One Bad Apple Read Online Free Page B

the subject.
    Funny thing—she didn’t remember seeing the orchard.
    Almost thirty years later, here she was. It was a good thing she hadn’t remembered the house, or she would never have agreed to her mother’s scheme. Western Massachusetts in January was cold and damp when it wasn’t snowing; the house was correspondingly cold and damp. And she was beginning to wonder if the house resented her: from the day she had arrived, things had started to fall apart. First she had discovered that the heating system was on its last legs (if heating systems had legs), and she couldn’t use the handsome fireplace in the front room unless she relined the flue, which would cost a few thousand dollars. And all the original multipaned windows leaked like sieves, sending eddies of cold air through every room in unexpected locations, but storm windows would cost another few thousand dollars.
    What had she been thinking? Meg, you’re an idiot! You should have taken one look and gone straight back to Boston and found yourself another nice, safe—clean! warm!—job in finance. She had solid skills, a good track record, and connections—she could have found something. Let Mom worry about renovating this dump—or maybe just razing it and letting some college professor build the minimansion he wanted, full of brushed steel and plate glass. Meg was beginning to wonder if she could possibly make enough money out of the sale to justify all the work she was putting into the place, not to mention the cash. Right, Mom— a little cleanup, a few touches here and there, and call the Realtor. Ha! Why would anyone want to buy a house with wonky heating, plumbing, and wiring? And even if they were crazy enough to overlook those not-so-little flaws, it was hard to see past the flaking paint, peeling (and hideous) wallpaper, cracking plaster, creaking boards … the list went on and on. Any sensible home buyer would take one look and run.
    But still … Meg drifted over to the parlor window that overlooked her driveway. Beyond it, past the level patch of lawn, the far side of the rustic split-rail fence, the ground sloped down to a sea of grass, golden now in winter, and then to the dark tree line. It was soothing, peaceful, lovely.
    With her luck it was a swamp, complete with a population of monster mosquitoes.
    The to-do list just kept growing. She had blithely assumed that it would take only a couple of months to whip the place into shape and put it on the market. But she hadn’t taken into account the fact that there was no way to paint the exterior until the weather warmed up. Or deal with the roof and gutters. Or repoint the foundation—the latest addition to the list, thanks to Frances. As the to-do list lengthened, the projected renovation expenses increased, and the bottom line scared Meg, especially since she knew the tally was still incomplete.
    But then, there was the orchard …
    Meg lifted her chin. If she couldn’t tackle the outside projects now, that left all the inside chores. Unfortunately, every time she took a step forward, something fell on her head. She had been looking forward to stripping off the tacky wallpaper in the parlor, but when she had pulled at a loose corner, she found the plaster underneath—apparently original to the house, if the clumps of horsehair in it were any indication—was crumbling, and if she wanted to paint or paper it over again, it would have to be repaired, filled in, spackled—whatever the heck it was called. And she was scared to start stripping paint off the interior woodwork when she couldn’t open the windows for ventilation. She had visions of herself overcome with fumes, and no one finding her body for months. Although her corpse would probably freeze before it rotted.
    So the calendar kept shifting forward. Frances said May was a good time to sell, so she was going to focus on putting the house on the market then. Lots of families looked to move at the end of the school year when the