She led us down a modern oak-trimmed hall that was
covered with elegant but practical Berber carpet. Good watercolors
of local flora had been hung to advantage. An arch led to carpeted
steps and a sunken living room with a cathedral ceiling. The room
was big enough to hold a small convention, so the workshop would
be no problem. It was furnished in good modern pieces, in native
woods and earth-tone fabrics, with a huge stone fireplace
dominating one wall. Bianca plunked us down by the fire and went to
a portable bar. I was still taking in the room. The far wall consisted of
a rank of what looked like custom-built French doors. Clearly they
were intended to give a view of something. At that moment the view
was of driven sleet.
She served us our wine and perched on a persimmon
hassock that faced the couch we sat on, beaming at us. "The others
will be showing up soon. Del and Angie are just getting off work, and
Michael's with his dad. Keith's in the shower, and Marianne's in the
kitchen, of course."
The only name that rang a bell was Keith. Jay looked blank
but polite. I sipped the wine, a chardonnay. Sleet rattled the wall of
glass. It was hot buttered rum weather. I shivered, though the room,
despite its acreage, was warm. "Do they all live here?"
"Yes. So did Hugo, before he took your apartment." That
seemed to rankle, for her face darkened. She gave herself a small
shake and gestured with her left hand. "That wing is the kids' rooms
when they're here plus guest rooms downstairs. The Wallaces live
upstairs--Del, Marianne, and their son, Michael. Del oversees the
livestock and pasturage. Marianne is my cook-slash-housekeeper."
She waved the other way. "That door leads to the kitchen and two
small apartments. Angie, my greenhouse manager, lives in one, and
Hugo used to live in the other. The master suite and Keith's library
are upstairs. Would you like to see where I'm putting the
workshop?"
"Good idea," I said. I thought that was the reason for the
invitation. Something was strange.
"Do finish your wine first. Those little crackers are
home-made. Marianne's a great cook."
We nibbled and sipped while Bianca rattled on about the
workshop. The walls were hung with oils on a scale to suit the room,
tasteful and interesting but slightly intimidating. A sound system
played something soft and baroque. The lighting was skillful--it
broke the huge space into conversation areas. All in all a qualified
triumph of modern architecture. Given Bianca's personality I hadn't
expected
Country Living
kitsch. The room felt more hotel than
farmhouse, though.
When we finished our wine, Bianca rose and led us through
an arch on the far side of the fireplace. There the floors were a
ceramic tile in warm shades and the scale more human.
"We have six bedrooms off here," she said. "When the kids
are home that leaves only three for guests, but the offspring won't be
here when the workshop's on." She opened the first door on a large
bedroom with twin beds and a wall with a built-in dressing-table and
closet. The room had Mediterranean colors and bits of what looked
like Etruscan artifacts scattered around. A handsome painting of an
Italian hill town, impressionistic rather than representational, hung
on the wall opposite the dressing table. A chair and reading lamp sat
beneath it.
"Fee's in Italy with her grandmother." Bianca turned to Jay.
"Our daughter, Fiona. She's trying to make up her mind whether to
be an archeologist or an art historian. She graduated from Mills last
year." Bianca sounded indulgent but scornful as if her daughter
should have a clear goal in mind at twenty-two.
Bianca opened a door. "The baths are shared, or can be,
between rooms. The boys' rooms across the hall share a bath. This
one is Fee's but that"--she indicated a door--"can be unlocked. Papa
suggested the arrangement. I don't like the modern fad for
bathrooms every ten feet."
The bathroom was a bathroom. Well-engineered and
tasteful but otherwise unremarkable, rather like what you'd expect
in a good hotel.
Bianca opened the locked door and showed us the bedroom
on the far side. It was pleasant, but more impersonal than her
daughter's room. We followed Bianca down the hall. At the end she
opened a door on a large room, rather chilly, that was furnished with
a conference table and the usual amenities. It had a carpet for
acoustic baffling and a service area for beverages. I could see it as a
classroom. In fact, though the fixtures and furnishings were new, it
had a used look. A spiral stair in one corner led up to the second
story.
"I like this." She gave us a conspiratorial grin as she led us
up. At the top, she said, "Oh, sorry, Mike. I thought you were out with
your dad."
"He sent me in." The voice was sullen.
I poked my head up into what looked at first glance like an
office. The speaker, a kid of eighteen or so, stared at me. He had
sandy hair and glasses and wore a Shoalwater Community College
sweatshirt over jeans.
I said, "Hi."
The kid mumbled a greeting, but when he spotted Jay his
face brightened. "Professor Dodge!"
Jay hauled himself up the last steps. "Hi, Mike. I haven't seen
you around this quarter."
The kid gave a shamefaced grin. "I'm hitting the books for a
change."
"About time," Jay said mildly. "This is my wife. Lark, Mike
Wallace. He took the evidence class fall quarter."
Mike extended his hand and we shook. "I flunked it, too." He
seemed to hold no grudge.
"Everybody's entitled to one goof-up," Jay murmured. "At
least you figured out what was wrong."
Bianca was smiling in an unfocussed way as if she wanted to
get on with the tour.
I strolled to the window in the gable end. As in the
conference room below, it had a state-of-the-art French door with an
arc of glass above it. "Must be a great view." I could see nothing but
wind-driven sleet and a small wet deck.
"Looks out at Bald Mountain. Not a mountain really, a big
hill. We called it Bald Mountain, because it was being clear-cut when
we moved in twelve years ago. It looks less scabrous now, but the
scenery's better from the living room--the Coho River estuary."
I murmured approval.
"What do you think of our information center?"
I looked around. Four color monitors, computers with
modems, and a big laser printer dominated a well-arranged space. I
spotted a fax machine, another smaller printer, and assorted gadgets.
"Wow."
That was apparently the right response. One of the monitors
showed a computer game, the kind where something zaps
something, and the rest were blank. Mike doing homework? He and
Jay were standing by that computer talking school.
Bianca said, "Our interns use both rooms. The workshop
participants can write here or at least edit and print."
"And go back and forth to the classroom. I see." I was
wondering if Hugo had accessed his electronic forum from this
room.
She opened a cabinet. "I got laptops, too, in case they want
to work in their rooms." Four sleek new laptops occupied slim
shelves in the cabinet.
"I imagine some of the participants will bring their
own."
"If they don't, they can take turns." She pulled a drawer. It
was full of yellow legal tablets and #2 pencils. "Or do it the
old-fashioned way."
"What about reference books?"
She activated the nearest computer and loaded a Windows
program. "Each of these has the usual dictionary and thesaurus a
plus Internet access." The screen showed many other options. She
clicked the mouse and the monitor went blank. "That wall of shelves
next to the wet-bar in the conference room--"
"The one with the louvered doors?"
"Yes. That's the periodical collection." She gestured toward
one corner of the "office" where similar doors formed a reading nook
with chairs and lamps near the French doors. "That's our
library."
"May I see it?"
"Sure." She opened the fan-fold doors and disclosed
floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. They were almost full. As far as I could see, all
the titles dealt with ecology or agriculture.
I said, "That's impressive."
"It's Hugo's collection as well as mine." A cloud darkened the
intense eyes. "Hugo wouldn't come to dinner. He's phobic about
strangers, you know."
"I guessed."
"And he doesn't like large groups either."
"Is that why he moved to the apartment?"
She nodded. "I guess so. Too many people here. I was trying
to recreate the commune."
"Commune? Oh, the one you joined in the Seventies."
"Keith and I joined the year we got out of high school. That's
where we met each other--and where we met Hugo."
"Oh." I had never known anyone else who had actually lived
in a commune.
Bianca was still brooding about Hugo. "I thought he'd like
the new house, but it just made him edgy." She sighed.
I pointed to the door opposite the French doors. "Where
does that lead?"
"The Wallaces' apartment."
"Handy for Mike."
"I had him and my kids in mind, as well as the education
center, when I planned it."
I said, "I guess you won't suffer from empty nest syndrome
when your kids leave home for good."
She laughed. "Papa says it's a hotel. Feels like home to me."
The smile faded. "But I wish Hugo hadn't moved out."
Michael Wallace was showing Jay something on the
monitor--not the game. They laughed.
Bianca checked her watch. "Oops, time to go." She made for
the stair. "Dinner at seven, Mike."
"Yeah. Mom says I have to help serve it."
Bianca was out of sight. I followed, with Jay just behind me,
down the spiral stair. As we left the conference room downstairs,
Bianca showed us a discreet restroom on one side of the hall and a
kitchenette on the other. She'd thought of everything.
We zipped back down the hall. The ceramic tiles echoed a
little. When we reached the living room, two men and a woman were
waiting for us, munching crackers and sipping the chardonnay.
All three looked up as we rounded the corner near the
fireplace. A handsome bearded man in a periwinkle pullover and
jeans sat on the raised edge of the hearth strumming a guitar. I
recognized Keith McDonald. The guitar helped. He stood up, laying
his instrument on the flagstone surface. His eyes were the same blue
as the sweater.
Bianca said, "Lark, I believe you've met my husband."
"Once, at the Dean's house." I extended my hand, and
McDonald shook it, letting his grasp linger. His eyes were
remarkably blue.
"Hello, again, Lark. 'Bird thou never wert.'"
I extracted my hand. "I believe you're thinking of
nightingales, Professor McDonald."
"Keith, please." His smile widened and the eyes sparkled.
"Nope--it's Shelley's ode. Welcome to Meadowlark Farm, Skylark."
He turned to Jay. "Dodge."
"McDonald," Jay said. He didn't offer to shake hands but his
tone was mild, all things considered.
Bianca said, "And these are my managers. They've been out
in the sleet saving my bacon."
"Bacon?" The woman grimaced and extended her hand to
me. "Please, Bianca, I'm a vegetarian."
"Angie Martini," Bianca murmured, smiling.
Martini shook hands with Jay, too, and went back to her
wine, an angular, attractive woman, almost as tall as I am. She looked
sleek, as if she'd just stepped out of a shower into the flame-colored
silk jumpsuit. Her blond hair was cut close to the skull and she wore
dangly silver earrings with a petroglyph motif.
"And Del Wallace," Bianca said.
Wallace was a beefy, balding edition of his son. "Pleased to
meet you," he said with no apparent interest and shook our hands.
He was drinking something in a squat highball glass. He went back to
his armchair and took a hefty swig.
"More wine?" Bianca flitted to the drinks cart.
Jay passed, but I said yes. It was good chardonnay.
McDonald had picked up the guitar again. He played a little
riff. We made safe comments on the weather, and I said I was
impressed by the study center facilities. Jay said something nice to
Wallace about young Mike.
Wallace gave him a brief glance over the whiskey. "You're
the one got him to change his major."
"Yes," Jay said, still pleasant. "Flunked him, too. We talked.
He doesn't want to be a cop."
Wallace snorted.
Keith McDonald strummed a chord. "I thought you were
recruiting police officers."
"Only willing ones." Jay tempered his tone. "Mike needs to
explore the alternatives."
I hoped the two men were not going to duke it out over Mike
Wallace. "Is Hugo Groth a manager, too? This must be a big
operation." If Bianca could call my bookstore an operation, I didn't
see why I should hesitate to call her farm one.
"It's getting bigger," Angie Martini said. "Hugo's too much of
a purist, though."
"He's a prick," Del Wallace muttered.
Bianca sighed. "He may be a purist, and he may even be a
prick, but he's an outstanding market gardener. To answer you, Lark,
yes, Hugo manages the raised-bed, intensive cultivation we've been
experimenting with since we first came here. More importantly, he
raises our field vegetables. They're very profitable."
"He's a fanatic, Bianca." Angie looked flushed or perhaps it
was just the reflection of all that flame-colored silk.
Keith did a few bars of "Amazing Grace" and struck a sour
note. "The interns hate his guts."
Wallace growled, "He gave Jason Thirkell a D, by God. My
best worker. Kid understands sheep."
Although McDonald said nothing his eyes shone. Clearly he
enjoyed discord, though Bianca was right--he stuck to three basic
chords and a seventh.
By then Bianca was flushed. "Jason wouldn't follow Hugo's
procedures, Del. A D was generous."