Three Bedrooms, One Corpse - By Charlaine Harris Page 0,46

is still alive, still on the farm, but I haven’t seen him since I came home from the war. Barbara goes back to town every now and then, just to show off how far beyond that little place she is now, I think . . . she doesn’t see him, either.”

“There was a rift?”

“He won’t sell the farm.”

I didn’t think that answered my question.

“Mother left the farm to him for his lifetime, and left us a little cash. Of course, she didn’t have much. But we’re supposed to get a third of the proceeds if he ever sells it, or if he dies before selling it, we get the land. We wanted him to sell when she died so we could move into town. But he wouldn’t sell, out of some damn stubbornness. Now the situation for small farms is even worse, as I’m sure you’re aware.” I nodded soberly. “So the farm’s falling down, the barn has a hole in the roof, he hasn’t made money in years, and the whole thing is rotting. He could sell anytime to our nearest neighbor, but out of sheer meanness he won’t.” Martin stabbed his steak with his fork.

We ate for a minute in silence. I thought over what he’d said.

“Um—how many times have you been married?” I asked apprehensively.

“Once.”

“Divorced?”

“Yes. We had been married for ten years ... we had a son, Barrett. He’s twenty-three now ... he wants to be an actor.”

“A chancy profession.” I thought of my mystery-writer friend, Robin Crusoe, now in California writing a television movie script based on his latest book, and wondered how he was making out.

“That’s what I told him. Funny thing—he already knew it!” Martin said wryly. “But he wanted so much to try, I gave him the money to get started. If he doesn’t make it, he at least needs to know he gave it his best shot.”

“You sound as though you didn’t get the encouragement you needed at some point.”

He looked surprised for a moment. “I guess that’s right. Though it’s hard to say what I really wanted to do. I don’t know that I ever formulated it. Something big,” and his hands made a circle in the air. We laughed. “It had to be something I could leave my hometown for.”

“I’ve never wanted to leave my hometown,” I said.

“Would you?”

“I’ve never had a reason to. I don’t know.” I tried to remember what it had been like when I went to college: not knowing anyone, not knowing where anything was, the first two weeks of uncertainty.

The waiter came up at that moment to see if we needed anything. “Will you be wanting any dessert tonight?”

Martin turned questioningly to me. I shook my head.

“No,” he told the waiter. “We’ll have ours later.” He smiled at me, and I felt a quiver that went down to my shoes.

Martin paid the bill, and I realized I hadn’t said a word about it being my turn. Something about Martin discouraged such offers. We would have to talk about that.

But not right away.

We were quite ready for dessert when we got to my place.

Chapter Ten

“MARTIN,” I said later in the night, “can you go with me to the realtors’ banquet Saturday night?”

“Sure,” he said sleepily. He wound a strand of my hair around his finger. “Do you ever wear it up?” he asked.

“Oh, sometimes.” I rolled over so it hung around his face like a curtain.

“Could you wear it up Saturday night?”

“I guess so,” I said warily.

“I love your ears,” he said, and demonstrated that he did.

“In that case,” I said, “I will.”

A thud on the foot of the bed made Martin jump.

“It’s Madeleine,” I said hastily.

I could feel him relax all over. “I have to get used to the cat?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. She’s old,” I said consolingly. “Well, actually, middle-aged.”

“Like me, huh?”

“Oh, yes, you practically have one foot in the grave,” I said.

“Ooo—do that again.”

So I did.

* * *

“I have to go out of town late this afternoon,” Martin said over toast early the next morning. He had stowed some extra clothes and shaving gear in his car, so he was ready for work.

“Where to?” I tried not to feel dismayed. This relationship was so new and perilous and fragile, and I was so constantly afraid Martin did not feel what I felt, so often aware of the differences in our ages, experiences, goals.

“Back to Chicago, to report on the plant reorganization to the higher-ups. I’ve been cutting out a lot of deadwood, finding