Second Chance at Love

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  Poppy had hired a cut-rate sign painter. The poor guy had confused the ampersand, that squiggly little symbol for the word “and” with a capital “E”. Mom begged her father to get the sign fixed, but Poppy thought it a hoot and flatly refused. That was Poppy, stubborn as they come and very, very pleased with himself.

  “Why mess with perfection?” He'd waggle those caterpillar-like eyebrows of his.

  Mom's nostrils would turn white with anger, and she'd stomp away. During every visit to Stuart, Mom and Poppy would quarrel with each other at least once or twice.

  My father was different. He knew exactly how to manipulate the old man. Dad would buy a piece of junk for us to drive down to Florida. A car on its metaphorical “last legs.” Once we arrived at Poppy's place, Dad would turn the keys over to my grandfather. While Dad and I went fishing—Stuart is the Sailfish Capital of the World—Poppy would work on the car. Mom would shop or curl up with a good book in the apartment above The Treasure Chest. After receiving two weeks of Poppy's careful attention, the dilapidated vehicle would be “good as new.” Dad would drive us back to St. Louis where he'd sell the car for a small profit, usually to someone who desperately needed reliable transportation but didn't have a lot of money.

  “One man's trash,” Dad was fond of saying, “is another man's treasure.”

  That was my Dad.

  How I missed him. It wasn't that I hadn't loved my mother. It was just that our relationship was so much more complicated.

  As I parked my Camry, I noticed OUT OF ORDER scribbled on dirty sheets of typing paper and taped to all the gas pumps.

  What was that about?

  The sight of my car had caused Poppy to look up from his crossword puzzle. The dirty glass of his front window made it hard for him to see, so he squinted and then slowly got to his feet.

  Grabbing my purse and climbing out of the car, I met him halfway, noting as I did, the familiar tang of saltwater and tar. The St. Lucie River was less than two blocks away, and just beyond that lay the ocean. Sewall's Point, a narrow spit of land, divided the two bodies of water.

  “Cara Mia! What a surprise.”

  He looked thinner than ever, a state confirmed when I hugged him.

  “Hey, Poppy. Glad to see you. Thanks again for coming up for Mom's funeral,” I said carefully. Whether he overlooked my implied complaint about missing Dad's funeral on purpose or by accident, I couldn't tell. Poppy was always hard to read.

  “Sad times,” he said, as he held me at arms' length. As always, his nails were black with dirt that would never come out, no matter how much Lava soap he used. “You've packed on a few extra pounds, haven't you?”

  Nice. Good to see you, too!

  After thirty seconds with Poppy, I already wished I hadn't stopped.

  “Yes, a few,” I admitted, trying not to show how my irritation. “I tried to drown my troubles in pasta. All that rich Italian food we cook at the restaurant has given me a Kim Kardashian booty.”

  “A what kind of booty?” He slung an arm around my shoulders. Poppy smelled, as always, of motor oil and Aqua Velva. His affection was unstudied and generous. It was his temper and his stubbornness that made him difficult. A real Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde type of personality.

  “Never mind. Look, I was on my way to University of Miami for Parents' Weekend and Black Beauty started acting weird.”

  “You were going where?” He looked hurt. “Driving right past me?”

  Oops.

  “I planned to see you on my way back,” I said, keeping my tone light.

  “On the way back, huh?” He looked at me skeptically. “Well, take a load off while I look this car over.”

  His open palm requested the car keys. I handed them over, as a feeling of defeat dragged me down. Already we'd gotten off on the wrong foot. While he clomped over to my car, I stepped inside the gas station, letting the door close behind me. But I didn't get far. A foul fishy smell hit me so hard I thought I'd heave. I pivoted and staggered out of the shop. Once on the concrete surrounds, I battled to keep from puking.

  “Uh, Poppy?” I tapped him on the shoulder as he poked around under Black Beauty's hood. “What happened in there? It smells to high heaven.”

  Poppy grinned. “Pump on the shiners' tank just went out.”

  The pump just went out? Ha! Those fish must have been dead for a week to stink like that.

  “Been too busy to see to them fish. You're just lucky I finished my last job earlier today. My services are in constant demand.” His chest puffed out with pride.

  Dad had always said that Poppy lived for his work. My grandfather could fix anything on wheels. Certainly, he seemed happiest with his head under the hood of a car. The old man fairly glowed with pride when he brought an old beater back to life. In truth, he only sold gas and snacks because most of his customers expected as much.

  Even from my spot outside the station, staring in, I could see how run down and dirty the Gas E Bait had become. Tattered magazines, dirty walls, empty soda cases, and half-functioning fluorescent bulbs added to the general state of disrepair. If I hadn't been family, I wouldn't have stopped here. No way. As someone who'd grown up in a service business, I was appalled.

  Then it hit me. Dad probably devoted those two weeks each year to helping Poppy keep the Gas E Bait in tiptop shape. In fact, I would have bet money on it.

  If I was a better granddaughter, I'd stick around and do the same. Poppy might boast that business was good but given the dirty and unorganized state of the place, the “out of order” signs on the gas pumps, and the lack of cars un-der repair, I found his claims hard to believe. One sniff of that stinky fish tank and customers would run the other way.

  But that was a topic for a longer visit. Although the sun was no longer directly overhead, it still beat down, so I reached into my purse for my sunglasses and Cardinals baseball cap.

  “Okay!” I said with gusto. “Well! I think I'd better stretch my legs. Maybe a walk around the block is in order. I think I'll stop in at the antique store and say hey to Miss Essie.”

  “Didn't I tell you?” Poppy stopped to remove his own threadbare Cardinals' cap and scratch his head. “Thought sure I did. Essie Feldman had another stroke. This one finished her off. Remember? She had one about twelve years ago. I told your mom about that one, for sure. That's when her son decided to take her upstairs apartment and turn it into two rental units. Essie up and died a few days after your mama passed.”

  Poppy looked down and shook his head.

  “I guess I forgot to mention it to you, what with the funeral, and then your daddy dying so soon after. A heck of a thing. Trouble coming in threes like that. I meant to tell you. I'm getting awful forgetful.”

  “Essie's gone?” A sharp pang grabbed my throat. Yet another loss. “But what about her store? What happened to The Treasure Chest?”

  “You mean all her junk and what-nots? Beats me. I think her estate is trying to sell the place. Heard a bunch of vandals broke in and trashed it good.” He jammed his hat back down on his head and climbed into the driver's seat to turn over my engine.

  What Poppy called “junk and what-nots” had been valuable antiques and collectibles. Miss Essie had named her place “The Treasure Chest,” with a nod to this being the Treasure Coast, the waters where the Spanish Armada had sunk three hundred years ago.

  As a young woman, Essie Feldman had led a glamorous life in New York City, hobnobbing with the rich and famous. She had a knack for discerning the rare, the odd, and the precious. Coupled with her keen intellect, she was a natural born businesswoman. After a nasty divorce, she moved here with her son, initially living with her aging parents. Looking around at them and their friends, she saw opportunity because she recognized that an aging population meant estate sales. And Essie turned this idea into a thriving business.

  To Poppy, Essie's shop was full of “airy-fairy horse manure.” But I knew better than to waste my breath. He was like that, opinionated and dismissive.

&n
bsp; “My father likes nothing better than to stomp on a dream,” Mom had once told me. “He can put out the flames of enthusiasm faster than anyone I've ever met. That's one reason your father and I moved away as soon as we were married. If we hadn't have left, we could have never gotten up the gumption to open our restaurant. Poppy would have laughed at us.”

  I watched the old man crawl out of the driver's seat and start poking around under the hood again. I almost started to argue with Poppy about the value of Essie's “junk and what-nots,” but Dad had shown me the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut. “Never try to teach a pig to sing,” Dad al-ways said, “the pig'll get annoyed, and you'll go hoarse.”

  This was one of those times. A wave of tiredness sucked up the last of my energy. Why did it matter what Poppy thought of Essie and her business? She was dead now, as were my parents. And I was nearly dead on my feet from exhaustion.

  I had to choose between walking around Stuart and finding a place to take a nap. A hot meal with real food was my third option, one that sounded more and more appealing.

  “If Pumpernickel's Deli is open,” I said to Poppy's back, as he moved around fiddling with Black Beauty's engine, “I might grab a bowl of soup. You want anything?”

  When he didn't answer, I put on my sunglasses, adjusted my cap, and said, “Be back soon.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Behind Dick's Gas E Bait, there were three parking spaces separated by a narrow alley from three identical parking spaces that belonged to Essie's store. If not for the dead fish, I could have taken a shortcut, walking through the Gas E Bait, out the back door, and across the alley. But the stink still clung to my clothes, so I decided to take the scenic route, walking the long way around the block.

  Going south from Poppy's I passed Marlin Dry Cleaner, a quick copy shop, and a party supply place. The closer I came to the corner where The Treasure Chest stood, the more I wanted to avert my eyes. Even from my spot on the sidewalk, I could tell Essie was gone.

  Weeds sprang up between the sidewalk joints in front of The Treasure Chest. The two green urns that had bracketed the front door were missing, along with the vivid flowers and ferns Essie had tended so carefully. The dis-play windows on the ground level had not been cleaned in a very, very long time. Boards had been nailed haphazardly over the windows on the second floor.

  Swallowing hard, I stepped closer. The movement caused me to catch a whiff of the mouthwatering fragrances emanating from Pumpernickel's, which was across the street and behind me.

  The sun's reflection made looking inside the store very difficult. So I shifted my position and squinted around a large red and white FOR SALE sign taped inside one window.

  What a shock!

  Even though Poppy had warned me the place had been vandalized, I was still stunned by the mess. Essie's once beautiful store was a disaster. If she hadn't already been dead, this would have put her in her grave.

  Unsteady stacks of furniture leaned against the windowpane. Odds and ends, stray legs and drawers, were tossed haphazardly into the mix. Piles of broken pottery, a battered black umbrella, torn baskets, lamps without shades, and garbage was scattered across the floor. Drywall had been ripped from the walls, leaving exposed two-by-fours that looked a cadaver's naked ribs. The wonder-ful lead crystal chandelier that had thrown rainbows on the walls and ceiling was gone. All the display fixtures had been ripped out.

  My stomach stopped giving off hungry growls and twisted into angry knots.

  How could this have happened?

  I stepped back to read the fine print on the FOR SALE sign. The listing agent was Hal Humberger of the Philomena Humberger Real Estate Agency. His photo showed a cocky man with fleshy lips and a pudgy chin.

  Hal Humberger was now my sworn enemy. How could he have allowed this to happen to Essie's shop? This place was sacred to me—and to my family. Leaning my fore-head against the cool glass, I closed my eyes and gave my-self over to pleasant memories. I daydreamed of summer evenings when my parents opened the windows, to let in the sweet scent of salt from the ocean. I heard Essie's voice as she patiently explained to me what made an item valuable. I smelled the sandalwood soap she always stocked in the bathrooms. I heard the sound of the wind rustling the fronds of a nearby palm tree, and the cry of a seagull lifted by ocean breezes.

  When I thought my heart would break, I opened my eyes and stared at the mess in front of me.

  Who would want to buy this disaster?

  The place had been ransacked.

  More and more changes. I was sick and tired of changes, especially when they took away the things I cherished. When would they end? What did I have to look forward to? More emptiness? More losses? As I pondered all this, a car pulled up to the curb behind me.

  I turned to see Hal Humberger himself, the man in the photo on the FOR SALE sign. He parked his gold Bentley on the street. In my head, my father warned me to stay calm, cool, and collected, even though I planned to give the real estate agent a piece of my mind! How could he have let this place get so run down?

  Approaching him, I stuck out my hand to introduce myself, but he waved me away. He was too busy talking on his cell phone about “meeting later” and “always wanted to own one by him.”

  While he continued his rude conversation, I stood gagging on his fancy cologne.

  After punching a button and loading the phone into the front pocket of his suit, Hal finally turned his attention to me. “Geez. You look like twenty miles of bad road.”

  I moved from sad to mad at warp speed. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could have said that would have made me angrier. My mother was always harping at me to dress up. “Are you really leaving the house like that?” she'd say. Hal's insult hit me where it hurt.

  “Well, at least you made it,” he said. “Your boss sent you with the check, honey? I didn't have time to type everything in on this contract. You won't mind doing that, will you? That's what he pays you for. That and other things,” Hal said with a smirk.

  “I'm not who you think—” I started to say, but Mr. Humberger wasn't listening. No, he was too busy rummaging around inside his briefcase.

  I hate rude people who don't listen. Hal was clearly one of those guys whose tie cut off the blood flow to his brain. While I seethed, he thrust a handful of papers at me. He didn't even check to see that I grabbed them all. He didn't offer to help as I struggled to straighten them.

  “The Treasure Chest, ha! More like The Trash Bin. It's going to take a Dumpster to haul away all that garbage. Or not. Maybe the demolition team can scoop it up.”

  “Demolition team?” Curiosity got the better of me, and I looked over the forms. I was holding the contract for this building!

  “Yeah. Can't wait until they bring in the wrecking ball.”

  “What?” I glanced up at him.

  Hal Humberger was rubbing his palms together gleefully, as if he were a small boy.

  “They'll tear this place down and build a new gas station, the Fill Up and Go. Can't wait to see the look on Dick Potter's face.” Mr. Humberger snickered.

  “Dick Potter?” I repeated my grandfather's name.

  “Who else?” said Mr. Humberger. “I tried to get Dick to let me list the Gas E Bait. But no, he wasn't ready to retire. Then this sweet deal drops in my lap. This new Fill Up and Go franchise will put that old coot out of business. There'll be no way he can compete against a modern gas station with state-of-the-art equipment. Clean restrooms. A nice waiting area for customers. Floor to ceiling coolers full of cold drinks. Even a fast food vendor serving hot meals.”

  I was speechless, and he was right. A new gas station/convenience store combination on this spot would mean the end of Dick's Gas E Bait.

  CHAPTER 5

  I couldn't think of anything to say, so I turned my attention to the papers in my hands. Finally, I stammered, “A Fill Up and Go will be built here? On this very spot?”

  Mr. Humberger frowned at me. “Per our agreement. Your boss is getting this du
mp for half of what it's worth because Essie's son needs the money so badly. You got your checkbook with you?”

  “Yes,” I said, reflexively. I always carried it in my purse.

  No way could I let someone tear down The Treasure Chest and build a modern service station here. Hadn't Dad said a million times that the gas station gave Poppy a rea-son to get up in the morning? Keeping Dick's Gas E Bait open was a matter of life or death. I couldn't risk losing my grandfather so quickly after burying my parents. I just couldn't.

  But what could I do to save Poppy's business?

  While Mr. Humberger tapped out a text-message on his phone, I started reading the papers and putting them in numerical order.

  How could I stop this sale?

  Mr. Humberger had said that the contract wasn't complete. What exactly had he left out? I looked at the first page. The “buyer” line was blank. I flipped to the last page. The buyer's name below the signature line had been left blank also.

  Then it hit me: I could buy the property myself!

  If I inserted my name, would Mr. Humberger notice?

  The real estate agent was now blabbering on his cell phone, not paying the least bit of attention to what I was doing. The answer was obvious. He wouldn't notice.

  Down to brass tacks. Was the price of the building fair?

  Mr. Humberger had said that the building was being sold at a bargain price.

  What was the amount of earnest money, and could I swing it?

  The sum turned out to be a token amount. I could easily cover it with the money in my checking account, funds from the sale of my house in St. Louis.

  Was there a way for me to back out?

  According to the contract, the penalty for breaking the agreement was loss of the earnest money. That meant my risk was relatively low.

  Was snapping up the property fair? Was it the right thing to do? Was it moral?

  “You can take all that paperwork back to the office with you, get it signed, and return it later,” said Mr. Humberger. “No need to bother your pretty head with details. All this business stuff is probably beyond you. Make sure you initial the part where I get to have one last look-see before you knock the place down. You understand why that addition needs your initials, right, doll?”