looked around, at the picture, the leaded windows, the fireplace, the dark furniture, back at me. “Why are you called Blithe?”
“My parents are big Noel Coward fans. They named my brother Noel, and me Blithe. After the spirit.”
“Poor you,” she said, but she looked more amused than sympathetic.
“It could have been worse. They could have named me Cowardice.”This was an old joke of mine that I trotted out whenever I could, despite the tepid reception it invariably received.
She smiled a brief, lukewarm smile, and said, “So was the guy in the portrait pretty rich?”
“‘Comfortable’ is the term the family’s always used”
“Uh-huh.”
Pause.
I said, “You’re not actually interested in the house, are you?”
“Not really, no — I wanted to get away from my parents. My mother’s been driving me insane with family togetherness since we moved here. I can’t wait till school starts so I can leave the house without having to explain where in hell I’m going.”
Uh-huh back to her. I sat down on one of the saggy leather chairs, gestured for her to sit, tried to think what innocuous but sociable remark my mother would make in this situation. “How’re you liking Rose Park so far?”
“It’s too quiet for my taste. The only people I’ve met are senior citizens and bratty kids. On our street, anyway.”
“What street is that?” I hadn’t listened when my mother had told me.
“Highpoint.”
“Anywhere near number fifty-one?”
“What do you mean? We’re in number fifty-one. In the house with a name: Glenwood”
I sat up. “You’re living at Glenwood? I didn’t know it had been up for sale. What happened to the previous owners?”
“They moved to France. Did you know them?”
“No. I only knew about Jeremiah Brown.”
“Who?”
“You live there and you don’t know about Jeremiah Brown?”
A flash of annoyance. “Obviously not.”
So I told her about Jeremiah and the treasure and the man with a dog who sees light in the valley. “A book was written about the treasure years ago. It should be in this room somewhere.” I stood up and started to search the bookshelves for it.
She put up her feet — clad in rugged, foreign-looking leather sandals that emphasized the slenderness of her ankles — on a cracked leather ottoman. “Tell me,” she said, “what’s Northside High like?”
I didn’t turn around. “It’s the usual collection of cliques. The athletes and the music students rule the place.”Then there was me.
“Is there a darkroom in the school?”
“I don’t know. Why? Are you into photography?”
“Do cats kill mice?”
Interesting analogy. Too interesting to comment on in any polite way. “You could probably start up a photography club at school if you wanted,” I said. “Last year, Noel founded a rugby team there.”
“But he graduated, right? Didn’t my mother say he’s going away to some Ivy League university?”
Where was that book? “Yeah, to Harvard, for economics and political science. Followed by a master’s degree at Oxford, he’s hoping. He has big plans for a foreign service career.”
“Oh, does he.” Not a question. “Is he as untrustworthy as he looks?”
He was worse than untrustworthy. But I’d been brought up to feign family loyalty, at least to strangers. “What do you mean? Did he look untrustworthy to you?”
“Never mind.”
“Here it is. Jeremiah Brown’s Treasure. Would you like to see it?”
She moved to a chair that faced the garden, sat down, opened the book, and read the title page. Through the window, Noel smiled at her, mimed drinking from a wine glass, and beckoned her to him. She turned two more pages before she said, “Do you think I could borrow this book? To show my mother?”
My smile was as thin as her long neck. “Sure.”
“How about we go outside now, get some fresh air?”
“The indoor air suits me fine. You go ahead.”
She got up out of the chair. Her movements were graceful, even in the baggy clothes. “See you later,” she said. “Maybe you can show me the ropes at school.”
I had a feeling she’d be able to handle the ropes fine without me, but to be polite, I told her I could be found, most lunchtimes, under a tree on the school lawn.
“Under a tree,” she’d said,“gotcha.”
Gotcha.
I shook myself free of memory, peeled my legs off the park bench, walked across the street, and rang Glenwood’s doorbell. Maybe Mrs. Greer was home. I hadn’t seen her for years, but I’d followed her literary career, owned all her books, had stocked my classrooms with the popular children’s adventure novels she wrote.
She opened the door. Her hair was greyer than it appeared in her author photo, and her skin more lined. Her eyes were as warm as I remembered, though the friendly but inquiring expression on her face contained no speck of recognition. Probably because of the aged appearance of my hair and skin.
“Hi, Mrs. Greer,” I said. “It’s Blithe Morrison, Hannah’s friend from high school. I was passing by and thought I’d say hello, see if you still lived here.”
Her smile warmed up to match her eyes. “Blithe, of course! How are you? What are you up to these days? Are you living in town? Won’t you come in?”
I declined entry, lingered on her porch, gave her the short answer on my life status — the divorced and back from California to teach in September answer. “I’m glad to see you’re holding the fort here. How’s the writing going?”
“Busy. Actually, more than busy. I’m behind on a deadline and Larry and I are going on vacation soon and I’d be tearing my hair out if I weren’t worried about losing it. How about you? What will you do for the summer?”
“Not much. Take it easy, read, relax”
For no reason I could see, these remarks elicited from her a furrowed brow, a speculative eye, and the comment, “You don’t say.”
“Good to see you. Say hello to Hannah when you —”
“Wait.
