The Lake Shore Limited Read Online Free PDF Page B

large, gracious place, a place to which both of them could bring their almost-adult children from their previous marriages.
    They arranged a time to get together a week or so off. This would give Leslie a chance to look around for what they wanted. Claire knew Woodstock, so they agreed to meet there for coffee before they went exploring.
    Leslie was sitting on a bench outside the restaurant when they drove up in a pickup truck with a long aluminum stepladder rattling in the back. They both got out at once, swinging themselves down from the high seats.
    Claire was so striking, with her white-blond hair pulled cleanly off her face into a bun at the back of her head, that Leslie hardly noticed Sam at first. She was looking at Claire's high, rounded forehead and strong features. Her face was very lined, but this only accentuated the drama of her sculpted head, her deep-set, almost-hooded eyes. She was arresting , Leslie would have said, describing her to anyone else.
    She extended her hand, saying her name, and Leslie took it. Of course, her grip was firm, cool. She turned to introduce Sam, who was standing behind her. When Leslie looked at him, her first thought was that he must be quite a bit younger than Claire. He was tall, a nice-looking man with a long, slightly crooked nose, a narrow face, and floppy brown hair just going gray. He wore wire-rimmed glasses, a scholar's glasses. She had always considered these an affectation. Later she would learn from him that it was the weightlessness of them he liked. That the pressure of any other kind of glasses on his nose gave him a headache.
    He had a lively face. There was something avid in it--eager for life, ready to be amused. He and Claire were dressed alike, as if in a uniform--crisp jeans and light khaki jackets with multiple pockets.
    They drank their coffee, and Leslie told them about the properties they would look at. Two were old farms, their fields growing over with pine and maple saplings and thick brush. The third was mostly in woods, which would offer a great view if cleared. "Of course," she said, "the trees are almost all second growth up here, so even the woods were once somebody's farm." She was aware of a kind of pride in talking about this: her world. "In the middle of what seems just forest, there are stone fences crisscrossing everywhere. Somebody's ancient field, somebody's property line. Some claim we don't know anything about anymore."
    "So much for the illusion of ownership," Sam said.
    Leslie laughed. "Well, precisely. But I'm in the business of selling that illusion."
    Leslie paid, though Sam had taken his wallet out. "Don't be silly," she said. "This is part of my job."
    Claire came in Leslie's car--the noise of the ladder had bothered her all the way up, she said--and Sam followed in the truck. While Leslie drove, they talked. Leslie learned a great deal about Claire, about her life. She and Sam had been married for two years. Claire taught some combination of ethics and political science at Harvard; Leslie couldn't quite figure it out. She talked about her children, about living in Cambridge. Leslie was dismissive about her own life, and Claire didn't seem inclined to press her for details. In the rearview mirror, Leslie could see the green truck behind them, sometimes dropping back, sometimes pulling closer at turns, at stop signs. Sam's face retreated, then approached, sober and blankened in his solitude.
    At the first farm, they all got out to walk the boundaries. But the ground was muddy--it had rained the night before--and Claire wasn't wearing boots. They'd only gone a hundred yards or so when she turned back.
    Sam and Leslie hiked on together, Leslie going ahead in the wooded parts, pointing out the fallen limbs they'd have to step over, holding back the branches, the thorny whips that might have caught at them. Sam asked questions, mostly about the land--the old farm, its history--but also about her. Leslie found herself talking easily about her