“Okay,” I said finally, with misgivings.
Our salads arrived and we began eating, very conscious of each other.
“Martin, you’ll have to tell me about your company,” I said. “I have only the vaguest idea of what Pan-Am Agra does.”
“We arrange for the exchange of good used farm machinery for the produce from some of the South American countries,” he explained. “Also, we manufacture some agricultural goods and food using raw materials from North and South America, which is what we do at the plant here. And we own land in South America where we’re trying to use North American farming methods to produce better yields. Those are the main things Pan-Am Agra does, though there are a few other things, too.”
“What kind of products does Pan-Am Agra make?”
“Some fruit blends, some products containing coffee, some fertilizer.”
“Do you have to travel to South America much?”
“When I was at company headquarters in Chicago, I had to go often, at least once every month. Now I won’t fly down as much. But I will have to visit the other plants.”
“Is the government very much involved in what you do?”
“As a regulatory agency, yes, too much so. They’re forever thinking we’re smuggling drugs in or weapons out, knowingly or unknowingly, and our shipments are almost always searched.”
I thought of searching fertilizer, or the raw materials thereof, and wrinkled my nose.
“Exactly,” Martin said.
“So what is a pirate like you doing in an agricultural company?”
“Is that the way you see me? A pirate?” He laughed. “What is a quiet, slightly shy, introverted librarian doing dating a pirate like me? Your life has changed a lot lately, if what you tell me and what other people tell me is true.”
I noticed he hadn’t answered my question.
“My life has changed a lot,” I said thoughtfully. “I’m changing with it, I guess.” Funny, I’d never thought of myself changing, just my circumstances. “I guess it started-oh, almost two years ago,” I told him, “when Mamie Wright was killed the night it was my turn to address Real Murders.”
The salads left, and the main course came while I was telling Martin about Real Murders and what had happened that spring.
“You’re certainly not going to think I’m quiet after hearing all that,” I said ruefully. “You had better tell me about your growing up, Martin.”
“I don’t like to think about it much,” he said after a moment. “My father died in a farm accident when I was six… a tractor overturned. My mother remarried when I was ten. He was a hard man. Still is. He didn’t put up with any nonsense, and he had a broad definition of nonsense. I didn’t mind him at first. But I couldn’t stand him after a few years.”
“What about your mom?”
“She was great,” he said instantly, with the warmest smile I’d seen. “You could tell her just about anything. She cooked all the time, did things you just see mothers in old sitcoms doing now. She wore aprons, and she went to church, and she came to every game I played-baseball, basketball, football. She did the same for Barbara.”
“You said you grew up in a small town, too?”
“Yes. A few miles outside the town, actually. So I wasn’t sorry to get the chance at this job here. I wanted to see what it would be like to be back in a small town again, though Lawrenceton is really on the edge of Atlanta.”
“Your mother isn’t alive anymore?”
“No, Mom died when I was in high school. She had a brain aneurysm, and it happened very-very suddenly. My stepfather is still alive, still on the farm, but I haven’t seen him since I came home from the war. Barbara goes back to town every now and then, just to show off how far beyond that little place she is now, I think… she doesn’t see him, either.”
“There was a rift?”
“He won’t sell the farm.”
I didn’t think that answered my question.
“Mother left the farm to him for his lifetime, and left us a little cash. Of course, she didn’t have much. But we’re supposed to get a third of the proceeds if he ever sells it, or if he dies before selling it, we get the land. We wanted him to sell when she died so we could move into town. But he wouldn’t sell, out of some damn stubbornness. Now the situation for small farms is even worse, as I’m sure you’re aware.” I nodded soberly. “So the farm’s falling down, the barn has a hole in the roof, he hasn’t made money in years, and the whole thing is rotting. He could sell anytime to our nearest neighbor, but out of sheer meanness he won’t.” Martin stabbed his steak with his fork.
We ate for a minute in silence. I thought over what he’d said.
“Um-how many times have you been married?” I asked apprehensively.
“Once.”
“Divorced?”
“Yes. We had been married for ten years… we had a son, Barrett. He’s twenty-three now… he wants to be an actor.”
“A chancy profession.” I thought of my mystery-writer friend, Robin Crusoe, now in California writing a television movie script based on his latest book, and wondered how he was making out.
“That’s what I told him. Funny thing-he already knew it!” Martin said wryly. “But he wanted so much to try, I gave him the money to get started. If he doesn’t make it, he at least needs to know he gave it his best shot.”
“You sound as though you didn’t get the encouragement you needed at some point.”
He looked surprised for a moment. “I guess that’s right. Though it’s hard to say what I really wanted to do. I don’t know that I ever formulated it. Something big,” and his hands made a circle in the air. We laughed. “It had to be something I could leave my hometown for.”
“I’ve never wanted to leave my hometown,” I said.
“Would you?”
“I’ve never had a reason to. I don’t know.” I tried to remember what it had been like when I went to college: not knowing anyone, not knowing where anything was, the first two weeks of uncertainty.
The waiter came up at that moment to see if we needed anything. “Will you be wanting any dessert tonight?”
Martin turned questioningly to me. I shook my head.
“No,” he told the waiter. “We’ll have ours later.” He smiled at me, and I felt a quiver that went down to my shoes.
Martin paid the bill, and I realized I hadn’t said a word about it being my turn. Something about Martin discouraged such offers. We would have to talk about that.
But not right away.
We were quite ready for dessert when we got to my place.
Chapter Ten
“MARTIN,” I said later in the night, “can you go with me to the realtors’ banquet Saturday night?”
“Sure,” he said sleepily. He wound a strand of my hair around his finger. “Do you ever wear it up?” he asked.
“Oh, sometimes.” I rolled over so it hung around his face like a curtain.
“Could you wear it up Saturday night?”
“I guess so,” I said warily.
“I love your ears,” he said, and demonstrated that he did.
“In that case,” I said, “I will.”
A thud on the foot of the bed made Martin jump.
“It’s Madeleine,” I said hastily.
I could feel him relax all over. “I have to get used to the cat?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. She’s old,” I said consolingly. “Well, actually, middle-aged.”
“Like me, huh?”
“Oh, yes, you practically have one foot in the grave,” I said.
“Ooo-do that again.”
So I did.
“I have to go out of town late this afternoon,” Martin said over toast early the next morning. He had stowed some extra clothes and shaving gear in his car, so he was ready for work.
“Where to?” I tried not to feel dismayed. This relationship was so new and perilous and fragile, and I was so constantly afraid Martin did not feel what I felt, so often aware of the differences in our ages, experiences, goals.