One Bad Apple (5 page)

“Such enthusiasm.” He chuckled. He looked at his elegant watch. “I have a meeting with a local contractor, but I could swing back and pick you up at, say, seven?”

“Fine. By the way, how did you come to be interested in Granford?”

“Something you said once—about how you’d been through here as a child and had always remembered it as the perfect sleepy New England town. Puritan Bank was looking for a likely place to invest, so I took a run out this way, scouting for locations, so to speak. And here we are.”

Meg had no memory of such a conversation, but it could have happened. She remembered more than once spinning out tales to entertain Chandler, and perhaps she had colored her recollections a bit too brightly, to keep his attention.
Sorry, Granford.
Although she had to agree: this was a prototypical small town, with its steepled white church overlooking the small-town green surrounded by tidy eighteenth- and nineteenth-century houses. Unfortunately it also suffered from many of the ills of small towns that time had passed by, including deteriorating infrastructure and an inadequate tax base. Obviously it was ripe for exploitation by someone like Chandler Hale and his merry band of developers. Still, that wasn’t any of her concern, except as it affected the value of her property—and if the deal went through, it could be a good thing for her. As long as she didn’t need to see much more of Chandler Hale.

“I’ll need to be going now,” he said, neatly buttoning his coat. “I can give you more details on the project over dinner. Oh, and may I borrow this?” He held up the book.

Meg peered at the book’s spine. “Oh, that history of Granford.” She had pulled it off a bookshelf in the house, thinking to read it, but had mislaid it under the drop cloths. “No problem— it came with the house. It’s probably been here since it was written. I think there’s an inscription from the author to the last owners. So, I’ll see you at seven.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Chandler replied, and Meg wondered if he was being sarcastic again. “I’m glad I stumbled on you here.” He tucked the book under his arm and headed for the door, Meg trailing in his wake. She watched as he made his way back to his car, where Cinda waited, the cell phone still at her ear, then shut the door firmly. No sense in wasting any more of the air she was paying too much to heat. Then she leaned against the door and shut her eyes. Damn: Chandler Hale. She thought she had left him behind in Boston, yet here he was. And six months was not long enough to purge him from her system.

She heard Chandler’s Mercedes exit the driveway with undue speed, sending up a spray of gravel.
Thank you, Chandler, for digging another hole in my poor driveway.

Damn him. Meg looked quickly at the kitchen clock. She had two hours to clean up, and if she wanted to wash off the grime, it would have to be out of a bucket. A shower was out of the question and her hair was a mess. She should have said no to dinner, but Chandler had caught her off guard. Still, what did it matter how she looked this evening? She didn’t need to impress Chandler Hale.

But she had standards—and she didn’t want to face Chandler’s critical eye. People had managed in this house for at least a century without plumbing, and she’d just have to improvise. After all, she came from hardy New England stock, didn’t she? She took a deep breath before venturing into the kitchen to look for a big pot in which to boil water.

Upstairs, doing what she could with a sinkful of hot water, she considered Chandler’s ad hoc invitation. Six months earlier, after nearly a year of dinners and concerts, just when she had begun to wonder if it was time to take their relationship to the next level, he had suddenly announced that he thought they should stop seeing each other, leaving her hurt and bewildered. Well, she had to admit that maybe her pride was more hurt than her heart, but the rejection still stung, all the more because she hadn’t seen it coming.

And in the Boston banking community, it had been hard to avoid running into him, or someone who knew him. If she was honest with herself, that was one of the reasons why she had been so happy to take her bank’s severance package, why she had jumped so quickly into a venture that took her halfway across the state, away from Boston. Away from Chandler’s measuring eyes, which always made her wonder just how she had failed.

And now he had insinuated himself into her new life in Granford. Why?

She was dressed too early, and sat at the dining room table leafing through a tattered magazine, waiting for Chandler. When he knocked, Meg wrenched open the door to find him standing on the step, impeccably dressed as always. She was suddenly conscious that she hadn’t had a decent haircut in months, and her short brown hair probably looked like a haystack.

“Are you ready? I thought we could go to the Lord Jeffery in Amherst.”

Didn’t she look ready? She bit back a sarcastic response—no point in starting off on the wrong foot. “I am. I’ll just get my coat.”

As she collected her coat and gloves, she reflected on why Chandler always managed to get under her skin. She was a competent woman, and she didn’t need to flinch at Chandler’s scrutiny. Besides, he was the one who had asked her to dinner; therefore, there must be something he wanted from her. At least she’d get a nice meal out of him before he laid out just what his real motive was.

He didn’t ask for directions to Amherst, which prompted Meg to say, “You know your way around here. Have you spent much time in this area?”

“Recently, yes, getting this project started. But I must say, it’s lovely, peaceful—a welcome change from Boston.”

“I thought you loved Boston. And you couldn’t see the point of the country—you know, all those trees and cute little towns with fake antique stores and ersatz colonial pubs?”

“Perhaps I’ve reconsidered. But what about you? Are you enjoying your bucolic interlude?”

Meg laughed. Even if she had hated it, she wouldn’t admit it to Chandler. “Yes, I am. As you say, it’s a pleasant change.”

“Do you like Granford?” Chandler’s smooth baritone could easily be heard over the velvet purr of his Mercedes’ engine.

“I do. Although I’m just beginning to meet people.” A real estate agent and a professor, so far. Not exactly a huge social circle.

“Is it a close-knit community, based on what you’ve seen? How do they respond to newcomers like you?”

Meg reflected for a moment before speaking. “I’m not really sure. From what little I’ve read or heard since I’ve been here, there’s been a good deal of turnover in recent years, new families moving in, so outsiders aren’t as rare as they once were. But I’m sure you know that—you were always good at doing your homework for a project.”

“Ah, is that a compliment? But of course you’re right—I and my staff did a good deal of research on this town and its demographic profile.” Chandler shot a quick glance at her. But he lapsed into silence until they arrived at Amherst, a town that Meg was growing increasingly fond of. It was collegiate—not that it had much choice, with Amherst College smack in the middle, and the much larger UMass Amherst only a mile or two beyond. The Lord Jeffery Inn faced the town green, rambling over the better part of a block. Meg had heard that the restaurant there emphasized its homely colonial roots, but the extensive menu impressed her. She indulged herself in what the menu called
caneton aux pommes et poivre vert
—duck with apples and green peppercorns. Maybe she had apples on the brain, she mused, but it sounded tempting.

She decided she deserved a little pampering, and sat back and let Chandler take charge of the evening. He did it so well, with or without an ulterior motive. Their conversation flowed smoothly, as did the excellent wine. Toward the end of the meal she realized he was watching her. “What?”

“You’re blooming. This country living seems to be good for you.”

Chandler’s words always seemed to hold more than one meaning. Was he mocking her? She decided to take his statement at face value. “I’m enjoying myself.” She twirled her wine-glass, catching the candlelight, and said, without looking at him, “Chandler, why are we here?”

He sat back in his chair. “I can’t pass an evening with an old friend?”

She ignored his choice of the word “friend” and cocked a skeptical eyebrow at him. “You were happy not seeing me in Boston. Why here, why now?”

“Ah, Meg, you underestimate yourself. But you’re right—this is more than touching base. But before we get into that, tell me: don’t you miss playing a part in bigger things? You were doing well at the bank. I know they let you go, but you could have found something else at your level.”

“Chandler, I don’t miss it. I like what I’m doing at the moment. It’s not permanent—once I’ve sold the house, I’ll move on, find a new job. But maybe it was a good thing that I got pushed out of my rut.” She was mildly surprised at her own response. Did she really believe that? However, that wasn’t the most important issue at the moment. “Why are you asking? Were you planning to offer me a job?”

Chandler took his time responding. “The thought had crossed my mind. I could use someone in place here for this project, long term, and someone of your intelligence and experience would be ideal. But short term I need to know where the support for the project lies, as well as who is opposing it. No matter how strong or convincing the proposal looks on paper, there is still a human element to be considered. I’d rather have the local people supporting this project than fighting me every step of the way. Of course, you know this will come to a public vote.”

“Really,” she said noncommittally. But his question interested her. Chandler was asking for her help. Did the project need help? Meg resolved to find out what she could—for her own sake, since her property was involved. “You want me to be your local informant? And what would I derive from this?”

“I could see to it that you receive an advantageous price for your property.”

She stared at him, and as she did, anger percolated to the surface. Chandler was asking her to spy on her neighbors, the peopleof Granford, for a price. Worse, for all she knew he was offering her a bribe, although he had chosen his words carefully. She could see his viewpoint: she had no ties to the community, and she had already told him of her intention to leave when she sold the house. Why should she care about the people here? And yet … she did. The local citizens weren’t numbers on a page, they were people who had owned and farmed these fields for generations. To Chandler, they were percentage points in a demographic analysis, but as far as she was concerned, they deserved to have a voice in the decision-making process, and she wasn’t about to tip the balance in Chandler’s favor by giving him information so that he could run around sweet-talking the naysayers.

“Chandler, I’m not interested. Even if I did have stronger local connections, it doesn’t feel right to me. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding someone else to be your mole.” She stood up abruptly, surprising both of them. “And I’d like to go home now. It’s been a long day.”

He stared at her for a long, silent moment, and Meg wondered if she saw anger lurking in his eyes. Chandler was used to getting what he wanted, particularly from her. She found she didn’t care.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said at last, in a neutral voice. “I’ll settle the bill.”

As she stalked off to the ladies’ room, she saw Chandler make a peremptory gesture. The bill appeared, a credit card flashed. By the time she returned, the beaming waitress had returned it to Chandler in record time. He helped Meg into her coat and held her elbow lightly to guide her out of the restaurant. Always the gentleman, was Chandler Hale, even when thwarted. Outside the air was icy, but Meg inhaled deeply. It felt good: clean, fresh.

They spoke little as Chandler drove back to Granford. The roads were mostly empty, but he concentrated on his driving. When he pulled into her driveway, Meg got out of the car before he could help her, and went before him to open the front door. He followed her, and on the doorstep she turned to him.

“Thank you for a lovely dinner, Chandler. I enjoyed it, and I appreciate your asking me. But I don’t think we have anything more to talk about. Good luck with your project. Good night.”

And without waiting for his response, she went inside and shut the door, then turned and headed back to the kitchen. She dumped her coat on the back of a chair, then, holding her breath, helped herself to a glass of juice and fled back to the dining room table, trying to sort out what had just happened. She felt a small bubble of glee well up inside her: she had stood up to Chandler. She had said no to him. Let him find someone else to spy on this town. And there was more: she felt proud of her decision. Maybe she was finally done with Chandler.

She was wrong.

It was still a few minutes shy of eight o’clock the next morning when Meg heard a vehicle pull into her driveway. Peering out through the dining room window— after a brief plunge into the stinking kitchen to make some essential coffee, she had retreated quickly—she saw a large white van with “Chapin Brothers” emblazoned on the side. Meg waited until the plumber climbed out, then went to her front door and held it open for him, studying him as he approached. Early thirties, a little taller than she was, with sandy hair and a lot of freckles. “Hi. You’re the plumber?”