his turn to be silent. Then, “The land’s half mine, I believe. Last I knew. Are you planning to buy me out?”
“You know I can’t. Not yet.”
“You could get married. That whazzisname, the mortician.”
“You know perfectly well what his name is. You were in high school together. Colm Hanna.”
He laughed. “My memory’s slipping. I’ve been away, you know.”
“I know. Where are you calling from, anyway?”
“Branbury Inn. I’m up for a few days. That’s why I called, before you decided to give me the third degree. I want to take Vic and Emily to Montreal, a little outing. Violet and I....”
She felt a chill wind blow through the open barn door. Beyond, the early evening mountains were an icy blue. It was mid-September, winter was breathing in on them already. “You’ll have to ask them. Emily?” she called, and the girl came running.
“Dad,” she said eagerly, and Ruth went back to the cows. The hum of the milking machine, the grunting and salivating cows, drowned out Emily’s voice. When Ruth straightened, ready for the next group of cows, Emily was back. “I’ll take over, Mom.”
“Are you going, then? To Montreal with your father?”
“I’d like to, I really would. But I have the apple picking. And next Sunday morning Adam and I are renting a canoe. We’re paddling down Otter Creek, having breakfast at Mister Ups.”
Emily sounded happy. She pushed her mother aside. “Go in and check that meat loaf, Mom. I’m fine.” And Ruth did just that.
But when she opened up the oven, the meat loaf was burned. It was that damned electric stove Pete had bought before he took off. It overheated, it burned everything. What was wrong with the old gas stove? At least she could count on it.
She decided to call Colm. She needed to talk to a friend. Colm was in real estate; she’d ask him to look into this developer. Only she’d forgotten the woman’s name. So she called Moira Earthrowl. And Moira said she’d call back, the woman’s name was on a card somewhere and she couldn’t look that minute. “Things are a madhouse here. The goat’s gone! It happened while the Jamaicans were picking. Someone cut the rope. The Jamaicans are all in a tizzy. And I’m darned if I want to go get another goat!”
Ruth called Colm anyway. But he wasn’t home, he wasn’t in his real estate office, and he wasn’t at the police station. Wholly frustrated now—was there no one to talk to in this town?—she dropped the phone into its cradle, and poured herself a tall mug of Otter Creek Ale.
Chapter Twenty-one
Moira calmed the Jamaicans with a promise to get another goat. More or less calmed them, that is. They were accusing one another of letting the animal go. Derek was pointing a finger at Zayon, the goat “keeper.” “He let ’im go, yeh, he wanns see um run, he let um go.” And Zayon: “I neber let um go, you know dat. Why I do anyways? You crazy, mon. Someone cut um loose, de rope cut, right?” He held up an end that was still attached to a tree in front of the bunkhouse, shook it under Derek’s nose. Bartholomew laughed, and Zayon turned on him. “Laugh, laugh, mon, go ’head. I tink you de one cut ’im loose. To spite me. Make me look bad.” He made a movement toward Bartholomew and the old man jumped back, responded in the patois. “Hey! You watchit dere. I do nutting of de kind, you know dat.”
“Stop it, stop it now,” Moira shouted, and Derek sidled up to her. “Jus’ an ole hate,” he confided in her ear, “ober a woman. Bartolomew he took away Zayon woman, ten year ago, but Zayon he don’t forget it. Neba mind now, bosslady. I calm he down.” He took Zayon’s arm and led him back into the bunkhouse, although the latter was still muttering, “Trick, trick, dey play on me trick.”
So she’d have to get another goat. She made Bartholomew promise not to mention that the rope was cut. She’d told Stan that the goat broke away, and he’d accepted that with a
“You know I can’t. Not yet.”
“You could get married. That whazzisname, the mortician.”
“You know perfectly well what his name is. You were in high school together. Colm Hanna.”
He laughed. “My memory’s slipping. I’ve been away, you know.”
“I know. Where are you calling from, anyway?”
“Branbury Inn. I’m up for a few days. That’s why I called, before you decided to give me the third degree. I want to take Vic and Emily to Montreal, a little outing. Violet and I....”
She felt a chill wind blow through the open barn door. Beyond, the early evening mountains were an icy blue. It was mid-September, winter was breathing in on them already. “You’ll have to ask them. Emily?” she called, and the girl came running.
“Dad,” she said eagerly, and Ruth went back to the cows. The hum of the milking machine, the grunting and salivating cows, drowned out Emily’s voice. When Ruth straightened, ready for the next group of cows, Emily was back. “I’ll take over, Mom.”
“Are you going, then? To Montreal with your father?”
“I’d like to, I really would. But I have the apple picking. And next Sunday morning Adam and I are renting a canoe. We’re paddling down Otter Creek, having breakfast at Mister Ups.”
Emily sounded happy. She pushed her mother aside. “Go in and check that meat loaf, Mom. I’m fine.” And Ruth did just that.
But when she opened up the oven, the meat loaf was burned. It was that damned electric stove Pete had bought before he took off. It overheated, it burned everything. What was wrong with the old gas stove? At least she could count on it.
She decided to call Colm. She needed to talk to a friend. Colm was in real estate; she’d ask him to look into this developer. Only she’d forgotten the woman’s name. So she called Moira Earthrowl. And Moira said she’d call back, the woman’s name was on a card somewhere and she couldn’t look that minute. “Things are a madhouse here. The goat’s gone! It happened while the Jamaicans were picking. Someone cut the rope. The Jamaicans are all in a tizzy. And I’m darned if I want to go get another goat!”
Ruth called Colm anyway. But he wasn’t home, he wasn’t in his real estate office, and he wasn’t at the police station. Wholly frustrated now—was there no one to talk to in this town?—she dropped the phone into its cradle, and poured herself a tall mug of Otter Creek Ale.
Chapter Twenty-one
Moira calmed the Jamaicans with a promise to get another goat. More or less calmed them, that is. They were accusing one another of letting the animal go. Derek was pointing a finger at Zayon, the goat “keeper.” “He let ’im go, yeh, he wanns see um run, he let um go.” And Zayon: “I neber let um go, you know dat. Why I do anyways? You crazy, mon. Someone cut um loose, de rope cut, right?” He held up an end that was still attached to a tree in front of the bunkhouse, shook it under Derek’s nose. Bartholomew laughed, and Zayon turned on him. “Laugh, laugh, mon, go ’head. I tink you de one cut ’im loose. To spite me. Make me look bad.” He made a movement toward Bartholomew and the old man jumped back, responded in the patois. “Hey! You watchit dere. I do nutting of de kind, you know dat.”
“Stop it, stop it now,” Moira shouted, and Derek sidled up to her. “Jus’ an ole hate,” he confided in her ear, “ober a woman. Bartolomew he took away Zayon woman, ten year ago, but Zayon he don’t forget it. Neba mind now, bosslady. I calm he down.” He took Zayon’s arm and led him back into the bunkhouse, although the latter was still muttering, “Trick, trick, dey play on me trick.”
So she’d have to get another goat. She made Bartholomew promise not to mention that the rope was cut. She’d told Stan that the goat broke away, and he’d accepted that with a
Similar Books
