A House by the Side of the Road Read Online Free PDF

edge of the woods and then, less obviously, through it. Maples, oaks, and hickories dominated, but mountain laurel and honeysuckle shrubs had taken hold at the edge. Walking through the trees was a simple matter, although the dimness and utter quiet, save for the gentle noise of running water, made Meg feel suddenly vulnerable.
    Near the creek, a few pale purple hepatica, with their distinctive dark green foliage, were growing. The water ran swiftly but it was shallow, accounting for the noise it made. She could have crossed its twenty-foot width without wetting her feet, simply by jumping from rock to rock. Instead, she sighed with satisfaction and turned back to find out just how bad the inside of the house was. It could be pretty bad without making her regret her decision, given the creek.
    As she walked back through the trees, a rustle to her left pulled her gaze in that direction. She would need to get used to the small sounds of rabbits and squirrels. But the shape that suddenly separated itself from the trees was neither a rabbit nor a squirrel. It was a dog, an ugly, mud-brown dog that stood silently, watching her with a baleful look, and then turned and loped away.
    Meg whistled. The dog gave no sign of having heard.
    *   *   *
    Her key turned smoothly in what was evidently a brand-new lock. She let the screen door slam behind her and set her purse down on the closest cabinet. She was standing, as she had expected to be, in the kitchen. There was a wide old sink under a window that looked out onto the side yard and wooden cabinets—once glossy white, now the color of French vanilla ice cream—lined two walls. Plain glass-fronted cabinets bordered the window above the sink. A huge stove had a griddle between the left and right burners and two ovens side by side, and there was a refrigerator with a rounded top, which was humming faintly. Everything except the linoleum floor looked as if it had been there since the 1930s. The floor was individual black and white tiles in a checkerboard pattern—pretty, but, to fit the feel of the room, it should have been one unbroken piece.
    At right angles to the door to the yard was a large pantry with a wall of shelves on each side and a built-in cabinet at the back. The shelves were empty. Meg had hoped to find a canning jar or two or, perhaps, a bucket somewhere. Failing that, she put the rubber plug in the bottom of the sink, turned on the water, and went outside to get the daffodils. She propped them up inside the sink.
    She opened her purse and took out the letter that had been such a surprise. The envelope bore her name in beautiful, swirling handwriting. Inside, there was a single piece of paper, covered in the same elegant hand.
    Dear Meg,
    I am leaving you my house. If you don’t want it, if your life in Chicago is a happy one, put it up for sale and do whatever you like with the money. I didn’t tell you I was leaving it to you because I didn’t know if I could or if I’d have to sell it. It has all depended on whether my savings or my time ran out first. Since you’re reading this, it looks like my time did. You probably wonder why I left it to you, so I’ll try to explain.
    As you might know, since Lawrence died, I’ve had my books and the church and the house. I haven’t had close friends, though I got on all right with my neighbors. Your mother and I were not fond of each other. I guess I grate on most people. Heaven knows they grate on me. Anyway, after Lawrence died, I thought I should visit the family I had but wasn’t looking forward to it.
    When I arrived at your house, your mother fretted and dithered, your father shut himself up in the bedroom, and you took my hand, sat me down, snuggled up, and said, “You got any good names for horses?” You were foolish enough not to realize that I was an unsociable, difficult old woman. You looked just like my sister Henrietta (Bee, we called her) when