Rotten to the Core (23 page)

Seth leaned closer to get a better look, and Meg was suddenly aware of his nearness. He seemed oblivious, though, as he pointed to the map. “And here’s the Chapin property—you can see where the creek formed the northern boundary. Stills does.”

“I don’t think I’ve gone that far yet. So this part over here would be the wetlands?” As she pointed, Meg moved to put a little space between them.

“Yup. Anyway, as far as the antique apple butter goes, I think you’d better get rid of it—maybe away from the house? Who knows what it’s turned into by now. You might want to keep the jar, though. Nice artifact.”

“I’ll add it to my collection,” Meg said drily, depositing it cautiously in the sink. “Can we get on with it? I’d like to finish this project before summer.”

When Seth had unscrewed the newer cabinets from the wall and hauled them out of the kitchen, Meg was cheered by how open the room felt. She was less happy with the dirt of ages that emerged from under the cabinets and appliances. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or depressed to find that she was not the only careless housekeeper to inhabit the house. Seth went back to the van and hauled out a Shop-Vac, which took care of the floor debris in short order. Before doing anything else, he squatted, studying the floor while raking over it lightly at a low angle with his hand. “Good news—no protruding nailheads. They can destroy a sandpaper disk in no time. We’re all set.”

He stood up again and wheeled in the big machine, parking it proudly in the middle of the kitchen. “This, ma’am, is a disk sander, which uses, as you might infer, disks of sandpaper.”

“Um, yes, I can see that. So you swipe that over the floor and it removes . . . whatever?”

“Not quite that simple. This should take a couple of passes, with different grits of sandpaper. The coarse grits will remove most of the dirt and any old wax that might still be there. Then you switch to a finer grit to smooth things off and remove the obvious scratches.”

“Aren’t you worried about taking too much off?”

“Well, with a modern floor you should consider that, but you’ve got some serious boards here. I doubt they’ve ever been sanded. I’d worry more about rippling or gouging with the machine, although that’s more of a problem with a belt sander. Anyway, the wood’s been seasoned for a couple of hundred years and should be pretty hard. Best way to find out is for me to try a patch, get the feel of it.”

“Hang on a sec, Seth. Do I get to do any of this, or do I just watch you do all the work and hand you a cool drink and make admiring noises now and then?”

He grinned at her. “Am I taking over again? It’s your kitchen, so of course you can do the honors. I was just trying to tell you what to watch out for.”

“Duly noted. So what do I do?”

“Safety first. Ear protection and a dust mask. Otherwise you’ll be coughing up sawdust for weeks.” He handed her a pair of plastic ear protectors and a disposable mask, which she put on.

I must look like a Martian by now
, Meg thought, but at least she knew she was well protected. “Now what?”

Seth ran an extension cord from an outlet and plugged in the machine. Then he came up and stood behind her and guided her hands to the sander’s handles.

She was startled by the feel of his body against hers, although she tried not to show it; after all, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t ever touched her before. But he hadn’t made any move toward repeating it, since that one night . . . And now he was just trying to demonstrate how the machine worked, right? He didn’t mean anything by it. She tried to focus on what he was saying rather than on the way his hands closed over hers, guiding her motions.

Seth seemed unaware of her stiffness. “This thing here turns it on. This one lowers the disk. Once the disk is down, move slowly along the grain of the wood. It’s no big deal if you go sideways, but try to stick to the grain as much as you can. If you have to stop moving, don’t leave the disk down or you’ll end up with dips or gouges. Think you can handle it?”

She nodded. She wasn’t about to admit to him that she wasn’t sure. This was her house, and she was going to do whatever came along, not just sit back and watch someone else do the work. It was a point of pride. “Let’s go!”

She turned on the switch, then lowered the rotating disk until it was on the floor. Immediately the whole machine tried to skitter sideways, but she wrestled it under control and aimed it down the length of the pine boards.

“Keep it moving!” Seth yelled. Seth kept his hands on the controls until she got the hang of it, then stepped back and watched.

Meg took a step forward, then another, struggled to keep the beast moving in a more-or-less straight line. She looked down at the area she had already passed over and almost stopped: the difference was startling. What had been grimy and yellow emerged as clean and golden. Sawdust floated through the air; the scent of wood filled the kitchen. Meg felt an unexpected surge of emotion. This wood had been cut over two hundred years earlier, probably by her own ancestors in her own backyard, and had stood the test of time. Now she was bringing it back to life.

She reached the end of the floor and realized she hadn’t asked Seth how to turn around. Quickly she turned off the machine, which quivered to a stop. She turned to find Seth leaning against one of the remaining cabinets, with a big grin on his face. “Problem?” he asked.

“No, I love it. I just didn’t know if there was a right way to turn and go back the other way. That looks amazing!” She pointed at the newly clean strip. “I had no idea it would look so good.”

“Yeah, that’s one of the rewards of sanding. It’s like making it new. Well, since you’re shut down, just swing the whole thing around and come back this way.”

“Right, chief.” With greater confidence she switched it on again, lowered the disk, and plowed forward, this time pivoting smoothly at the far end. At the end of ten passes the floor stood revealed, with only the edges to remind her of what it had looked like before. She turned off the machine again.

“Wow. I really like this. What do we do now?”

“Change the sandpaper to a finer grit and do it all again. Oh, maybe we should clean up the edges so they match. Not as much fun, but necessary.”

“With that smaller sander?”

“That’s right. You want me to do it?”

“Sure, you do it. I want to save my strength for the real work.”

Seth gave a snort but grabbed the smaller sander and, kneeling down, started sanding around the perimeter of the room with it. He moved with practiced skill, and as Meg watched, sawdust coated his arms like powdered sugar on a donut. Meg laughed at the image and realized she was actually giddy with a sense of accomplishment. All those years of apartment living, and she had barely changed a lightbulb; now she was sanding floors. How much her life had changed in only a few months—and Seth had been a big part of that change. If she hadn’t needed a plumber in a hurry, she probably wouldn’t have met him. And if she hadn’t met him, she probably would have packed up her bags and left town as quickly as she had arrived, overwhelmed by both events and by the daunt ingly unfamiliar task of renovating this house. At least now she could look around and see real, tangible progress. More than progress: improvement. What she had done actually looked good, and she was beginning to enjoy the process.

What would her Boston friends think? Yesterday she had learned to drive a tractor. Today, she was sanding the floor. And she had a pair of goats in the pasture. Those so-called friends would be shocked, amazed—and probably contemptuous.
Poor Meg, she’s gone country. Thinks she’s a rustic Martha Stewart now. Next she’ll be baking bread and putting up jam. Or making goat cheese and spinning her own yarn.

Meg realized she didn’t care. When she’d been suspected of murder, only one of her Boston friends had even bothered to talk to her. The people of Granford had shown more concern and consideration for her than anyone from her past life. Particularly Seth and his sister Rachel. And here Seth was, sanding her floor—and looking as though he was happy to do it. She was startled by the silence when he shut off the smaller sander, and realized he had made the full circuit.

He stood up and dusted himself off. “Why don’t you run the Shop-Vac over the floor so we can see what we’re doing, and then you can make another pass with the big machine? I’ll change the sandpaper.”

“No problem. Seth, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. I wouldn’t have known where to start, and you’ve made it so easy.”

“That’s what friends are for, right?”

Friends
?
Is that what we are?
Meg thought as she plugged in the vacuum. The term seemed kind of inadequate, considering what they’d been through together in the past couple of months. And once he moved into her barn, he was definitely going to be a part of her life on a daily basis. Was that good or bad?

She shoved the question away.
Not now, not yet.
And Seth was equally helpful and engaging with everyone he knew. Wasn’t he?

The floor now clear of sawdust, Meg turned off the vacuum. “It looks terrific. It changes the whole room, doesn’t it?”

“It does. This is a great room, with all the light—those windows on both sides. And maybe you can match the old cabinets with something similar, if you need more storage space.”

“And appliances, don’t forget. This looks so good, I can’t see putting those old pieces of junk back in here. I guess I’d better take myself over to the home store and order something.”

“Listen,” Seth began, “I know a guy over in—”

“I’m sure you do,” Meg broke in, laughing. “Fine, tell me his name. But first we’ve got to use the fine sandpaper on the floor, right?”

“Your sander awaits.” Seth installed a fresh sandpaper disk and handed the sander over to her.

Another round of sanding, vacuuming, sanding, vacuuming. Finally Seth gave his approval to the smooth and dust-free floor. “You do good work, Meg.”

“I’m learning. Now polyurethane?”

“Three coats. And you need to give the polyurethane time to dry in between. So even if you start tomorrow, you won’t be able to use the room before Friday, most likely.”

“That’s not a problem—I can make do with the microwave for a few days.”

“Why not call Rachel? She’d love to have you.”

“Oh, no, Seth. I can’t expect Rachel to bail me out. I’ll be fine here. Besides, I have a cat to feed.”

“It’s up to you. Now, when you go to the home store, you’re going to need—”

“Stop!” Meg held up a hand. “Leave me something to figure out on my own, okay? I can read a label, and there’s always the Internet.”

“I guess I take the big-brother role kind of seriously. I’m sure you can handle it.” He stretched. “I should head out—Mom’s expecting me for dinner. Good luck, and let me know if you run into any problems.”

“I’ll do that.” Meg watched as he hauled the big sander out of the kitchen and loaded it into his van, then followed suit with the smaller one. From start to finish, the whole thing had taken her less than six hours, and the floor looked wonderful. Lolly wandered in from wherever she had been hiding to escape the noise and mess and stopped at the threshold, looking surprised. She took a tentative step onto the now-bare surface, then decided it was acceptable and crossed the floor to Meg.

“You want dinner, huh? Well, let me tell you, you’re going to be eating in the dining room until I get some finish on this, you hear?”

She fed the cat, then rummaged for her own meal in the refrigerator—now standing monument-like in the dining room—and found herself at loose ends by eight o’clock. She could do nothing more with the floor at the moment, but she could at least do a little online research into the finer points of floor finishing, old-house variety. She opened her laptop and started searching. As she read through the various sites, she felt more and more smug that she (with a little help from Seth) had already accomplished the first, difficult sanding phase. She pulled out a pad and started jotting down the equipment she was going to need: a lambs-wool applicator; a respirator, perhaps; more sandpaper, definitely; a pole sander, which was basically a sanding pad on a long handle, but which would save her from trying to do the whole thing on her hands and knees; and tack cloths, whatever they were.

She wandered from one website to the next, learning such useful trivia as the fact that oil-based polyurethane finishes had been around for over seventy years and had first been developed for bowling alleys. In that case, it should be more than sufficient to protect her floor, which received far less wear and tear than a bowling alley.

Meg rolled her shoulders to loosen them and realized she was exhausted. It had been a busy day, and tomorrow promised to be as well. She had a class on Tuesday and hadn’t yet managed to finish the reading. She should go to bed and get a fresh start in the morning. But as she sat staring at her computer screen, she found herself thinking about Jason’s death. Perversely, she admitted to herself, she wanted to know how long it might have taken Jason to die. Daphne had said that he was fine at midnight when she’d last seen him. How long would he have been able to function after he was given—or took—the poison?

She typed in “methidathion” in her search engine and waited for results. She was rewarded with a wealth of information, and it wasn’t pretty. Symptoms: headache, dizziness, blurred vision, anxiety, restlessness, weakness, nausea, cramps, sweating, salivation, runny nose, teary eyes, twitching, confused or bizarre behavior, convulsions, coma. Something for everyone on that list. But how long would it take to act? She scrolled through pages. Finally she found a brief mention buried in the midst of a long list of warnings and disclaimers: symptoms develop within twelve hours, and more likely within four. That fit what she knew, especially if it had been a large dose. She printed out the most succinct of the warning pages, because she wanted to study it more closely.