Chapter Four
“You’ve never mentioned any cousins before,” said David.
“Oh, yes,” called Meredith from the kitchen, the rest of his words lost under the sound of running water as he rinsed the plaster from his hands in the kitchen sink—
“What was that?” asked David as Meredith returned to the living room.
“I said,” said Meredith, slathering lotion onto his hands and tattooed forearms, “I’ve got loads and loads of them.”
#26: He is fanatical about hand lotion and leaves bottles of it all throughout the house.
“That many,” said David.
“Absolute bucketfuls of cousins,” Meredith confirmed. “Genevieve’s my favorite, though. Have we got anything to serve with tea?”
“I think there’s some of the marble cake left that you made Tuesday.”
“You don’t think it’s gone stale?”
“If it has, that’s all the more reason to—”
“Oh!” Meredith’s cry of recollection interrupted David’s pragmatism. “The Battenberg!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I was making a Battenberg cake. Am making,” he amended. “Baked the sponge last night when I came back from Mrs. J’s, I just have to finish it—oh, but the hallway.”
“I’ll take care of the hallway,” said David decisively.
“You handle the cake and put the kettle on.” As much as he hated being left to deal with the fallout of Meredith’s various art projects, even less could he abide the thought of failing to offer proper refreshments to a guest. (His mother, rest her soul, would have been horrified at the very idea.)
David hid away the stepladder and plaster, shoving them unceremoniously back into the coat closet.
(Placing them in Meredith’s room would have meted out the appropriate comeuppance but would also have required carting them upstairs.) He cleaned the hallway floor and returned to the living room, tuning out the various curses and expressions of dismay emanating from the kitchen, and finally managed to put a record on.
He chose neither Edith Piaf, as threatened, nor any of Meredith’s collection, which he classified disparagingly under the nebulous heading of postpunk.
Instead, he chose a Vivaldi record, long abandoned by some housemate of the distant past, set to low volume.
“Oh, kill me dead,” Meredith lamented from the kitchen, “the marzipan’s gone all wrong.”
“Sure it’s not just you?”
The indignant reply was drowned out by the knocking at the front door. Bianca leapt up and yipped ferociously at the as-yet-unidentified intruder, rushing across the hardwood floor to precede David into the front hall.
“No, Bianca,” David ordered, and pointed back to the living room. “Go on.”
With a tiny grumble that David was sure held resentment, she obeyed and retreated.
He answered the door and found himself face-to-face with a blond woman who was very buxom, extraordinarily beautiful, and carrying a designer handbag that could have held Bianca several times over. If David had had the slightest bit of attraction to women, it would’ve been all over for him.
“This is Midnight Cottage?” she asked.
“It is, yes. You must be Genevieve.” At her look of suspicion, David clarified, “We spoke on the phone. Do come in. Schw—er, Meredith’s just in the other room.” He supposed he’d have to resort to his proper name now that there were multiple Schwarzwelders in the house. “I’ll get him, shall I?”
As he escorted Genevieve into the living room, he took the opportunity to surreptitiously study her face.
The resemblance between her and Meredith was so strong the two of them could have been brother and sister.
They had the same broad cheekbones and wide jaw, lending a certain soft roundness to the cheeks.
(While he was apparently attempting to create the illusion of prominent cheekbones with the ill-advised sideburns, she had accomplished the effect rather more successfully through a severe use of contouring makeup.) Both, too, had the faintest aquiline curve to the nose, though Genevieve’s eyes were a brighter and more piercing shade of blue, and she was a true golden blonde, even if nature had been enhanced by a few carefully placed platinum highlights.
And while Genevieve’s figure couldn’t be described as anything but ample, Meredith was decidedly skinny—not exactly of a slight build, but what David’s mother would have called rawboned.
As Meredith had still not emerged to greet his guest, David excused himself and continued into the kitchen, where steam wafted from the spout of the floral-patterned teapot.
He inhaled the calming aroma of fresh-brewed tea—and then faced the decidedly less calming sight of Meredith holding a butcher knife, even if it was only to slice the sad and misshapen marzipan-covered lump on the plate in front of him.
(He fancied himself a hobby baker, and while the results were most often passably edible, they were just as often aesthetic monstrosities.)
“Oh dear,” said David.
“I did try,” said Meredith mournfully. “I suppose it’s the sort of thing one can’t rush.”
David decided it best not to comment further. “Your sister is here.”
“She’s my cousin.”
“Oh, yes, you said.”
“I haven’t got a sister.”
Of course Meredith was an only child. That explained a great deal.
“Anyway, she’s waiting. I think you’ve got as far as you can hiding in here.”
“I’m not hiding! I was making the tea.”
#27: He is most certainly hiding.
Why he was hiding from his supposedly favorite cousin, David couldn’t imagine, nor would he venture to guess; he’d long since given up trying to make sense of Meredith’s motivations.
“Of course,” agreed David. “Go on, then. I’ll get out of the way and let you two catch up.”
Meredith caught at David’s sleeve. “Don’t you dare,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare leave me alone with her. I need you for moral support.”
“Moral support,” repeated David skeptically. “For what? Afraid she’ll criticize your cake decorating?”
“I mean it! You don’t know Genevieve, she’s a blond bulldozer. Whenever she wants something, she’ll run you right over if you stand in her way.”
It was not without a certain wistfulness that David’s thoughts drifted to the house listings waiting for him just a few rooms away. “You don’t even know what it is that she wants.”
“Please, David.”
#28: He can put on the most unfairly effective puppy dog eyes.
David relented. “Oh, all right.” After all, he’d have plenty of time when Meredith finally left for work, and he did owe David a proper cup of tea after the earlier fiasco.
Besides, with any luck, in a month or two he’d be out of here.
No more cousins being sprung upon him, no more frescoes on the ceilings, no more nonsensical talk of vultures and unicorns and goldfish.
In short—and best of all—no more Meredith.
“Come on, then.” David took up the tea tray and shepherded Meredith, bearing the attempted Battenberg, into the living room.
Genevieve had settled onto the sofa and shrugged off her rose pink overcoat, which was adorned with a generous amount of cat hair (and which Bianca regarded from afar with an expression of disdain).
“Genevieve!” Depositing the cake plate on the table, Meredith leaned in for the usual business of embrace and air-kiss. “It’s been ages.”
“It has,” she agreed. “You’re a hard one to pin down.”
She, too, spoke in that same odd mix of accents, David noted as he poured the tea, but without the alterations and embellishments that characterized Meredith’s speech.
“What brings you to the neighborhood?” Meredith asked, automatically reaching for the first cup.
David swatted his hand away. “Guests are served first.”
Undeterred, Meredith took a slice of cake and draped himself over the armchair, sprawling out across the seat and letting one knee dangle over its upholstered arm.
#29: He appears physically incapable of sitting in a chair in any respectable fashion.
“I actually wanted—oh, thank you,” Genevieve interrupted herself, accepting the tea from David. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“This is David,” said Meredith, an odd note of pride in his voice. “He’s lived here five years, can you imagine?”
“You’ve lived here longer,” said David irritably. He wasn’t sure what there was to criticize about having a stable living situation. He wasn’t, in the end, sure that it was a criticism, but it certainly sounded like one. Then again, with Meredith, one never could tell.
“I know! Nobody else has stuck with me for so long,” he said in admiration.
Not for much longer, if David had his way.
He placed the next cup on the end of the coffee table nearest Meredith, poured one more for himself, and joined Genevieve on the sofa. Bianca hopped up next to Meredith, squeezing herself into the space between his side and the arm of the chair.
Genevieve took a polite sip of tea and cleared her throat. “Okay, I’m just going to say it. No offense to you, Dave—”
“David,” he corrected automatically.
“—but this is probably better off as a private conversation.”
So that was Meredith’s game.
#30: In spite of all his airy manner and vagueness, he really can be quite crafty at times.
“My apologies,” said David, “I’ll just—”
“Nonsense,” said Meredith without any apparent concern. “Anything you want to talk to me about, you can say in front of David.” He leaned forward to swap his cake—which he set down on the as-yet-unpaid electric bill—with his teacup. “We haven’t any secrets.”
“I see,” said Genevieve.
David rather wished he wouldn’t say such things, and that she wouldn’t believe him.
Fixing her intense blue gaze on Meredith, she said without further preamble, “We need to talk about the wedding.”
“Oh, yes?” he asked brightly, and took a sip of tea. “Whose wedding?”
Genevieve stared in disbelief, a reaction David was all too familiar with himself. “Florian’s, obviously.”
The change that came over Meredith was astonishing. He froze, teacup in midair, and never had David seen that foolish grin drain away faster.
“Florian’s getting married?”