Tiny House in the Trees

by Celia Bonaduce

  Molly remembered how she and Bale sat in Crabby’s late one night after she’d closed the place, perfecting the whiskey barrel shower. She planned on using one in her model tree house as well. She was surprised to feel a little pinch of jealousy at the mention of the “lady” who was the latest owner of one of Bale’s tiny masterpieces.

  Jealousy was a new sensation. Molly chastised herself. She’d met a least two dozen women who had stopped by Crabby’s on their way to Bale’s. Bale even brought a few of them to dinner before the women headed off on their new adventures. Molly had never felt anything but mild interest in why the women had chosen their new lifestyle. Was jealousy brought on because Bale was being kind to her and she was feeling alone and a little fragile?

  Get over yourself.

  “Thanks for everything, Bale,” Molly said. She patted the dog. “You too, Thor.”

  “I’ll text you later and update you on the car.”

  “Great. I’ll bring you a cinnamon bun…. I’ll bring you two.”

  “Deal,” Bale said. “Oh, and if my hunch is right, the lady with the green truck and New York plates is named Cynthia. Tell her I’ll meet her over at the lot in about an hour. That’ll give me time to get your car.”

  Bale could be such a sweetheart. Her car was taking precedence over a New Yorker named Cynthia. A paying customer!

  Molly looked down at her hand.

  GraTitude.

  Probably not what the self-help books had in mind…but it was a start.

  Chapter 2

  Molly rushed into the kitchen, relieved she’d beaten Crabby to the restaurant. With business being slow, he would be less-than-philosophical about broken-down cars.

  She nodded to Manny, the short-order cook. From her days of being both waitress and cook, she recognized the orders on the grill…a ham-and-cheese omelet and two over-medium eggs with a side of bacon.

  “Thanks for letting the customers in,” Molly said as she washed her hands—careful to keep her affirmations intact. She raced toward the dining room. “I owe you.”

  “You owe the lady out there a bowl of oatmeal,” Manny said, nodding toward the front counter.

  “I’m on it,” Molly said.

  “Hi,” Molly said to the woman who must be Cynthia. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “That’s okay,” Cynthia said.

  Molly placed a bowl of steaming oatmeal in front of her. “Can I get you anything else? Eggs? Toast? A pastry?”

  “No thanks,” Cynthia said. “Just oatmeal.”

  Molly suspected nerves might be the reason for Cynthia’s lack of appetite. She had the slightly dazed look Molly had come to recognize in Bale’s clients. It was as if they couldn’t quite believe they’d pulled the plug on their past lives and were now moments away from embarking on the unknown. Cynthia appeared to be in her late fifties, a little older than most of the women who swung into Bale’s, but by this time, Molly had seen everyone from very young women to retired couples stop in for a bite at Crabby’s before picking up their tiny house over at the lot.

  Manny flicked the service bell on the counter. Molly retrieved the omelet and bacon and eggs. She took them to Sammy and Fred, two locals sitting together at one of the tables.

  “Hey, Jane,” Sammy said, scooting back his chair to make room over his ample belly so Molly could put the omelet on the table. “How about more coffee?”

  “Anything for you, Sammy,” Molly said with a bright smile.

  She refused to give him the satisfaction of reacting to her nickname, “Jane”—so given because word of her tree house model reminded the people of Cobb of Tarzan’s house. Very few people had actually seen her work in progress, but that didn’t stop the good-natured teasing.

  When Molly returned from refilling the coffee cups, she noticed Cynthia had gone. Molly silently wished her well. With the work Molly was doing on her tree house model, she’d come to appreciate the details of living tiny—although she personally had no desire to haul her home around the country. Her tree house was taking shape—even in miniature—to be her dream home. Instead of wheels, she was looking for roots.

  Sammy and Fred were next to leave. Molly had the sinking feeling the morning rush was over. She stopped filling the sugar containers and counted her tips. Three dollars—which she would split with Manny. Her stomach did a flip. Even if Bale could fix her alternator, the day her rent was due was coming at her like a bullet train. She felt her pulse quicken with anxiety.

  Joy.

  Focus.

  GraTitude.

  Joy.

  Focus.

  GraTitude.

  Joy.

  Focus.

  GraTitude.

  She felt herself calm. Maybe this affirmation thing would work! Molly returned to the sugar shakers. She heard the front door open and looked up. Her heart started to race again.

  It was Quinn.

  “Hey there, Jane,” Quinn said, throwing a muscular leg over a stool at the counter.

  When other people called her “Jane,” it seemed as if they were making fun of her. But when Quinn said it—and now that she thought about it, it was Quinn who first dubbed her “Jane”—it seemed like an intimate nickname.

  Color rose in Molly’s cheeks. She was always flustered when Quinn came into Crabby’s. Once, when the hot star of the recent superhero action movies was doing a national publicity tour, he and his entourage stopped in at Crabby’s on their way to…somewhere else. Quinn was in the restaurant at the time. Molly wasn’t the only one who noticed the striking resemblance between the two—the captivating eyes that always seem to be smirking, the perfect physique, the great hair. The publicity crew snapped cell phone shots of the superstar and his doppelganger. The actor seemed more impressed that Quinn was a helicopter pilot with his own Christmas tree farm than Quinn was with the actor’s multiple star turns as a world-saving action hero. But that was Quinn. He radiated confidence.

  Except this morning.

  This morning he radiated hangover.

  “Hey, Quinn,” Molly said. “Want some coffee?”

  “Do I ever,” Quinn groaned.

  “Rough night?” Molly asked, pouring coffee into a cup as Quinn rubbed his temples. She resisted the temptation to put out the cream she knew he used. She didn’t want it to seem she’d memorized his preferences.

  Although she had.

  “Just a friendly game of poker gone wrong,” Quinn said. “Lost a bundle.”

  Long before Molly came to Cobb, Quinn and several of the locals had been playing an organized poker game at least once a month. Crabby joined the game from time to time, but never let “the boys” use the restaurant after hours, even when he himself was playing.

  For Crabby, work and play never mixed.

  For Quinn, the transition from work to play was seamless.

  Molly thought if she ever had a bundle of money, she’d hang on to it. But Quinn probably had it to lose.

  “Anything else this morning?” she asked, although she knew the answer would be a glazed donut.

  “A glazed donut,” he said, still sounding miserable.

  Molly pulled the glass top off the case of donuts. Her expert eye selected the most fragrant one and popped it on a plate. She saw Manny smirk on his way out; his shift was over. She was a little obvious, she knew. She slid the donut in front of Quinn. He was sipping his coffee with his eyes closed.

  Molly took the opportunity to study his insanely long lashes.

  “Okay, looks like I’ll live another day,” he said.

  As Quinn slowly opened his eyes, Molly snapped out of her reverie, hoping he hadn’t noticed her intense scrutiny. She started to stuff the napkin dispenser on the counter. It gave her something to do without moving out of sight. Quinn reached out and took her hand.

  “What’s going on here?” h
e asked, gently turning her wrist so he could see the words she’d written.

  “I’m trying positive affirmation,” Molly said, hoping she didn’t sound too new agey for his taste. “So I’m putting out the energy I want to come back to me.”

  Chills ran up her spine as Quinn took his index finger and traced the words.

  “I like your choices,” he said.

  “Really?” Molly said, sounding a little more eager than she knew she should.

  “Yeah.”

  “What three words would you write?”

  “I don’t know…maybe ‘Money,’ ‘Money,’ and ‘Money.’”

  Molly was pretty sure that wasn’t the way it worked, but she nodded. Who was she to dictate what the universe found acceptable?

  “Thanks for the coffee,” Quinn said, draining his cup. “Gotta go.”

  “But you didn’t eat your donut!”

  Quinn bestowed one of his killer smiles on her, wrapped the donut in a napkin, and shoved it in his jacket pocket.

  “I’ll take it to go,” he said, as he gave the pocket a pat. “Thanks.”

  He slapped down a ten-dollar bill and started out the door.

  “Let me get you some change,” Molly said.

  “Keep it.”

  Molly stared at the bill. He was leaving her a one hundred percent tip. His words were “Money, Money, Money”…and yet, thanks to Quinn, money had come to her.

  Molly was still getting the hang of how the universe worked.

  As she watched Quinn pull out of the parking lot at top speed, she hoped he was more careful when he was piloting his chopper. Molly called Crabby and told him she could work lunch and dinner as well as breakfast. Since she didn’t have her car, she might as well make a little extra Money, Money, Money.

  Lunch was as slow as breakfast. After the last customer left at two, Molly was putting out the white tablecloths they used at dinner when her cell phone buzzed. She looked at it. Bale was calling.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey yourself.”

  “Did Cynthia get to the lot okay?” Molly asked, feeling it would be rude to jump into questions about the alternator too quickly.

  “Yep. Here and gone. She’s on her way to Oklahoma to be closer to her grandkids. Those kids are going to go crazy when they see that log cabin.”

  Molly smiled. Bale had such enthusiasm for his work. He probably would never need to remind himself the world was a great place by writing on his hand.

  “So what’s up?” Molly asked.

  She knew she sounded lame. She obviously wanted to know about her car. She would be cringing if she’d said this to Quinn. But good old Bale wouldn’t care.

  “Good news about your car,” Bale said. “I can fix it.”

  “That is good news,” Molly said, the tension of not-knowing draining out of her.

  She had only about fifty dollars left on her credit card.

  “I can have it ready by tomorrow,” Bale said. “What time do you get off work? I can swing by and give you a lift home.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Molly said, wondering if she might be able to finagle a ride with Quinn. He sometimes stopped by for a drink after a long day at the farm. “Somebody here can give me a lift.”

  “Suit yourself,” Bale said. “But call if you get in a jam.”

  “I will.”

  Half the town called Bale when they were in a jam. He really was one of the good guys. Molly wondered why Bale was still unattached. She’d seen so many women come into town to buy tiny houses. She knew he’d been interested in at least one of them, but he was still very, very single. Molly hoped he’d find someone. He deserved it.

  Manny walked in the restaurant shortly before five.

  “What are you doing here?” Molly asked.

  Manny never worked the dinner shift.

  “Crabby said I should come in,” Manny said with a shrug.

  That was weird.

  Within a half hour, everyone who worked at Crabby’s—at any time, on any shift, was in the restaurant.

  Could there be a big event nobody knew about? Was a celebrity stopping by? Crabby was a huge fan of the restaurant renovation shows—maybe they’d been selected for a makeover? The staff was giddy with possibilities. The restaurant could use a boost.

  Molly turned to say something to Donna, a bartender on the weekends, when she saw Crabby silently glide into the room through the kitchen. She studied his face, looking for clues.

  But Crabby always looked…crabby.

  He tapped his knuckles on the counter. Anyone who knew him—employee or patron—knew that meant he expected silence.

  “Restaurant closes permanently in two weeks,” he said.

  It was impossible to work at Crabby’s and not know closing shop was a possibility. But it didn’t make it any easier to hear. Molly felt fear travel up from her toes—she couldn’t survive without this job. She was already two months late on the rent. What would she do for this month’s—or next month’s?

  Why did everything have to come down to money? It wasn’t that she was asking the universe to make her a millionaire. Just enough so she wasn’t paralyzed.

  Murmuring voices swirled around her. She surreptitiously lifted her pinky finger to her eye to catch a little escapee of a tear when she caught sight of her affirmation words. They looked ridiculous.

  She ran to the bathroom and scrubbed them off.

  Chapter 3

  Bravery

  Gumption

  Strength

  Molly woke to the sound of herself crying.

  “Shut up, Galileo,” she said, rubbing her puffy eyes.

  Galileo was a perfect mimic when it suited him, but the fact that he had perfected her crying over the last few months was as annoying as it was impressive. Molly didn’t really think of herself as a crybaby. She really had to get it together.

  “Sorry,” she said to the parrot. “I love you.”

  “Bite me,” he said.

  Molly laughed. When her father first brought Galileo home, her mother had argued that the family had to stop saving every animal in Iowa that needed help. But she was as easy a mark as the rest of the family. While cats, dogs, rodents, and rabbits made their way in and out of the McGinnis household, Galileo stayed. And stayed. Galileo’s species could live up to fifty years in captivity.

  Molly’s dad had spent hours teaching the African Grey sarcastic replies to the mundane things people usually said to birds.

  “Hello, pretty bird,” “Can you talk?” and “What’s your name?” were all answered with:

  “Bite me.”

  “You’re so smart” and “Aren’t you something?” were also fair game for Galileo’s tart response.

  Molly’s mom didn’t see the humor, but it annoyed Molly’s father that humans didn’t show Galileo the respect he deserved.

  “Serves people right,” her father used to say when Galileo would fluff his feathers and offer his signature retort.

  When her father died almost ten years ago, Molly had begged her mother to let her take Galileo with her when she left for college. It meant getting an apartment rather than a dorm room, but Molly didn’t care. She felt a little guilty, not telling her mother the real reason she wanted—needed—to take the African Grey with her. One night, about two months after her father’s fatal heart attack, when everyone was asleep, Galileo started to sing in her father’s sweet tenor. The bird usually sang “The Female Highwayman,” a song about a young woman who dresses up like a man and robs a man as she falls in love with him.

  “Why can’t you just sing ‘Danny Boy’?” her mother used to say to her father.

  “‘Danny Boy’ has no spunk,” her father said. “I want Molly to have spunk when she grows up.”

  He went back to crooning about the lady ro
bber.

  “You can be anything you want, Molly girl,” her father would say as he tucked her in. Making a show of looking around for her mother, he’d whisper, “But if you become a highwayman, I’ll deny I said it.”

  Molly smiled at the memory. As annoying as Galileo could be with his unpredictable outbursts, the fact that Mr. Detman, her landlord, had a pair of budgie parakeets helped get her a pass on the rent more than once. Mr. Detman was often at her door, asking advice. He had two male budgies, Lancelot and Romeo, he’d raised since they were little. The birds had bonded with each other instead of with him, much to his distress. Molly helped where she could, getting Lancelot and Romeo to spend time outside their cage and letting Mr. Detman cuddle them without fear of losing a finger, but there was only so much she could do. Budgies were not African Greys. They were never going to sing in any voices but their own.

  Galileo only sang for Molly. She took it as a sign she was meant to be the keeper of the bird, so when she headed off to Cobb, she took the African Grey with her. Even with Galileo’s company, her father’s death left an emptiness that never went away. Especially now, when Molly’s future looked so uncertain.

  Molly sat on the bed with her eyes closed, envisioning the words she wanted to write on her hand today.

  “I need to be brave,” she thought.

  Was bravery a positive emotion? Could you choose it? She thought she could. She wrote “Bravery” on her hand, followed by “Gumption”—a word her father always used—and “Strength.”

  If she could master these, she’d get through the day. She felt better already.

  Her phone buzzed.

  “Hi, Bale,” she said cheerfully.

  “Hey there. Just checking in. Do you need a ride to work this morning?”

  “No. Manny said he’ll pick me up,” she said.

  “Oh? Oh. Okay.”

  Molly detected a hint of disappointment in Bale’s voice.

  That’s weird. You’d think he’d be relieved he isn’t stuck having to do another good deed.

  “Aren’t you doing enough fixing my car?”

  My car.