The Inn at Lake Devine by Elinor Lipman Read Free Book Online Page A

relations.”
    By midweek, he was my favorite company. I’d abandon Robin on the croquet court to stand by him and wait for his questions.
    “What does your dad do?” he asked early in the week.
    “He owns a fruit store.”
    Mr. Berry looked up and grinned. “Does he farm?”
    I said no, he was strictly on the retail end.
    “In Newton?” he asked.
    I said, “Brookline, Mass. It started in Chelsea as my grandfather’s truck.”
    He’d point to the burlap sack of bulbs or the potted seedlings, and I’d hand him one at a time. “You ever help him out there, Nat?” he asked amiably.
    I said, “I sometimes help him with his fruit baskets.”
    “Oh yeah?”
    I explained about this sideline: the special orders, the novelties.
    “That sounds real nice,” he said.
    I listened carefully. There were no signs that Mrs. Berry had poisoned Mr. Berry. Sometimes, as she hurried past us to the dock or to a plumbing emergency, she’d say primly, “Hello, Natalie.”
    I’d return a wan hello. She wouldn’t stop, but might glance back, at which time I’d take care to have resumed conversation with the far superior Mr. Berry. After we’d had a few daily chats, he said, “You miss your folks a bit?”
    I said, “Not really.”
    “I think my boys would miss us if they were away. And Gretel? We’d have to ship her home.”
    I told him, “Mr. Fife said I was supposed to think of him and Mrs. Fife as my folks while I’m here.”
    “Easier said than done, right? Only your parents are your parents, no matter how nice your hosts are. That’s what I’d say. Family is family.”
    I handed him another cutting, and said after a pause, “They’re really nice, but they’re not like my parents.”
    With two hands, he flattened the soil around a new seedling. “I’m usually around—you know me, puttering in some flower bed or other.”
    I said, “I know.”
    “Always around,” he said, “and usually hoping for a little company.”
    I nodded but couldn’t speak. I knew he was looking at me when he said, “Good company and good conversation.”
    I loved Mr. Berry at that moment, a wave of gratitude that left me mute.
    “Any time, Nat,” he repeated.
    R obin had neglected to tell me that Gretel Berry was an annoyance factor to all girls vacationing at her parents’ inn. She was only eight or nine that summer, and was like a yappy dog who wanted to play fetch with every passerby. “Want to see my room?” she asked the daughters of every guest, regardless of their age.
    Mr. Berry had apologized for her, and it was for his sake that I said yes. The small two-story house was down a path, about fifty yards into the woods. As I followed the annoying Gretel, she chatted in a run-on fashion that didn’t require answers. The back door was wide open, revealing one knotty-pine room bisected by a squat wood stove. I asked Gretel if they lived here year-round and she said they did. It wasn’t the house of a very formidable enemy. The kitchen had open shelves with no cupboard doors and a narrow two-burner stove, which, if the box of wooden matches were an indicator, needed its pilot light ignited with each use. I could see stacks of milky green dishes and sturdy glassware, the same dime-store variety that came with the cabins we had rented over the years. The living room was shabby gold and brown. An orange cotton bedspread with pom-pom fringe covered the couch. Good, I thought; Ingrid Berry has dreadful taste.
    Gretel said, “C’mon upstairs.”
    At the top, the knotty pine of the stairwell had given way to a dull lettuce-green woodwork. We passed what had to be, thrillingly, the boys’ room: bunk beds and plaid wallpaper extending to the eaves and ceiling. The parents’ room had a high doublebed covered with a yellowed chenille bedspread and decorated with a lone throw pillow of green polished cotton. Gretel’s tiny room at the end of the hall had ballerina wallpaper. Her headboard was tufted with pink oilcloth, and a flat