14 14NO, IT HAD NOT BEEN A NIGHTMARE; IT REALLY HAD happened. The full reality of events of the past few days settled firmly in Maggie’s mind as she stood in Nuala’s kitchen, in the house that now, incredibly, was hers.
At three o’clock, Liam had helped carry her bags here from the Woodses’ guest room. He had left them at the top of the stairs. “Do you know which bedroom you’re going to use?” he had asked.
“No.”
“Maggie, you look ready to collapse. Are you sure you want to stay here? I don’t think it’s such a hot idea.”
“Yes,” she had replied after a thoughtful pause, “I do want to stay.”
Now as she put the kettle on, Maggie reflected with gratitude that one of Liam’s nicest qualities was that he didn’t argue.
Instead of objecting further, he had said simply, “Then I’ll leave you alone. But I do hope you’ll rest for a while. Don’t start unpacking or trying to sort out Nuala’s things.”
“Certainly not tonight.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
At the door, he had put an arm around her and given her a friendly hug. Then he was gone.
Feeling suddenly exhausted, moving as though it was an effort to put one foot in front of the other, Maggie had locked the front and back doors, then climbed the stairs. Glancing through the bedrooms, she saw immediately that the one Nuala had meant her to have was the second largest. It was simply furnished—a maple double bed, a dresser with mirror, a night table and rocking chair—and there were no personal effects around. The dresser top held only an old-fashioned enamel toiletry set: comb, brush, mirror, buttonhook and nail file.
After dragging her bags into that room, Maggie had peeled off her skirt and sweater, slipped into her favorite robe, and climbed under the covers.
Now, after a nearly three-hour nap, and aided by a cup of tea, she was finally beginning to feel clearheaded. She even sensed that she was over the shock of Nuala’s death.
The sadness, though, that’s another story, she thought. That won’t go away.
She realized suddenly that for the first time in four days she was hungry. She opened the refrigerator and saw that it had been stocked: eggs, milk, juice, a small roasted chicken, a loaf of bread, and a container of homemade chicken soup. Obviously Mrs. Woods, she thought.
She settled on making herself a chicken sandwich, slicing and skinning the chicken and using only a trace of mayonnaise.
She had just gotten comfortable at the table when she was startled by a rap at the back door. She spun around and was on her feet even as the handle turned, her body tense, poised to react.
She gasped with relief as Earl Bateman’s face appeared in the oval window that comprised most of the top half of the door.
Chief Brower theorized that Nuala had been surprised by an intruder in this kitchen, an intruder who had come in the back door. That thought, and the mental image it conjured up, ran through her mind as she quickly crossed the room.
Part of her worried if she was doing the right thing to even open the door, but now more annoyed than worried for her safety, she unlocked it and let him in.
The absentminded professor look that she associated with Bateman was more in evidence at that moment than at any time in the last three days.
“Maggie, forgive me,” he said. “I’m heading back to Providence until Friday, and as I got in the car, it occurred to me that you might not have locked this door. I know that Nuala was in the habit of leaving it unlocked. I spoke to Liam, and he mentioned that he had left you here earlier and thought you were going to go to bed. I didn’t mean to intrude; I thought I’d just drive by and check, and slip the lock myself if it wasn’t set. I’m sorry, but from the front of the house there was no sign that you were still up.”
“You could have phoned.”
“I’m one of those holdouts who doesn’t have a phone in the car. Sorry. I never was much good at playing the Boy Scout. And I’ve interrupted your dinner.”
“It’s okay. It was just a sandwich. Would you like something?”
“No, thanks. I’m on my way. Maggie, knowing how Nuala felt about you, I think I have a sense of how special your relationship with her was.”
“Yes, it was special.”
“If I may give you one bit of advice, it’s to heed the words of the great researcher Durkheim, on the subject of death. He wrote, ‘Sorrow like joy becomes exalted and amplified when leaping from mind to mind.’ ”
“What are you trying to tell me?” Maggie asked quietly.
“I’m distressing you and that’s the last thing I want to do. What I mean is that I suspect you have the habit of hugging grief to yourself. It’s easier if you are more open at a time like this. I guess what I’m attempting to say is that I’d like to be your friend.”
He opened the door. “I’ll be back Friday afternoon. Double lock the door, please.”
He was gone. Maggie snapped the lock and sank into a chair. The kitchen was suddenly frighteningly still, and she realized she was trembling. How could Earl Bateman have thought she would be grateful to him for appearing unannounced and surreptitiously trying the lock?
She rose and with quick, silent steps ran through the dining room into the dark front room and knelt at the window to look out under the fringe of the shade.
She saw Bateman walking down the path to the street.
At his car, he opened the door, then turned and stood for a long moment, staring back at the house. Maggie had the feeling that even though she was surely hidden by the dark interior of the house, Earl Bateman knew, or at least sensed, that she was watching him.
The torchlight at the end of the driveway shone a pool of light near him, and as she watched, Bateman stepped into the light and gave a broad wave of his hand, a farewell gesture clearly directed at her. He can’t see me, she thought, but he knows I’m here.