“They moved to France. Did you know them?”
“No. I only knew about Jeremiah Brown.”
“Who?”
“You live there and you don’t know about Jeremiah Brown?”
A flash of annoyance. “Obviously not.”
So I told her about Jeremiah and the treasure and the man with a dog who sees light in the valley. “A book was written about the treasure years ago. It should be in this room somewhere.” I stood up and started to search the bookshelves for it.
She put up her feet — clad in rugged, foreign-looking leather sandals that emphasized the slenderness of her ankles — on a cracked leather ottoman. “Tell me,” she said, “what’s Northside High like?”
I didn’t turn around. “It’s the usual collection of cliques. The athletes and the music students rule the place.”Then there was me.
“Is there a darkroom in the school?”
“I don’t know. Why? Are you into photography?”
“Do cats kill mice?”
Interesting analogy. Too interesting to comment on in any polite way. “You could probably start up a photography club at school if you wanted,” I said. “Last year, Noel founded a rugby team there.”
“But he graduated, right? Didn’t my mother say he’s going away to some Ivy League university?”
Where was that book? “Yeah, to Harvard, for economics and political science. Followed by a master’s degree at Oxford, he’s hoping. He has big plans for a foreign service career.”
“Oh, does he.” Not a question. “Is he as untrustworthy as he looks?”
He was worse than untrustworthy. But I’d been brought up to feign family loyalty, at least to strangers. “What do you mean? Did he look untrustworthy to you?”
“Never mind.”
“Here it is. Jeremiah Brown’s Treasure. Would you like to see it?”
She moved to a chair that faced the garden, sat down, opened the book, and read the title page. Through the window, Noel smiled at her, mimed drinking from a wine glass, and beckoned her to him. She turned two more pages before she said, “Do you think I could borrow this book? To show my mother?”
My smile was as thin as her long neck. “Sure.”
“How about we go outside now, get some fresh air?”
“The indoor air suits me fine. You go ahead.”
She got up out of the chair. Her movements were graceful, even in the baggy clothes. “See you later,” she said. “Maybe you can show me the ropes at school.”
I had a feeling she’d be able to handle the ropes fine without me, but to be polite, I told her I could be found, most lunchtimes, under a tree on the school lawn.
“Under a tree,” she’d said,“gotcha.”
Gotcha.
I shook myself free of memory, peeled my legs off the park bench, walked across the street, and rang Glenwood’s doorbell. Maybe Mrs. Greer was home. I hadn’t seen her for years, but I’d followed her literary career, owned all her books, had stocked my classrooms with the popular children’s adventure novels she wrote.
She opened the door. Her hair was greyer than it appeared in her author photo, and her skin more lined. Her eyes were as warm as I remembered, though the friendly but inquiring expression on her face contained no speck of recognition. Probably because of the aged appearance of my hair and skin.
“Hi, Mrs. Greer,” I said. “It’s Blithe Morrison, Hannah’s friend from high school. I was passing by and thought I’d say hello, see if you still lived here.”
Her smile warmed up to match her eyes. “Blithe, of course! How are you? What are you up to these days? Are you living in town? Won’t you come in?”
I declined entry, lingered on her porch, gave her the short answer on my life status — the divorced and back from California to teach in September answer. “I’m glad to see you’re holding the fort here. How’s the writing going?”
“Busy. Actually, more than busy. I’m behind on a deadline and Larry and I are going on vacation soon and I’d be tearing my hair out if I weren’t worried about losing it. How about you? What will you do for the summer?”
“Not much. Take it easy, read, relax”
For no reason I could see, these remarks elicited from her a furrowed brow, a speculative eye, and the comment, “You don’t say.”
“Good to see you. Say hello to Hannah when you —”
“Wait. I’ve just had a brainwave. A crazy one, but what the hell. Would you be interested in working for me part-time? I need a research assistant for a few weeks, and you’d be perfect for the job.”
“Me? Why?”
Her eyes narrowed in concentration, apparently on an interior monologue. “Because the research that needs doing is on Rose Park, and who knows this neighbourhood better than you?”
“Lots of people. My father, for one.”
“Maybe, but I’ll bet your father isn’t available to do some reading and site-visiting right now. And I’ve always thought you were the brightest light in your family anyway. What do you say? How about yes? Yes would be good.”
The brightest light? “I, well, thank you, I mean, I’m flattered, but this is so sudden.” And so difficult for my soggy, tear-logged mind to process. “I haven’t thought beyond next week.”
“When you do, think of me. Better yet, give me your phone number and I’ll badger you till you agree. I’d love to hire someone reliable and smart instead of a callow university student.”
I gave her my new phone number, said thanks and goodbye, took a flummoxed few steps away, and remembered why I’d knocked to begin with. “Oh, Mrs. Greer, have there been any developments with the treasure recently?”
She had on the friendly-puzzled expression again, like when she’d opened the door. “With what?”
“The Glenwood treasure. No one’s found it in the last couple of years?”
Her laugh was chuckly, lively. “No, no one’s found it. You’re one of the few people who even remembers it was rumoured to exist.”
“Other than you? I would have thought being mistress of Glenwood required you to be keeper of the treasure flame.”
“You see?” she said, though I didn’t, yet. “You are the perfect person for the job.”
Ten minutes after the scheduled start time for my welcome back dinner, my mother called. “The guests are starting to arrive, dear.”
“I’ll be right over. Just combing my hair.”
“You’re not nervous, are you? Nothing to be nervous about. Chin up.”
Cocktail chatter was underway when, chin aimed at the ceiling, I walked into a room occupied by about fifteen people, some of whom I knew. As soon as she saw me, Mom stood up from the sofa arm on which she perched with gin and tonic in hand, said, “Here she is!” and sent me a multi-part message with her facial expression and body language that included directives to smile wider and fix my posture. I attempted both corrective actions, and suffered the arm she placed around my shoulders.
“To Blithe, everyone,” Mom said. “And to regrouping.”
Dad said, “Hear, hear,” and swilled back his own gin.