The Stars Are Fire(56)

Grace imagines telling her mother that it takes a very long time to buy a car.


The first place was clearly once a boardinghouse with its bare door and at least six vehicles parked in the driveway. The building is painted sky blue, the shutters pink, and there are rusted farm implements and children’s toys in the front yard.

“What do you think?” Grace asks. “Worth a try?”

John raises his eyebrows. “I don’t think I could stand coming home to a pink and blue house, and to judge from all the stuff in the yard, I’m guessing the interior isn’t up to much either.”

“If it were me,” Grace says, “I wouldn’t go inside.”

“That’s it then,” he says and gives her directions to the second place.


Grace pulls to a stop at the head of a driveway. It’s hard to tell if it’s a working farm or not. The buildings are well kept.

They are presented with three doors to choose from.

“Pretty barn,” Grace murmurs.

John heads for the main house. “This must be the kitchen door. With farm folk, that usually means the front door because the real front door is never opened.”

“How do you know so much about farms?”

“When I was in medical school, a doctor let me go with him on house calls.” John knocks, and a middle-aged woman, with her hair in a bun, and her face red (heat from the oven, Grace decides), opens the door.

“Hello, we’re here to see about the apartment to rent,” John explains.

“Yep,” the woman says, stepping aside.

Grace would like to rent the kitchen. The scent of sweet spices floods the room. She breathes deeply.

“It’s this way,” the farm woman says, opening another door. Grace has a sense that they’re now in the ell attached to the kitchen. “This used to be a sheep farm. Last October, when the sheep were out to the far pasture, fire come roaring down the hill like a dragon and burnt nearly all of them. They couldn’t get away. You could smell cooked meat for weeks. That’s why we’re renting out rooms, to make ends meet.”

“The fire didn’t touch the house,” Grace says.

“Nope.”

“You were lucky.”

“Don’t feel that way.” She stops and makes a short gesture with her hand. “This is it.”

Grace scans the room, large enough for a small sofa, an armchair, a table and two chairs. The woman has made an effort to transform what was essentially a place for tools into a cozy living room. The focal point is the fireplace. When the farm wife notices Grace’s glance, she says, “Fireplace draws good. I only put a hot plate out here case you want to make your own coffee. You always have access to the kitchen, and I make three meals a day. They’re included in the rent. You can eat with one of us, or bring your meal to the table here. As we go along, you can give me some idea of what you’d like. You plannin’ on having children?”

Grace and John look at each other.

“We’re not married,” John says. “Grace is my sister, and I’m John Lighthart,” he says, offering his hand. “Pardon my manners. I should have introduced us right away. Only I will be renting the apartment.”

“I mentioned it because I don’t rent to families. In the next room there, you’ll find the bed and the bathroom. Water pressure is good. It’s got electric heat, but you get too cold, just build up the fire with the wood.”

The apartment comes with a porch that faces out to pasture. Grace wanders into the bedroom as John emerges. There’s a white iron bed, a white bureau, fresh yellow and white striped wallpaper, a desk, and two more windows. A closet has been made by a curtain pulled across an alcove. She checks the bathroom. Old but clean. Well kept. Plenty of linens.

When she exits the bedroom, John blocks her way. “What do you think?” he asks in a low tone.

“I like it. The shared meals, I don’t know.”

“It’s perfect. I can’t cook, and I haven’t the time to do it.”

“You’ve certainly got a lot of scenery, four big windows. If I were you, I’d take it. Make the lease flexible in case the husband is intolerable.” She turns around. “Yes, this suits you, and look, it has bookshelves. You’ll get the cooking smells, since it’s attached to the kitchen. Eventually, you’ll have to tell them that you’re a doctor and have long hours. But I’d take it,” she says.

“One good turn deserves another,” he says. “You followed my advice; I’ll follow yours.”

Dr. Lighthart moves toward the farm wife. “I think I’ll take it,” he says, “if we can work out terms.”

“It’s sixty-five dollars a month, with meals, heat, hot water, electric, and laundry included. Rent due the first of the month. We live our life the way we live our life. You’ll hear sounds from the kitchen, I don’t doubt, and the cars coming and going, but the walls are as solid as can be. The house was built in 1720, this ell in 1790. Built as a passageway from the barn to the house. Man was supposed to get hisself clean before he come into the kitchen. I don’t like a dirty kitchen, and my mother didn’t either.”

“Well, can we just assume this is the first of the month?” the doctor asks, counting out the bills for the farm woman.