I finally sat down, called up my e-mail account, and began to type. I had decided writing would be better than calling because I could choose what to say and what to leave out.
There was no point in upsetting my mother by telling her about Grandmother’s eccentric behavior. And I didn’t want to be overheard when I asked about Aunt Avril and the dollhouse.
I was finishing the letter when I heard voices in the hall.
Matt entered the room with his friend, Alex.
“Almost done?” he asked.
“Just signing off,” I told him.
Alex dropped down in the chair next to the desk. “Hi, Megan. I was hoping you’d be here.”
I smiled. “Hi! Matt didn’t tell me you were coming over.”
Alex stretched his long legs out in front of him. “You must have figured out by now that if you want to know anything, you have to pry it out of Matt.”
My cousin, standing behind Alex’s chair, grimaced slightly.
“We study together every Sunday,” Alex added. “Want to hang out with us?”
“No,” Matt said.
Alex glanced over his shoulder and laughed. “I wasn’t asking you.”
“Even so-” Matt began.
I interrupted: “You must have figured out by now, I’m not one of Matt’s favorite people.”
“Yeah?” Alex replied, his dark blue eyes sparkling.
“Why?”
I shrugged. “Let me know if he tells you first.”
Matt stood silently with his hands on his hips.
“Don’t worry about it,” Alex said. “Sometimes he’s just strange.”
I laughed. Matt shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“Are you a lacrosse player, too?” I asked Alex, pointing to the photograph. “Are you one of those guys in a helmet?”
“I play lacrosse, but that’s not our team.” Alex turned to look at my cousin, waiting for him to explain the photo. “Did you forget how to talk, Matt?”
“That’s my team at Gilman,” Matt said, “the school I went to in Baltimore.”
When he fell silent, Alex continued, “Matt and I got to be friends at lacrosse camp, the one Chase College runs every summer. A bunch of guys on our team go to it, so when Matt finally moved here last year, he fit right in. He’s the strongest guy on our team and plays awesome defense. He set a school record for assists last season.”
“Wow,” I said, impressed.
One side of Matt’s mouth drew up.
There was no use arguing my sincerity. “Was that your dog, Matt?” I asked, pointing to the other photo.
“Yes.”
“What’s his name?”
“Homer.”
“Homer?” I repeated. “You named him after the Greek writer? The guy who wrote the Iliad?”
Alex threw back his head and laughed. “Yeah, and he had a cat named Shakespeare.”
I saw the pink creeping up Matt’s neck.
“Not exactly,” he said. “When I found him, he was hungry and hurt and looked like he needed a home. So I called him Homer.”
I felt that strange little lump in my throat again. I carefully took the photo from the shelf and studied it. In grade school I had one special cat who heard all of my secrets and sorrows. This dog had probably listened to a few as well, especially since Matt was the only child of parents who were always fighting.
“There’s a lot of chatter in here, and it doesn’t sound like schoolwork.”
The three of us looked toward the door, where Grandmother stood.
“Then you must not have been listening real hard,” Alex told her. “We were just talking about the famous Greek writer, Homer.”
“I believe that, and you’ll tell me another one,” Grandmother replied.
“I heard someone mention Shakespeare,” he added.
“Save your lines for your girlfriends, Alex.”
To my amazement, she was smiling.
He grinned at her. “My father said to tell you he’s still hoping you’ll change your mind and let him interview you for his Eastern Shore history.”
“Your father will be hoping till Doomsday, at which point no one will be interested.”
Alex laughed. “He wants one of the professors in his department to have a look at the old mill.”
“I don’t know why your father persists in thinking of me as anything but a grouchy old woman, who means no when she says no.”
“It’s the newspapers,” Alex replied. “You’re the only person in town who reads as many newspapers and magazines as he does. No matter what I tell him about you, he’s convinced you’re not all bad.”
Grandmother clucked.
She liked this teasing, I realized. In some ways she was like me, always ready with a comeback, enjoying the give and take. Except she didn’t enjoy it with me.
“It’s time to get to work,” she said, her voice turning prim, like a girl who’d decided her flirting had gone on too long. “I want to hear lessons,” she said as she exited the room.
Matt tossed several notebooks on his desk.
“Golden retrievers are terrific dogs,” I remarked, looking again at the picture in my hands. “How long did you have him?”
“Two years.”
“What happened?”
“When we moved out, my mother said I had to get rid of him.”
First his parents separated, then his mother got rid of his dog? “That’s terrible! Homer was yours.”
“It was no big deal,” he replied, shrugging it off.
“Faker,” I said softly.
I saw a flicker of emotion in his eyes, then he reached for the picture. “We should put this back.” He set it gently on the shelf.
“Well, thanks for the use of your computer.”
“Sure.” His voice was quieter than usual.
“Hope I’ll see you around, Megan,” Alex said.
“Yeah, me, too,” I replied, pretty certain I wouldn’t, not if he hung out with Matt.
“When do you turn on the heat?” I asked, soaking my hands in the hot dishwater, wishing the rest of me felt as warm. I had taken a walk before dinner and come back chilled. The cold fried chicken and potato salad hadn’t warmed me up any.
“November,” Matt answered, “if we’re lucky. It’s a big house to heat and Grandmother watches her money.”
I didn’t complain further, not wanting to seem like a wimp from the sunny Southwest. But having left behind ninetydegree days, I was freezing when the temperature plummeted to the low fifties. The dampness here added a raw edge that went right through my bones.
Drying my hands, I went upstairs to put on a heavy sweater, then joined Grandmother in the library for an evening of reading the newspaper. A few minutes later, Matt came in carrying several logs.
“What are you doing?” Grandmother asked him.
“Building a fire.”
She studied him for a moment, then looked at me with my turtleneck yanked up to my ears and my sweater sleeves down to my knuckles. “How thoughtful.”
The sarcasm in her voice made me reluctant to thank Matt in front of her. Besides, Grandmother was wearing a thick sweater, too; maybe he was doing this for her.
Matt built the fire, arranging the logs and stacking the kindling in a quiet, methodical way. He had rolled up his sleeves so I could see the muscles in his forearms. His hands were large, with the wide palms and long, strong fingers of an athlete. I wondered what it would be like to hold hands with him, then quickly squelched that thought.
He struck a match. As soon as it was dropped on the crumpled newspaper, I was down on the floor, close to the hearth. He dropped in another match. A piece of newspaper flared up, then collapsed quickly into ash. Small sticks caught and made crackling noises. Big sticks burned and the outside of a heavy log began to char.