of every month. The society owns a building on the green in town, but they meet in the basement of the church next door, because the heating’s better. They’re a good group. You’ll like them.” He checked his watch. “Oops, gotta go! I’ll send you the bill, no hurry. Let me know if you have any more problems. Oh, and watch out for the open trench, if you decide to go out tonight. And you’re probably going to need some more gravel for the driveway, unless you’re thinking about paving it. I know a guy …”
Meg laughed. Seth seemed determined to solve all her problems. “Let me know later, okay? You’ve got places to be.”
Stephen grinned at her as he followed Seth out the door. “Have fun with the old fogies tonight. You would have had a better time with me.”
And then they were gone. With a start, Meg realized that she could shower now, and went upstairs to take advantage of that immediately. While she soaped and rinsed—and made a mental note to replace the trickling shower head—she debated whether she really wanted to go out that night, much less to a meeting. But she’d spent far too much time indoors of late, and it could be a good business move. After all, the more she could find out about the house, the better. For a brief moment she wondered what it would be like to have the kinds of roots in a community that Seth had—three hundred years, hadn’t he said? But she had no intention of staying in Granford long enough to put down any kind of roots. She’d go to the meeting for information only.
5
Meg bundled up well before she headed out for the meeting: down coat, scarf, hat, heavy gloves. The wind was cutting. She had lived in Boston for years and hadn’t minded the cold there. Maybe the stone and concrete of the city held the heat; maybe the buildings blocked the worst of the wind. Here in Granford, icy blasts swept across open fields and seeped through her coat. She hurried to her car, which was freezing but out of the wind, then started it and sat shivering while the heater came slowly to life.
Seth had told her that the Granford Historical Society met at the church on the green, in the center of town. There were a few cars in the lot when Meg pulled in, and she hurried to the door to get out of the wind. Inside it was marginally warmer, and she wandered through the poorly lit corridors looking for the meeting room. Luckily it was the only one with lights on. Meg poked her head in tentatively, to be greeted by a woman of about forty or so who was wrestling with an elderly slide projector. She looked up quickly when Meg entered, and her gaze was frankly curious.
“Hi! I’m Gail Selden. You looking for the historical society meeting? I haven’t seen you here before.”
Relieved that she had found the right place, Meg entered the room. “No, I’m new in town. I just moved to the house at 81 County Line Road.”
“Ah, the Warren place. Welcome! You wouldn’t know anything about projectors, would you? I go through this every time we use this old monster.”
Meg shook her head. “Sorry, no. Now if it was PowerPoint, maybe.”
Gail laughed. “Heaven forbid we should use anything that modern! This thing is approaching antique, and I’m not sure we can still get bulbs for it, but I just keep my fingers crossed that it’ll keep going, because we can’t afford a new one. Take a seat. I think a few more people said they planned to come—it’s not every month we have a guest speaker.”
Meg looked around at the twenty or so folding chairs that had been set up in rows, less than half occupied. “What’s the talk about?”
Gail had apparently succeeded in bringing the projector to life, and was fiddling with the switch that advanced the anticipated slide carousel. “There, got it. There’s a professor from UMass who’s going to be talking about nineteenth-century agriculture in this area. I brought along some old tools from our collection so we can get a sense of how things
Meg laughed. Seth seemed determined to solve all her problems. “Let me know later, okay? You’ve got places to be.”
Stephen grinned at her as he followed Seth out the door. “Have fun with the old fogies tonight. You would have had a better time with me.”
And then they were gone. With a start, Meg realized that she could shower now, and went upstairs to take advantage of that immediately. While she soaped and rinsed—and made a mental note to replace the trickling shower head—she debated whether she really wanted to go out that night, much less to a meeting. But she’d spent far too much time indoors of late, and it could be a good business move. After all, the more she could find out about the house, the better. For a brief moment she wondered what it would be like to have the kinds of roots in a community that Seth had—three hundred years, hadn’t he said? But she had no intention of staying in Granford long enough to put down any kind of roots. She’d go to the meeting for information only.
5
Meg bundled up well before she headed out for the meeting: down coat, scarf, hat, heavy gloves. The wind was cutting. She had lived in Boston for years and hadn’t minded the cold there. Maybe the stone and concrete of the city held the heat; maybe the buildings blocked the worst of the wind. Here in Granford, icy blasts swept across open fields and seeped through her coat. She hurried to her car, which was freezing but out of the wind, then started it and sat shivering while the heater came slowly to life.
Seth had told her that the Granford Historical Society met at the church on the green, in the center of town. There were a few cars in the lot when Meg pulled in, and she hurried to the door to get out of the wind. Inside it was marginally warmer, and she wandered through the poorly lit corridors looking for the meeting room. Luckily it was the only one with lights on. Meg poked her head in tentatively, to be greeted by a woman of about forty or so who was wrestling with an elderly slide projector. She looked up quickly when Meg entered, and her gaze was frankly curious.
“Hi! I’m Gail Selden. You looking for the historical society meeting? I haven’t seen you here before.”
Relieved that she had found the right place, Meg entered the room. “No, I’m new in town. I just moved to the house at 81 County Line Road.”
“Ah, the Warren place. Welcome! You wouldn’t know anything about projectors, would you? I go through this every time we use this old monster.”
Meg shook her head. “Sorry, no. Now if it was PowerPoint, maybe.”
Gail laughed. “Heaven forbid we should use anything that modern! This thing is approaching antique, and I’m not sure we can still get bulbs for it, but I just keep my fingers crossed that it’ll keep going, because we can’t afford a new one. Take a seat. I think a few more people said they planned to come—it’s not every month we have a guest speaker.”
Meg looked around at the twenty or so folding chairs that had been set up in rows, less than half occupied. “What’s the talk about?”
Gail had apparently succeeded in bringing the projector to life, and was fiddling with the switch that advanced the anticipated slide carousel. “There, got it. There’s a professor from UMass who’s going to be talking about nineteenth-century agriculture in this area. I brought along some old tools from our collection so we can get a sense of how things
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