The Dearly Departed. Elinor Lipman

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       CHAPTER 2 Meet you at the Lake

      Actress” in the obituary’s headline, especially without the modifier “amateur,” would have delighted Margaret Batten, who’d been stagestruck in middle age, recruited at the beauty parlor by the wife of the superintendent of schools. Might Margaret, she asked, consider a tiny but vital role in the King George Community Players’ fall production of The Bad Seed? Duly flattered and only briefly deflated to learn that she had no lines, Margaret threw herself into her first production—understudying, baking for the bake sale, and embracing the subculture that was the King George Community Players. She was a woman alone, a divorcee looking for a social life in a town of 1,008 year-round residents.

      Sunny was in high school when the acting bug burrowed under her mother’s skin. They lived on the edge of the King George Links, a semi-private golf course, in a small house with rotting trellises, leased for a pittance under an odd historical footnote concerning a runaway slave and a host abolitionist, now moot and inapplicable. Still, it carried with it a legacy and the taint of a scholarship awarded on the basis of need. Historically, poor people lived in the gray bungalow, visible from the seventeenth fairway; their underprivileged children fished waylaid golf balls out of the course’s water traps. Margaret had qualified as a lessee under the unwritten widow-with-child clause: Sunny’s father was dead, or so the tale on the application went.

      Margaret was not a habitual liar, but the little house had been vacant when she moved to King George. A real estate agent, sizing her up correctly as a single mother without means, said, “I know I’m shooting myself in the foot to let you in on this, but there’s this little house that belongs to the town …” Margaret asked to see it. The pine floors had been stripped of linoleum and left a tarry black; instead of doors, faded blue burlap hung from curtain rods between rooms, and the kitchen sink was a soapstone trough. But Margaret was a great believer in soap, water, ammonia, bleach, lemon oil, paint, shellac, wallpaper, and fresh flowers. She could see the small provincial print she’d choose for fabrics and the museum posters of lily pads and haystacks she’d frame for the walls. “How much?” she whispered.

      “A dollar a day—and that includes utilities.”

      “And you think I could get it?”

      The agent confided, “They don’t check, so lay it on a little thick in the application. They like widows and orphans—the more the better.”

      “I only have Sunny.”

      The agent said, “I happen to know from personal experience that if they like you, they’re not sticklers.”

      The truth would have been nowhere near good enough: Margaret had lost a husband in the most prosaic fashion, to nothing more tragic than an uncharacteristic slip—hers. She still couldn’t believe she had sinned and that the perfectly decent John Batten, who updated kitchen cabinets with laminates, had not forgiven her. It hadn’t even been a love affair but a temp job, a professional courtesy: The lawyers for whom she worked had loaned her and her shorthand skills to an out-of-town client running for Congress. He hadn’t announced yet; he told the newspaper that he was visiting primarily on business and, yes, maybe to shake a few hands along the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade route. And when he did, as Margaret would observe, it was with such penetrating eye contact and warm, two-fisted handshakes that the woman in his grip felt more attractive and interesting than she knew herself to be.

      Pretty in a round-faced, wholesome way; short, with a generous bust and small waist, Margaret was in her mid-twenties and looked eighteen. Safe, her employers thought. Not bait. Harmless as a secretarial loan to a reputed womanizer. At the end of Miles Finn’s visit, after two days of depositions, he invited her to dinner, СКАЧАТЬ