Die a Little Longer

Richard Deming Die a Little Longer

The second time Maida peered through the trellised vines which formed shimmering green curtains on all sides of the porch, she uttered a squeal of dismay. The wide-shouldered young man who had spent five minutes studying the name on her mailbox was turning into the steep lane and approaching the house.

It absolutely could not be the new owner arriving to take possession a day before she expected him, when none of the dishes were packed and her final house cleaning had left her looking like she had wallowed in a coal bin. It absolutely could not be, but it probably was, for no one but the mailman had called in three weeks.

Setting the dishes she was holding alongside a half-filled barrel, she rushed into the house and whisked the dust wrapper from her hair. In the mirror over the kitchen sink she examined the face Tom occasionally described as “tony,” noting its toniness was at the moment incognito behind a good deal of plebian dirt. She attacked the dirt with the dampened end of a dish towel and fluffed her loose black hair into a semblance of order.

By the time she returned to the front door, her visitor was mounting the porch steps. Viewed closely, he was not as young as he had seemed at fifty yards. Maida judged him about her own age — thirty. He had the strong shoulders and powerful arms of an athlete, but his rather pale features and colorless eyes seemed those of a person whose life involved little physical activity. His expression was tinged with wariness, as though he were not sure what his reception would be.

“Mrs. Kirk?” he asked with a touch of diffidence.

“Yes. And you’re Mr. Steuben?”

His eyes turned blank and a curious expression of surprise crossed his face. Then his features relaxed into an amused grin. “How did you know?”

“Easy,” Maida said, matching his grin. “No one ever calls here. Come in.”

She moved aside and he stepped past her into the hall, glanced quickly up the stairs and went on into the front room.

“There are only boxes to sit on,” Maida apologized. “The furniture’s all shipped except for my bed and a spare cot in the maid’s room I’m leaving.”

He said, “May I have a glass of water?”

Surprised by the abruptness of his request, she looked at him for a moment open-mouthed. Then she said, “Certainly,” and went to the kitchen to get him one.

When she brought it back, he drank thirstily and set the empty glass on one of the boxes.

“No one at all?” he asked idly.

“I beg your pardon?”

His colorless eyes touched her face briefly before continuing about the room in slow inventory. “Calls here, I mean.”

“Oh,” Maida said, following him back to their initial conversation. “No one but the mailman. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

The achromatic eyes fixed on her face again, and the suggestion of a smile touched his lips. “Yes. That’s what I wanted.”

“It was lucky we both happened to engage the same real-estate man,” Maida said, making conversation to cover her embarrassment at his standing there as though waiting for something to happen. “You searching all the way from New York for a secluded place to work, which I imagine was hard to find, and us looking for a buyer for a place twenty miles from nowhere, which I know was hard to find.” She added quickly, “Of course it’s an excellent house and the view is lovely.”

He stood quietly with his hands behind him, making no reply.

“I didn’t expect you until tomorrow,” she said nervously. “Were you planning to take possession immediately?”

His expression was musing, as though he pondered her question, and he did not reply for so long she began to suspect he had not heard her. “I’m sorry if it inconveniences you,” he said finally. “I planned to spend the night in Kingston, but my baggage failed to arrive and it contains my traveler’s checks. There’s no need for you to leave, however, unless you fear the conventions. You mentioned a spare cot?”

Her back stiffened indignantly at his air of proprietorship and calm assumption that if anyone left, it should be she. At the same time it occurred to her he should have had no difficulty obtaining credit at the Kingston Hotel until his luggage arrived. Mr. Regan, the real estate man, would certainly have vouched for him.

She said sharply, “I’m afraid I couldn’t leave before tomorrow, even if I wanted to, unless I walk the twenty miles to Kingston. My husband doesn’t plan to pick me up till morning.” She could not forbear adding, “I don’t fear the conventions, as you put it, because all the doors in this house lock.”

Her flash of anger brought a surprised grin to his lips, and laughter replaced the reserved opacity of his eyes. “I really am sorry,” he said.

Immediately she liked him better. She grinned back and said briskly, “You’re probably eager to see the house. I never before heard of anyone buying a house unseen. You must have great trust in Mr. Regan.”