picked up a large wicker picnic basket. I took it from her. We said good-by to the Reeces. They said to have a good time and we went out into the warm bright sunlight.
“What’s in the basket?” I asked. “Laundry?”
“Picnic, silly.” Manette laughed. “It’s such a nice day for one.”
“Good stuff,” I said. “I haven’t been on a picnic since I was a kid. But you shouldn’t have gone to all the trouble. I could have had food made up.”
“This party’s on me. I wanted to show I wasn’t a gold digger.” She stopped beside the car. “What did you think of the Reeces?”
“I liked Mrs. Reece,” I said. “I don’t know if I like your boss.”
“They’re an old Danford family,” Manette said, stepping into the car. “Mrs. Reece is a sick woman.” Then she looked at me closely. “Why didn’t you like Mr. Reece?”
“I don’t know. Something about his eyes. They weren’t normal. Why did you ask? Am I rattling family skeletons?”
Her face flushed suddenly. “They’re an old Danford family,” she said again. “You should have respect for them.”
“Sure,” I said. “Sure, I will.”
“When Mrs. Reece found out I was alone in Danford, she was kind enough to give me a room here.”
“Then that’s another reason I like her,” I said.
We drove out onto the turnpike. She asked me to take Route 105. It was a narrow, secondary road, black macadam, patched and humpbacked. We passed scattered farms, with rocky, hilly fields and gnarled, brown-leafed apple trees. We left the farms behind us and on either side of the road were scrub pines and thick rusty underbrush.
“Where are we going?” I asked her.
“Deer Pond,” she said. “Do you know where it is?”
“Yes.” I smiled. “But how do you know of it, stranger?”
“A man who works in my office has a cottage on Deer Pond. His name is Cole Boothbay. The office had a picnic there a few weeks ago. It’s a lovely spot.”
I drove on. There was a narrow, rutted dirt lane. I turned onto it, the car bumping over the potholes, a haze of dust rising behind us. We continued up the road for a mile. There was the crest of a hill and another dirt road to the left, and then we came to a clearing carpeted with brown pine needles. Beyond the trees was the glimmering blue water of Deer Pond. Along the far shore the ridges were flaming with autumn color.
“The yellow cottage,” she said. “I borrowed a key in case we want to use the stove.”
I drove the car across the clearing, pulled up and parked. The cottage had yellow shingles and green window shades. The shades were drawn. I took the picnic basket and followed her up the three short steps which led to the screened porch. The porch had a gray linoleum, a glider, two plastic-covered chaise longues, a table and four tubular chrome chairs.
She unlocked the front door and pushed it back. Inside it was dark, dank and musty. She opened windows and the pine-scented breeze wafted in. The walls of the living room were pine-paneled, the partitions going as high as the eaves. There was a smoky stone fireplace, battered maple furniture, an old tapestry-covered couch with lumpy cretonne pillows.
“We won’t stay in here,” she said quickly. “We can bring the lounge chairs down to the edge of the lake.”
The water lapped gently along the soft sandy shore. I pushed the empty picnic basket aside and settled into the low-slung chair. She looked at the empty basket.
“Don’t they feed you at the barracks?” she asked.
“The food was very good. And I was hungry.” I leaned back in the chair, looked up through the pines and saw the deep blue sky and the white cotton balls of clouds. “This is the life,” I said. “This is really living.”
She laughed and dropped down in the pine needles beside my chair, her black slacks taut over her rounded hips. Her hands reached out and drew my head toward hers. She kissed me. Her lips were soft and fragrant and clinging. She let go. I reached for her again. But there was a trill of laughter from her. She wriggled away and sat down cross-legged on the ground.
“Tell me about yourself,” she said.
I grinned at her. “You’re smart. Any time you want to stop a man, let him talk about himself. He’ll forget everything.”
So I told her. I told her I was born and brought up in Cambridge, Massachusetts, not far from Harvard. That I graduated from Cambridge High and Latin and spent a year at Boston University, majoring in chemistry. And how I went into the Army and spent a year in Korea with the Second Division. And how I came home, took the examinations for the State Police, and went to the Training School at Framingham for three months. And, finally, how I was assigned to Troop E.
“And you’re going to make it your career?” she asked.
“I once wanted to be a chemist,” I said. “Sometimes you never do the things you start out to do.”
“Why not?” she asked. “What stopped you?”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “I’ll tell you some time.” I turned on my side and faced her. I noticed for the first time the small white scar behind her ear. “Where did you get the scar?”
“When I was a child,” she said. “Mastoid. That’s why I wear my hair so long.”
“It hardly shows,” I said. “I’ll bet you were the prettiest child in Cleveland.”
She looked at me blankly. “Cleveland?”
“Isn’t that where you’re from?”
“Well–around there,” she said, looking away.
“Where are your folks?”
“They’re dead. They died when I was very young.”
“What made you decide to come to Danford?”
She threw a small stone into the lake, making circular, ever-widening ripples on the still water. “Staley Woolen was advertising for clerical help. I’d never been to New England before.”
“Do you like Massachusetts?”
“Oh, yes. This part of the state is so rocky and hilly. And the towns with their village greens and white churches are so quaint and historical. There seems to be a certain everlasting strength.”
“But you have no friends here. None at all?”
“It takes me a long time to choose friends.” Then she smiled at me. “You’re the exception to the rule, Ralph.”
I reached out and tried to draw her in to me. Her back arched. “Wait, darling,” she said. “I have to know something first.” Then the words rushed out, tumbling
