Houses of Stone by KATHY (booksvooks .TXT) 📕

got to get back; my so-called assistant is manning the desk. She's a volunteer, about a hundred years old, and the kids drive her crazy. The manager here is pretty reliable; if you don't want to stick around she'll put your load in the dryer and have it ready when you get back."

"Thanks for the suggestion. I'll do that."

They parted at the door. Tanya stripped off her shirt as she crossed the parking lot; under it she wore a tailored white blouse and knotted tie. Back into uniform, Karen thought, studying the other woman's slim hips and long legs. The jeans fit like wallpaper. If I had a body like that I'd probably wear them too, she acknowledged to herself—despite all my feminist principles. And I'd cover it up in public, as Tanya had done, with a long shirt. The jeans wouldn't show if she stayed behind the desk.

She visited the liquor store and the grocery store and then went back to pick up her laundry. The interior of her car felt like a steam bath, though it was only a little past noon. She rolled down the windows, wrinkling her nose as she caught a whiff of that sickening swamp odor. It must be her imagination. Only a few drops of the foul mud had splashed her clothes, and they now reeked of some commercial scented softener.

She had to pass the library on her way home; seeing a bright-pink placard on the front door, she pulled into the curb and stared. Mrs. Fowler had outdone herself. Not only was the poster pink, it featured a sketch of a lady in full skirts simpering from under a frilly parasol.

It did not improve her mood to find someone waiting for her when she arrived home. He was perched on the steps leading up to the apartment, legs stretched out, head thrown back as if enjoying the sunshine. Karen brought the car to a stop and began counting under her breath. She got to forty-seven before she felt calm enough to face him without yelling.

Meyer rose and came toward her. "Can I give you a hand with those bags?"

There was a running joke in the profession about Bill Meyer's three-piece suits and expensive Italian ties—and how he could afford them on a professor's salary. He was more casually dressed this morning; the striped shirt had to be from Brooks Brothers or some establishment of similar prestige, but it was open at the throat and the sleeves had been rolled up to display tanned forearms. A modest amount of dark hair showed at the open neck of the shirt. He flashed white teeth in a broad smile.

"No, thanks," she said. "I can manage."

"Sure you can." Before she could stop him he took the grocery bags from her. "But why should you? I'm perfectly harmless, you know. I just want to have a friendly chat."

Lips compressed, Karen started up the stairs. He was a master at maneuvering people into untenable positions. Short of wrestling the groceries away from him—which would be not only undignified but probably fatal to the vegetables—she couldn't prevent him from following her at least as far as the door. When she put down the bundle of laundry in order to search for her key, Meyer scooped it up, one finger under the string.

"Give me a break, Karen," he said quietly. "I know we've been on bad terms. It's my fault. I don't have much talent for social relationships, and for some strange reason I put my foot in my mouth every time I talk to you. I have a great deal of respect for you, you know. I think we could be friends, if I can stop acting like an arrogant jackass. Let me try."

"Humility is a new approach for you," Karen said. "I suppose it works with some people."

"What have you got to lose?"

Karen glanced over her shoulder. The briefcase was in the trunk of the car. There was nothing in plain sight that had any bearing on her present work, except the cardboard carton of papers—and he had already seen those.

"Come in," she said, stepping back.

He went straight through to the kitchen, without looking at her worktable or the box of papers, and deposited the grocery bags on the table. "Go ahead and put the groceries away if you like. We can talk while you—" He clapped a hand over his mouth and then removed it to display a sheepish smile. "There I go again. That's the trouble with teaching, you get in the habit of ordering people around. Can I sit down?"

"I suppose so," Karen said ungraciously.

He watched without offering to help, while she unloaded the groceries. "I don't suppose you'd consider having lunch with me," he said gloomily.

"No, thanks." Karen pulled out a chair and sat down. "This is all very pleasant and polite, Bill, but I haven't seen any signs of you changing your spots. I suppose you thought it was a huge joke to set me up for a lecture on lady writers."

The corners of his mouth quivered. "Oh, come on, Karen, lighten up. You'd have thought it was funny if it had happened to me. It was the old lady's idea, honestly. You don't have a dialogue with that one; she makes statements and interprets whatever you say as agreement."

Karen had to admit there was a grain of truth in that. Meyer went on, "I was trying to get in her good graces, sure. I assumed you were doing the same. Addressing her ghastly little group gives you an in. That's where you're going to get your evidence, Karen—from old fogies like Mrs. Fowler. She and her contemporaries live in the past, wallowing in memories of dead heroes and old glories."

Joan had said something along the same lines, Karen thought. Oral tradition, family legends.

"It's one source," she admitted. "But it's highly speculative. I've got better evidence, Bill."

"The manuscript is the essential item, I agree. As for the genealogy, you know as well as