The two children of these emotionally disabled people had learned early in life to be self-sufficient. Their family home had been on the far side of Cleary Peak, away from town, isolated from neighborhoods where children played together. Their parents had been lacking in social skills, so neither she nor William had been taught them. The ways and means of how people interacted had been awkwardly acquired in public school.
William was a good student who’d applied himself to scholastics. His efforts were rewarded with excellent report cards and prizes for achievement. He tried to make friends with the same kind of determination, but his overzealous attempts usually had the opposite result.
Marilee had found the nurturing that was missing from her own life in the pages of books. William, being several years older, was the first to learn to read. She prevailed upon him to teach her, and by the time she was five years old she was reading literature that would challenge some adults.
With the exception of the years they were at college, she and William had lived in the same house all their lives. After their mother died, he decided it was time they move into town. It would never have occurred to him that Marilee might have plans of her own. Nor did it occur to her to live independently of him. Actually, she’d been thrilled at the prospect of leaving the ugly, sad dwelling on the mountain that evoked so many unhappy memories.
They bought a small, neat house on a quiet street. She made it into a comfortable home, full of color and light and potted plants, which had been missing in the house of her upbringing.
But after the last curtain was hung and the last room arranged, she’d looked around and realized that nothing except her surroundings had changed. Her life hadn’t taken an exciting, new direction. Her rut was prettier and better furnished, but it was still a rut.
As for the family homestead on the mountain, she would have sold it, or let it rot until the wilderness claimed it. But William had other ideas.
“The storm is going to suspend your work on the house for a while,” she remarked now as she wiped the dining table with a damp cloth, sweeping cornbread crumbs off the edge into the palm of her hand.
From behind his newspaper he said, “True. It may be days before anyone is able to navigate the main road. The back road up to our place will take even longer to clear.”
The back road to which he referred snaked up the west side of the mountain, which was always the colder, the darker, and the last to show signs of spring. “As soon as the road reopens, I’d like you to take me up there,” she said. “I want to see what you’ve done with the place.”
“It’s coming along. I hope to have it finished, not by this summer but next.”
His idea was to refurbish the house and rent it to vacationers. There were dozens of listing agents in the area that kept rental properties occupied for months during the summer and fall. He’d been doing most of the work himself, hiring contractors only when absolutely necessary. He spent virtually all his free time working on the renovation. The house would have to be razed before it held any appeal for Marilee. But William was excited about the project, so she supported it.
“I heard the old Smithson place was leasing for fifteen hundred a week last summer,” he said. “Can you believe that? And that house was practically falling down when they started the renovation. Ours will be much more desirable.”
“What were you doing with Wes and Scott Hamer this afternoon in the back of the store?”
He tipped down the corner of the newspaper and looked at her sharply. “Come again?”
“This afternoon, in the back of the store, you—”
“I heard that part. What do you mean what was I doing with them?”
“No need to take umbrage, William. I merely asked—”
“I’m not taking umbrage. It’s just a strange question, that’s all. Completely off the subject and inappropriate. Next you’ll be asking me what prescriptions my customers take when you know I can’t disclose personal information
like that.”
In truth, he was a busybody who loved to gossip, often about his customers and their medical conditions.
“Was your business with Wes and Scott something personal?”
He sighed, laying the newspaper aside, as though she’d spoiled it for him. “Personal but not confidential. Wes had called earlier, said Dora had a headache, and asked what over-the-counter analgesic I could recommend. He came by to pick it up.”
He left the table and went to the counter to refill his coffee cup. Looking at her above the rim as he took a sip, he asked, “What made you ask? Did you imagine that Wes came in just to flirt with you?”
“He wasn’t flirting with me.”
William looked at her snidely.
“He wasn’t,” she insisted. “We were just chatting.”
“Honestly, Marilee, I can’t believe you’d be flattered by Wes’s attention,” he said with what sounded like pity. “He flirts with everything that has ovaries.”
“Don’t be crude.”
“Crude?” He sputtered coffee around a short laugh. “You haven’t heard crude until you’ve heard the way Wes talks about women. Out of their hearing, of course. He uses gutter language that you probably don’t even know, and brags about his sexual conquests. The way he talks, you’d think he was still in high school. He boasts about his affairs with the same cocky attitude that he used to carry the game ball through the halls after a big victory.”