And together we looked down at the picture of Gramarye, its overlay paper already turned back. I heard Val gasp, and perhaps I gasped too.
The painting was nothing more than a chaos of smeared colors, all shapes distorted and blurred, the picture's original vibrancy reduced to an ugly mess, made dull by the random mixture of pigments, a deranged artist's creation.
Even sunlight, reflected from its surface, failed to infuse any warmth.
ENTICEMENT
JUST TO ADD to our problems, Kinsella came knocking on the door a few days later.
I don't recall the time exactly, but I know dusk was vignetting into night and Midge and I had finished yet another melancholic meal only minutes earlier—I say another because there had been a marked lack of joy at Gramarye since the weekend, and you can guess why.
God only knows the impression Val Harradine had of us when she left for home later that Sunday, with Bob's strait-jacket antics, my Twilight Zone account of life in the country, and Midge's eventual melodramatic collapse into a weeping heap on the floor of the round room. Real Loony Times stuff. She must have thought—and who could blame her?—that there was something in the breeze down there that induced brainstorms and paranoia.
I'll skip over the recriminations and further tearful scenes that Midge and I went through over the next few days, because they'd bore you (and thoroughly depress me); it's enough to say we barely came through it all with our relationship still intact. I tried desperately to make her face up to the fact that there were inexplicable mysteries about Gramarye and I think she inwardly agreed; but strangely, she would never admit to it openly, as if to do so would mean accepting that the cottage wasn't quite the dream she had so fervently sought and imagined she'd found.
She accused Bob, of course, of destroying her painting, and when I rang him he naturally denied such (denied it pretty strongly, actually). I believed him. Midge didn't.
I went over everything that had happened since arriving at the cottage—especially the rapid healing of my scalded hand (which she persisted in attributing to the wonderful powers of Mycroft)—time and time again, but she . . . well, like I said, you'd get bored. The outcome was that we'd arrived at an uneasy truce for the moment, neither one of us inclined to argue (or reason) any further.
So there we were, facing each other across the kitchen table, in the lull before nightfall, when came the knock on the door (by then we'd taken to keeping the door closed as soon as it began to get dark outside).
We looked at one another in surprise and I rose to answer it.
Kinsella stood on the step, hands tucked into the back pockets of his faded jeans, an easy grin on his too-bloody-handsome face.
"Hi, good to see you two again." He peered past me at Midge. "Hope I'm not disturbing supper."
Midge seemed glad to see him. "Not at all—we finished a few minutes ago." She joined us at the door.
"How's your arm, Mike?"
I begrudgingly held it up for inspection.
"Hey, looks good! Not a goddamn mark.'" His grin was well on the way to touching his earlobes. "No pain?"
I shook my head.
"Boy, that's somethin'." He glanced toward the gate, then turned back to us again. "Look, we don't wanna intrude, but there's someone out here who'd like to meet you guys again. You know who I mean?"
I said "Shit!" to myself and Midge said "Mycroft?" aloud.
She stood on tiptoe to look over Kinsella's shoulder. "He's come here?" she asked.
"Yup. He was kinda taken with you two. We were passing by and he thought it'd be nice to pay his respects, see how you were. Guess he'd like to see how your arm is, Mike."
"Um . . ." I began to say.
"Oh, we'd love to say hello," said Midge. "Please go and fetch him."
Kinsella looked awkward for a moment. "Thing of it is, Mycroft's sorta old-fashioned, y'know? He's got great respect for other people's privacy and doesn't like to poke his nose in. It'd be nice if you invited him in personally, if you wouldn't mind that.'"
"Of course we don't mind," replied Midge, brighter than she'd been all week. "Is he in the car?"
"That's right, sittin' in the back. He'll be glad to see you."
Kinsella stood aside so that Midge could hurry down the path. We both watched her open the gate.
"That's some lady you've got there," the American said, and I'm not sure whether the admiration in his eyes was for me or her. Then he leaned back against the door jamb, hands still tucked behind in his pockets. "So how've things been at Gramarye?" he asked, and I had to wonder at the casualness of the question.
"Wonderful," I responded. "Couldn't be better."
"That's great."
Was he mocking me? Or was paranoia really creeping in?
He pointed a finger. "Don't mind me mentioning it, but you're gonna have to watch those weeds in the garden. Let 'em get a hold and they'll overrun."
I followed his pointing finger and swore under my breath. I hadn't noticed them before, but now I realized there were thin green tendrils spreading through the flowerbeds, a disorganized network of infiltrators, and the more I looked, the more I found.
"Nature has a way of sneakin' up on you," Kinsella confided, and I nodded at his homespun philosophy. "I could get on over anytime, bring a coupla helpers, and give you a hand there, Mike. We'd clear the mothers in no time."
"That's okay. I'll make a start tomorrow. It'll give me something to do."
"You not writing?"
"Uh, I've had other things on my mind lately."
"Well, the offer stands; just call on us any ol' time."
Midge was coming back through the gate, Mycroft following, two others behind. It was beginning to look more like a deputation than a friendly visit. Mycroft waved a hand in my direction as he approached and I realized the two figures accompanying him were Gillie and Neil Joby.
As he drew nearer, the Synergist leader examined the cottage—somewhat intently, I thought, like a surveyor searching for faults. And when he was only a few feet away
I had the feeling his composure was not quite as placid as his demeanor indicated. It was in his eyes, you see—they were too active, never settling on any one thing for long. Even when we shook hands he couldn't stop himself looking past me into the cottage. Then, not yet having said a word, he lifted my left hand and examined the fingers and lower arm, turning it over to study the other side. The rest of this amiable bunch gathered around and all but oohed and aahed.
They were making me so aware of my supposed debt to Mycroft, I wondered if I should offer a fee.
Mycroft fixed his gaze on me. "The human will with the Divine Spirit, Mike," he said quietly by way of an explanation for my unmarked arm.
"And a little help from that stuff you soaked it in?" I suggested.
"A sterilizing fluid only. I hope our intrusion isn't inconvenient?"
I shook my head out of politeness.
"Won't you come in?" piped up Midge. "We've been on our own since the weekend and some new conversation might be refreshing."
I was dismayed by the barely-concealed barb; that wasn't like her at all.
"That would be very nice," replied Mycroft, needing scant persuasion. "This is rather impromptu, otherwise we would have bought some wine."
"We still have a bottle unopened that Hub gave us on his last visit," said Midge. "We'll drink that, unless you don't enjoy your own brew."
Her small joke was appreciated by the group, Midge laughing with them. I suppose my grin was rather sickly.
She pushed between Kinsella and me, inviting Mycroft to follow, and he prepared to do so. But he faltered. He stood on the step and abruptly stopped. I'm sure, although the light wasn't too good by now, that he paled, just momentarily.