The Unforgiven Read Online Free Page B

good,” Maggie said doubtfully.
    “You want to see it?” Blair asked. “We’ll take a runout there.” He was already wrestling his pea coat off a hanger in the closet.
    Maggie stood up. “What about the people who own it? Do they come in the summer?”
    “The Thornhills? Maybe a week or two. They’re off on a cruise now. We’ll figure it out when they get back, if you like the place.”
    “I’d like to see it,” Maggie ventured.
    The old man had already opened the door of the real estate office and stepped out on the porch. “Rain’s letting up a bit,” he observed. “It’s just misting now.”
    Maggie joined him on the porch.
    “My car’s over there,” he said, pointing to a battered old station wagon parked by the curb. “You don’t want that apartment,” he said, jerking his chin toward the luncheonette up the block. “This’ll suit you much better.”
    Silently hoping that he was right, Maggie followed the realtor down the steps to the car.
    The Thornhill place was set far back from the road. Its weathered clapboards were barely visible through the fir trees as Henry Blair turned up the driveway. The nearest neighbors were not even in sight of the house, Maggie noted with satisfaction. It was away from any other people. It was just what she wanted.
    “This is it,” Blair announced, pulling his car up in front of the garage. Maggie looked over toward the house. The outside of it looked worn, but it still retained a kind of stark charm with its gray siding and black trim. Skeletons of rose bushes twined around the front door.
    Blair got out of the car and motioned for Maggie to follow. “I’d better see if this car still runs, before we even look inside. No point in looking if the car don’t work, right?” He grinned pleasantly at Maggie, who nodded in agreement.
    The old realtor began tugging on the iron handle that opened the garage. “Have a look around the place,” he suggested, “while I fiddle with this.”
    Maggie did as she was bidden, passing by the back porch steps and looking up at the screen door and the darkened windows. The quietness of the house seemed oddly comforting, as if it stood ready to protect her solitude. Maggie continued on around to the back of the house and looked out.
    It was a rugged, disorderly piece of property. Directly behind the house was a field of long grass, now turning silver, and a thick grove of pine trees hedged the left perimeter of the land. The weak, gray light of the day was not strong enough to penetrate the grove and illuminate its dark recesses. The faint rustle of pine needles and waving grass softened the hardy landscape.
    Maggie scanned the field and rise behind it, covered with scrubby bushes of bittersweet. Her eyes rested on the naked upper branches of a clump of crab-apple trees, just visible over the rise. A few wizened apples still clung to the thin, gray branches. Maggie headed toward the trees, wading through the tall grass and climbing up the rise. She saw that it fell off steeply on the other side, to the bank of a brook below.
    Maggie stood on a flat rock and surveyed the area. The icy water burbled over the stream’s rocky bed.Across the brook Maggie spotted a tree frog squatting gingerly on a slick-surfaced stone, staring at her with lazy black eyes. She held her breath, so as not to scare it off. A sense of peace tinged with loneliness settled over her. She felt at ease here. The land was an undreamed-of luxury.
    The sudden roar of an engine broke the spell. The frog leaped off the rock and into the rushing stream. Maggie turned and started back toward the garage, picking her way through the grasses.
    “Got her going,” said Blair, beaming, as Maggie entered the garage.
    “Great,” Maggie assured him.
    “Let’s have a look through the house now,” he said, getting out of the car and switching off the engine.
    It was not a large house by island standards, but it was clean and well kept. All of the living area was on