Free A Stranger in My Grave by Margaret Millar Page A

us to adopt one.”
    â€œNonsense. Of course she wants a child.” Adam spoke firmly, although he had no real convictions on the subject. Daisy, like most other women, had always puzzled him and always would. It seemed reasonable to suppose that she would want children, but she might have some deep, unspoken revulsion against adopting one. “The dream has confused her, Jim. Be patient. Play along with her.”
    â€œThat might do more harm than good.”
    â€œI don’t think so. In fact, I’m convinced this deathday business of hers will come to a dead end.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œThere’s no place else for it to go. She’s attempting the impossible.”
    â€œWhy are you so certain it’s impossible?”
    â€œBecause I’ve been trying the same thing,” Adam said. “The idea intrigued me, picking a day at random out of the past and reconstructing it. If it had been simply a matter of recalling a business appointment, I would have consulted my desk diary. But this was purely personal. Anyway, on Monday night, after the kids were in bed, Fran and I tried it. To make sure our choice of date was absolute chance, we picked it, blindfolded, from a set of calendars in the almanac. Now, Fran not only has a memory like an elephant, she also keeps a pretty complete record of thekids: baby books, report cards, artwork, and so on. But we didn’t get to first base. I predict Daisy will have a similar experience. It’s the kind of thing that sounds easy but isn’t. After Daisy runs into a few blind alleys, she’ll lose interest and give up. So let her run. Or better still, run with her.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œTry remembering her day yourself, whatever day it was. I’ve forgotten.”
    â€œIf you didn’t get to first base, how do you expect me to?”
    â€œI don’t expect you to. Just play along. Step up to the plate and swing.”
    â€œI don’t think Daisy would be fooled,” Jim said dryly. “Perhaps it would be better if I distracted her attention, took her on a trip, something like that.”
    â€œA trip might be fine.”
    â€œI have to go up north this weekend anyway to look at a parcel of land in Marin County. I’ll take Daisy along. She’s always liked San Francisco.”
    He spoke to Daisy about it that night after dinner, describing the trip, lunch at Cambria Pines, a stopover at Carmel, dinner at Amelio’s, a play at the Curran or the Alcazar, and afterwards a drink and floor show at the Hungry I. She looked at him as if he were proposing a trip to the moon in a rocket earned with Rice Krispies box tops.
    Her refusal was sharp and direct, with no hint of her usual hesitance. “I can’t go.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI have something important to attend to.”
    â€œSuch as?”
    â€œI’m doing—research.”
    â€œResearch?” He repeated the word as if it tasted foreign to his tongue. “I tried to phone you this afternoon three or four times. You were out again. You’ve been out every afternoon this week.”
    â€œThere have only been three afternoons in the week so far.”
    â€œEven so.”
    â€œYour meals are on time,” Daisy said. “Your house is well kept.”
    Her slight but definite emphasis on the word your made it sound to Jim as though she were disclaiming any further share or interest in the house, as if she had, in some obscure sense, moved out. “It’s our house, Daisy.”
    â€œVery well, our house. It’s well kept, isn’t it?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œThen why should it bother you if I go out during the after­noon while you’re at work?”
    â€œIt doesn’t bother me. It concerns me. Not your going out, your attitude.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter with my attitude?”
    â€œA week ago you wouldn’t have asked that, especially not in that