working at odd jobs around town.

“Nice day,” he said, leaning on the broom he’d been using to sweep the walk in front of the Luddie’s Feed and Seed.

“It’s a
beautiful
day,” she corrected.

“Girl lookin‘ as pretty as you ought to be goin‘ to meet a beau.” His teeth shone white against the leathery darkness of his skin.

“You think so?” Her smile had a coquettish tilt.

“I know so.”

Meg gave him another smile, refusing to commit herself one way or another about whom she might be hurrying to meet. The rapid tap of her heels on the walk beat a counterpoint to her pulse. Ty was waiting for her.

Her smile widened when she saw him. He was standing beside the Chrysler, wearing a pair of tan slacks and a short-sleeved shirt that left his strong arms bare. The sun picked out the blue highlights in the thick blackness of his hair. Just looking at him made her feel breathless. He was so handsome. She felt her stomach tighten with awareness. Her skin suddenly felt too sensitive and there was a warm, heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was still surprised by her own reaction to him, this strange feeling that was almost a kind of hunger.

As if sensing her presence, he turned. He smiled, his dark-brown eyes welcoming, and Meg felt emotion well up thick and hard in her throat. She couldn’t remember anyone in her life ever looking so pleased to see her.

“Am I late?” she asked, hoping he’d attribute her breathlessness to her hurried pace and not to his presence.

“No schedule to keep,” he said. “You left those behind a couple of weeks ago when you graduated. And I don’t believe in ‘em.” He gave her a grin that made her heart flutter and then turned to open the passenger door for her.

“Where are we going?” Meg stepped into the roadster and sat down, tilting her head to look up at Ty.

“Somewhere away from the hustle and bustle of the city,” Ty said as he shut her door.

“Yes, I can see how the noise and traffic might get to you,” Meg agreed as he slid behind the wheel. She looked around, noting the dog sleeping on the walk in front of Rosie’s Cafe, the old men who occupied a bench in the tiny park. It was the middle of the week and the middle of a hot afternoon and Regret lay somnolent under the sun, dozing in the heat, waiting for rain, waiting for better times.

“I’d forgotten just how full of life this place was,” Ty commented, following her glance around the sleepy little town.

“It must be quite a shock after the peace and quiet of Los Angeles,” Meg commiserated.

“It’s a shock all right.” He started the engine and pulled out into the street.

Meg felt excitement bubbling up inside her as they drove out of Regret. At first she put one hand on her head, holding her close-fitting hat in place. But they’d barely left the town behind before she gave up and pulled the sleek felt confection off and set it on the seat between them, letting the wind blow through her hair.

Catching Ty’s smile, she grimed, feeling free and daring, as if she were one of the dashing women she sometimes saw in the movies. If it wouldn’t have been childish, she would have been bouncing in her seat. She’d graduated from high school nearly two weeks before, but the excitement of leaving school behind paled in comparison to the excitement of spending the afternoon with Ty.

She’d assumed that a movie and an ice cream soda on Saturdays was the most she’d ever see of him. When he’d asked her if she’d like to go on a picnic, it had taken all her self-control not to shout her acceptance.

So here she was, sitting in his sleek little roadster, the wind blowing her hair as they zipped along the quiet country road. A picnic wasn’t really a date, she reminded herself sternly. He’d probably have asked a favorite niece along on a picnic. But there was a rebellious little spark of hope inside that refused to go out.

Ty turned the car off the main road and into a rutted lane, just visible through the tangle of weeds that had overgrown it. Meg clutched at the top of the door as the roadster bounced over the washboard surface. Just when she was sure that her teeth were going to be permanently loosened, she saw a house up ahead. A few seconds later, the roadster came to a halt in the weed-choked yard in front of it.

She loosened her grip on the door and glanced at Ty, wondering who lived on the neglected property. He seemed to have momentarily forgotten her presence as he stared at the house. From the shocked expression on his face, it was obvious that what he was seeing was not what he’d expected.

Meg followed his gaze to the house. She’d only glanced at it before, but a more careful look made it clear that no one lived here. The clapboards showed traces of having once been white, but the paint was now cracked and peeling, gray with dirt and age. The windows were dirty enough to make curtains irrelevant. The front porch sagged tiredly, looking as if even the lightest of footsteps might cause a complete collapse. One of the posts that supported the porch roof had broken years before, and the cracked end was supported by a ramshackle stack of bricks and old boards that brought it more or less in line with its companions.

Obviously the place had been empty for a long time. The only signs of life were the rambling roses that twined around the posts and then clambered over the sagging porch roof in wild abandon.

“I didn’t know it was like this,” Ty said slowly.

“Who lived here?”

“My grandparents. My father’s parents,” he clarified. “Grandma died seven or eight years ago and Grandpa went a year later. I haven’t been out here since then.”

“It doesn’t look like
anyone’s
been here since then,” Meg commented, gauging the growth of the roses.

“They always took such pride in this place. Grandpa used to boast that there wasn’t a weed in the county that could get by Grandma’s hoe.” Ty rested his forearms on the steering wheel, his eyes scanning the property as if trying to find some trace of the immaculate scene he remembered.

“It must have been nice,” Meg said, wishing she could see it as he remembered it.

“When I was a boy, I thought this was just about the best place in all the world.” He pushed open his door and got out. As he circled the car to open Meg’s door, his shoes crunched on the dried remains of last year’s weeds, concealed by the fresh spring crop of grasses.

Meg stepped out, the hem of her skirt catching in the tall grass as she followed Ty up to the porch. Seen up close, the house looked even more neglected. The windows that flanked the front door stared blindly out at them, like an old woman whose eyes were dimmed by age and hopelessness.

“Watch your step.” Ty took her arm, guiding her around a splintered board. The door wasn’t locked but lack of use had stiffened the hinges, and he had to put his shoulder against it to force it open so that they could step inside.

The dirt on the windows blocked most of the sunlight, keeping the rooms in deep shadow. The house smelled musty and old. Meg followed Ty as he walked through the empty rooms, trying to imagine what it must have looked like with furniture and curtains, the oak floors polished and a fresh coat of paint on the walls.

“It must have been very pretty when your grandmother was alive,” she said, using her fingers to brush the dirt off a patch of wall, revealing the floral wallpaper underneath.

“I don’t think I ever thought of it one way or another,” Ty said. “But it always felt like home.”

More so than his mother’s house?
Meg wondered but didn’t ask.

“There was never a speck of dirt in this house, unless I’d just tracked it in. But Gram never scolded, even if she’d just mopped. And the kitchen always smelled of bread or cookies.”

He turned slowly, looking at the thick layer of dirt on every surface, the rust that marked the huge black wood-burning stove. A rag hung at the window over the sink, the only remains of a pair of crisp white curtains. There was something approaching grief in his eyes as reality replaced memories.

“It wouldn’t take much to put it into shape again,” Meg said. “It’s mostly just dirt. A little elbow grease and it would look shiny as a new penny.”

He shook his head slowly. “It doesn’t matter. They’re gone.”

“It must be very hard to lose someone you love,” she said quietly. He turned to look at her, his dark eyes unreadable, and she flushed, wondering if he was thinking of the fact that she’d lost her father and should know what it felt like to lose someone she loved.

“Of course, it was terrible when my father died.” The words were flat and unemotional, a gesture to convention.

“You were pretty young,” Ty said.

“Yes.” Meg ran one finger through the dust that coated the Hoosier cupboard that sat against one wall. “I was ten. He was hit by a car.”

“Do you miss him?”

It struck her that Ty was the first person to
ask
if she missed George Harper. After he was killed, everyone had murmured their sympathies; commented on what a pity it was — what with him so young and all; said how much his family would miss him even though, when he was alive, the same people had called him a lazy, good-for-nothing bum. Meg had wondered what was wrong with her that she felt none of the regret everyone seemed to think she should; that her father’s death had left her with nothing more than a vague feeling of relief. Now, for the first time, someone was asking her how she’d felt rather than telling her. And she didn’t know what to say.

Tyler watched the play of emotions across her face, wondering what she was thinking, wondering why he’d asked the question in the first place.

“No.” It was hard to say which of them was more surprised by the flat denial. He could see in Meg’s eyes that it wasn’t what she’d intended to say. “No, I don’t miss him at all.”

“Maybe that’s tougher than missing him a lot,” he said slowly, trying to imagine what it must be like to have no real regrets about your father’s death.

“The day he was killed, I’d dropped a pitcher and broken it.” Her voice was unemotional and her eyes looked past him at something he couldn’t see. “When Mama told me he’d been killed, my first thought was that it meant I wouldn’t get a whipping that night. It took awhile for it to settle in that I wouldn’t get a whipping from him ever again.”

“It must have been hard for you,” iy said, feeling as if the words were hopelessly inadequate but at a loss for anything more profound to say.

“You get used to most anything,” she said, shrugging one shoulder.

“But there are some things no one should have to get used to.” He had a sudden memory of the bruises on Meg’s thin arms that day he’d found her crying under the willow tree, and he was surprised by the depth of anger he felt.

“Maybe. But that’s the way life is, I guess.” She looked around the dusty kitchen and changed the subject determinedly. “This must have been a wonderful room.”

“I always thought so.” He accepted her lead, knowing there was nothing he could say that could change what her father had done all those years ago. He shook himself, abruptly aware of the melancholy turn the day had taken.

“Let’s go back outside,” he said briskly. “I know a good place for a picnic and I don’t think it will have changed much.”

Twenty minutes later he was spreading a blanket over the ground under the branches of an elderly apple tree. There was a small orchard south of the house where a few trees still clung to life, but the apple tree stood to the west, magnificently apart, still beautiful despite the years of neglect.