Part 1 (1/2)
Well-Offed in Vermont.
Amy Patricia Meade.
About the Author.
Amy Patricia Meade, the author of the critically acclaimed Marjorie McClelland Mysteries, is a native of Long Island, NY, where she earned bachelor's degrees in English and business. She enjoys traveling, cooking, and cla.s.sic films, and is a member of Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America. Her Pret' Near Perfect Mystery series debuts this November with Well-Offed in Vermont, and she is the author of the forthcoming Rosie the Riveter Mystery series (Kensington). Meade now lives in Vermont and spends the long New England winters writing mysteries with a humorous or historical bent.
Visit Amy on the Internet at .
Chapter.
1.
STELLA THORNTON BUCKLEY carefully navigated her bright yellow 2008 Smart Fortwo coupe up the quarter-mile-long potholed dirt driveway and watched with a mix of trepidation and excitement as each revolution of the vehicle's fifteen-inch tires brought her closer to the circa 1890 white clapboard farmhouse ahead.
White-knuckled, Stella gripped the steering wheel and cringed as she felt her stomach churn and her heart rate rise with each teeth-rattling b.u.mp and dip. She didn't recall the driveway being in such bad repair during their last visit, but it was certainly something that she and Nick would need to address. ”Let the homeowner's remorse begin,” she said to herself as she brought the diminutive vehicle to a stop directly in front of the farmhouse's extensive wraparound porch, just a few yards behind the ma.s.sive U-Haul moving truck operated by her husband.
Dressed in a New York Giants T-s.h.i.+rt and a pair of well-worn jeans, Graham Nicholas Buckley-Nick to all who knew him-stepped down from the driver's seat and, with a deep yawn, stretched his arms above his solid six-foot-two-inch-tall frame.
Stella, meanwhile, retrieved her cell phone from its place on the pa.s.senger seat and stared blankly at the last-received-call display. Home repairs were the least of her concerns. As if the drive from New York City and the subsequent house closing hadn't been tiring enough, the call she had received while on the road had left her feeling completely depleted. The Shelburne Museum, home to one of the nation's most diverse collections of Americana, had given their textiles curator position-the only available job of its type within the state of Vermont-to another applicant.
Fighting back tears, Stella switched off the phone and watched through the front winds.h.i.+eld as Nick, sporting a boyish grin, sprinted to the front of the U-Haul. She had mentioned nothing to him about the Shelburne call. This move, the farmhouse, the Forest Service job that was to start the following Monday-all of it-had been Nick's dream for as long as she'd known him. That dream was finally coming true, and Stella was determined not to allow her personal disappointment to mar the occasion.
Her resolve strengthened, she withdrew the keys from the Smart car's ignition. Upon s.n.a.t.c.hing her sweats.h.i.+rt from the back of the driver's seat, she leapt from behind the wheel and rushed to the front of the truck where Nick now stood, arms folded across his chest, surveying the structure before him.
”I can't believe we did it,” he remarked in amazement. ”I can't believe we're here.”
”Not only are we here,” she dangled a single gold key in front of her husband's face, ”but we're here to stay.”
Nick grabbed the key in one hand and placed the other on the small of Stella's back. ”Homeowners,” he said, meditatively turning the key over in the palm of his hand.
”Vermont homeowners,” she amended.
Nick turned his gaze to the seemingly endless forest of brightly colored trees that surrounded the back of the farmhouse. Beyond them, the rounded gray peaks of the Green Mountains, like a row of balding elder statesmen, stood sentinel over the valley below. ”h.e.l.luva better view than the one on Murray Hill, isn't it?”
”Oh, I don't know. When Mr. Yang got his annual s.h.i.+pment of chrysanthemums in, that corner market was just as colorful.” The early October air had grown damp and chilly, prompting Stella to don her hooded sweats.h.i.+rt and pull the zipper up tightly against her chin. ”Perhaps not as picturesque as this, mind you, but-”
Nick pulled his wife closer and laughed. ”Yeah, you look like you're enjoying the scenery. Come on, let's get inside before it rains.” He led her up the porch steps to the front door, which, after a bit of key-jiggling, unlocked and then swung wide open.
Eager to escape the bone-chilling wind, Stella stepped toward the doorsill, only to feel Nick's strong arms lift her off the ground and playfully throw her over his shoulder. ”Watch your head.”
”What are you doing?” Stella ducked and giggled as he carried her across the threshold.
”It's tradition for a husband to carry his wife into their new home, isn't it?” He continued through the foyer, past the spindled staircase, and into the first room on the right.
”Yes, but typically not in a fireman carry. And not all the way into-” From her unique, upside-down vantage point, Stella could see that the living room-which had, upon last inspection, been empty-now bore a large air mattress piled high with blankets, a basket of firewood and matches, and, on the hearth, a bottle of champagne with two gla.s.ses. ”What-? What's all this? How did you-?”
Nick put her down gently. ”I called the real-estate office from the road and asked Alice to set it up.”
”That's why she was late for closing.”
”Uh-huh. I wanted it to be a surprise-as my way of saying thank you.”
”It's a lovely surprise.” Stella threw her arms around her husband's neck and embraced him tightly. ”But why do you need to thank me?”
”For leaving New York. For moving here. For letting me pursue my career.” Nick brushed his lips against her dark blond hair.
She took a step back and looked into his dark hazel eyes. ”Hey, when we got married, we agreed that if, after five years, I still hadn't been promoted to curator, we'd move somewhere that would allow you to do fieldwork. That was the deal, right?”
”Yeah, but that was five years ago. Not many women would have stuck to it the way you did.”
”I stuck to it because I love you,” she said. ”And because I know that working a government desk job wasn't what you had in mind when you got your degree in forestry. But you turned down a field position and put your career on hold so that I could continue on at the museum.”
”And now you've put your career on hold for me.”
It was tempting to disclose her recent failure, to tell her husband about the Shelburne job and then take solace in his sheltering arms. But Nick had waited five years for this day, and Stella was determined not to let anything ruin it. ”What are you talking about? I haven't put anything on hold. I have a resume in with the Shelburne Museum, remember? I'm just waiting to hear if the job will come through.”
”And if it doesn't?”
”There are plenty of historical sites around that might need a curator.”
”Of medieval tapestries?” Nick raised a skeptical eyebrow.
”Of something,” Stella shrugged. ”Tapestries are my specialty, but I'm sure this area offers a whole realm of items that are just as interesting.”
”Yeah, I heard maple sugar buckets are fascinating. And then, of course, there's the farm equipment and milking machines.”
”Don't forget the antique cheese molds.”
”Why would someone visit a museum of moldy cheese?” Nick deadpanned.
Stella rolled her eyes. ”Whatever I decide to specialize in, rest a.s.sured that it will be something I enjoy.”
”I hope so. The new field position pays better than my desk job, so you don't have to settle for a job you don't like.”
”I know. I won't; I promise. Right now, however, we're celebrating you and your career and our new home ... after we unload that truck, of course.”
”No unloading the truck,” Nick contradicted with a smile.
”What do you mean, no unloading the truck?”
”Just that: no unloading the truck. Not today, anyway. We only have a couple hours of daylight left and, if my outdoorsman instinct is correct, it's going to rain any second now.”
Nick pointed to the set of twelve-over-twelve windows that punctuated the front of the living room window and paused, but the deluge he had predicted failed to materialize.