35. Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Three
1950
T hat spring, as Diana’s business was growing steadily, she and her mother got a new neighbor. The house next door, a two-story clapboard house, had been empty since the death of the previous owner. Through the grapevine, Millie had learned that it was a man moving in, a professor up at the college.
Millie couldn’t hide her disappointment. “I was hoping for a young family or a woman my age.” Despite only living in Lavender Bay for a few years, she had built up a nice network of friends. The elderly lady who’d previously lived next door had struck up a friendship with Millie over the small white picket fence that separated the two properties.
When Diana didn’t comment, her mother said, “A college professor. A bachelor. He’s probably one of those stuffy types. Smoking a pipe and talking over your head.” This information and the presence of a new neighbor had no bearing on Diana’s life, so she only half listened.
She was walking home one evening after dropping off some mending for a woman whose baby had arrived three weeks early and who was unable to come over and pick up her clothes. Although the air was cool, it was filled with the smell of wet earth and hope. Some of the trees had small, mossy green buds on them. Summer was coming.
It was almost dark by the time she arrived home. The light was on in the front parlor, casting a square of amber out onto the front porch. Diana opened the front door and announced as she walked in, “Ma, the baby is fine for coming early—”
But she pulled up short when she realized her mother was not alone. A man sat in the never-used wing chair by the fireplace. “Oh, I’m sorry, excuse me,” she said. “I didn’t know we had company.” Immediately she realized this must be the new neighbor.
The man jumped to his feet and stepped forward, extending his hand. “Mark Sturges.”
His hand was warm and firm as she shook it. Whatever she’d been expecting of the new neighbor, this wasn’t it. He was older—he had to be close to forty—but he wasn’t ancient, like she’d been expecting. There was a faint aroma of tobacco circling him that was not unpleasant. He wore a suit. He was half a foot taller than she and had a fine head of dark hair that he wore short and parted on one side.
Her mother stood from her rocker by the front window and held out her arm toward her. “This is my daughter, Diana, who I was telling you about.”
What was there to tell?
“Ah, the name Diana, meaning heavenly or divine,” he said with a smile.
Oh, dear Lord, she thought.
She waited for his gaze to travel to her headscarf, but it never did, his eyes remaining firmly locked on hers. His were as blue as sapphires.
“Sit down, Diana,” her mother said as she and Mark returned to their chairs. “I invited Mark over for the evening. I might have pulled him away from something important.”
Mark laughed. “Not really. The company is nice.”
Diana sat down on the sofa and crossed her legs.
He pulled a pipe out of his pocket, held it up, and said, “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Of course not,” Diana said.
He retrieved a pouch from his other pocket, dipped his pipe into it, and shook off the excess. He lit it with a match and took a few satisfactory puffs. Soon the parlor was filled with the scent of cherry tobacco.
“Your mother tells me you’re a seamstress,” he said.
She shot her mother a glance, wondering what else she’d told him.
“Yes, I am.”
“That’s a handy skill to have.”
“Mark teaches up at the university,” Millie said. “And he’s doing research on Jacques Aubert. Mark, what got you interested in our town founder?”
He appeared thoughtful and took a few puffs of his pipe before answering. “I liked his story. How he was blown off course and ended up here, naming the place for its beautiful lavender skies. It’s almost like poetry.”
Neither Diana nor her mother commented. Diana knew nothing about poetry, so she figured she should keep her mouth shut.
“Are you researching him for your job?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. I’ve been fascinated by his story for a long time. I thought it might be fun to look into him.”
Diana could think of other ways to have fun but said nothing.
“Good for you,” Millie said.
Diana shot her mother a tone it down look .
“Where do you plan on doing your research?” Millie asked.
Diana almost snorted and was tempted to say, Try the local cemetery .
“That’s the problem,” Mark said. “He has been dead for a long time. The library will be a good start, and the historical society. And the cemetery. Although I gather there’s no marker for his grave.”
Diana shrugged. She knew nothing about Jacques Aubert or his grave, whereabouts known or unknown.
There was no more talk about the founding father of Lavender Bay. But they quickly got used to Mark’s presence in their house. Diana could find no serious fault with him. She’d learned that he taught history over at the college. He kept his pipe and his pouch of cherry-flavored tobacco within reach at all times, the same way she always carried her cigarette case in a pocket of her dress. She thought the pipe made him look stodgy, but she also got the impression he didn’t care what he looked like.
He walked over on the odd evening and as the weather got warmer, he sat out on the porch with them. Her mother kept a steady stream of pies and cakes going over to his house. On occasion, he joined them for dinner, always complimenting Millie on the meal.
But he had one habit Millie had to put a stop to. Every time she or Diana entered a room, he stood up. Every time . Finally, she told him, “Mark, you must stop getting up every time we enter the room. It’s unsettling.”
To which Diana had joked, “You’re beginning to look like a jack-in-the-box.”
In the beginning, she wondered why he didn’t just stay in his own house; did he really need to be entertained all the time? But her mother was always more than happy to sit with him and chat. She liked to fuss over him. It was only when her mother explained to her that he had been married once and that his wife had died in childbirth along with their baby, a son, that Diana softened toward him. That was sad, and she felt sorry for him.
“Tell me, Diana, do you play chess?” Mark asked one evening as they sat out on the porch. Summer had ended, and they were already halfway through the month of September. The night air had turned chilly, and Diana had needed to go back inside for her cardigan and her mother’s shawl. It would probably be one of the last times they’d be able to sit outside that year.
She tilted her head to one side and asked with a pointed look, “Do I look like a chess player?”
Her mother’s expression was aghast. “Diana! Mark asked you a simple question.”
Diana reddened. “Sorry.”
But Mark was laughing. “You don’t hold back, do you?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“That’s all right. Everyone will always know where they stand with you.” He took a puff of his pipe.
Diana tried again. “Mark, I do not play chess,” she said politely to appease her mother.
“I can teach you,” he offered.
“We don’t have a chess set here,” she said, looking around as if one might magically appear. She looked over to her mother, who shook her head.
He said no more about it and after another half hour, he stood and left, bidding them both a good night. They watched as he walked along the sidewalk, taking everything in, pipe in hand.
“He’s such a nice man,” her mother said with a smile.
Diana couldn’t argue with that.