Double Dimple

by N. C. Lewis

  The doorbell tinkled, and a group of office workers ambled in. The woman picked up her drink and with a little wave, left the café. Bryant tilted his head watching, his lustful eyes settling on her butt. As the door closed, a pink tongue darted from between his thin lips, and he rubbed his hands as a sly grin crept across his skeletal jaw.

  Then I remembered the outstanding Havis County Engineering Company invoice and shrunk back further into my seat.

  Bryant picked up his cup, took a tiny sip, as his colorless orbs slid across the café.

  His eyes bugged on seeing me.

  Oh crap!

  High on the tips of his toes, he strode across the café, his boots clattering against the floor like Dutch clogs on a funeral march.

  The clop-clop of footsteps stopped at my table.

  I took a small sip of coffee and stared up.

  Bryant's evil eyes slid greedily from my face to my chest and back again. All the while he smiled, his angular facial features watchful like that of a crafty fox. The thin lizard tongue reappeared, and he rolled forward onto the tips of his toes raising his arm, pointing a minuscule finger in my direction.

  "Doctor Stratford, I never forget and never forgive. I may no longer have a seat on the board at Medlin Creek Community College, but I will see to it personally that you are fired."

  "Get lost, you creep!" My hands shook, and my heart pounded, and a deep, painful throb was growing behind my eyes.

  Bryant's colorless orbs jutted out with a horrible glare, sweat appeared on his forehead like pop rivets, and the smoke of revenge hovered around him in clouds.

  "All right. Later," he screeched through clenched teeth turning on his heel and leaving the café with rapid clomping steps.

  I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, reached into my bag and took a pill. "Thank goodness he didn't mention the invoice," I muttered under my breath as the rapid pounding of my heart subsided.

  When I left New York City, I left behind very few friends and no enemies. New York's the sort of place where friends are quickly forgotten, and things moved too fast to collect enemies. Medlin Creek was different, and somehow Bryant Reynolds had cast me as his enemy. I wasn't and didn't want to be, but I was not about to be bullied by him or anyone else.

  After a few minutes, the headache eased. I peered down at the student assignments. "No," I said under my breath, "I can't face you right now."

  I picked up the folder, put it into my bag, and stared out dreamily onto Creek Street.

  Chapter 4

  "Well, hello gorgeous!"

  I recognized the voice without looking up.

  "Hi Roger," I said, instantly feeling more cheerful.

  A little, bright-eyed, old man, bald on top with a stoop which matched his bandy legs, grinned back. Roger Romantic, a member of the local dojo and Speaker Circle, was a frequent visitor to Moozoos Café. Retired, he kept active by inventing things, learning new things, and getting into trouble doing things he shouldn't. He was one of the characters that made Medlin Creek home.

  Roger sat down. His face glowed, eyes glinted, and the grin now stretched from ear to ear.

  "What's up with you?" I asked, unable to quell my curiosity.

  "I've just found it!" he whispered in an excited voice.

  "Found what?"

  "My calling!" He thumped his fist on the table.

  "Calling?"

  "Yes, that one thing I'm here on earth to do."

  "But Roger, you're retired! I thought you'd already done your thing."

  Roger tilted his head and half smiled. "Yes, I've done the corporate thing. But I'm talking about the one thing."

  "The one thing?"

  "Yes, I've discovered the one thing."

  "What is it?"

  Roger pumped his fists in the air, stood up and did his Roger Romantic robotic dance. He panted hard and sat down.

  "Almost finished my online Motivational Speaking for Seniors certificate."

  "Go on," I said, leaning forward.

  "Once the final project's done, I'll become a COSI."

  "COSI, what's that?" I asked.

  "Certified Older Speaker." Roger puffed out his chest and moved his hand to his mouth as if holding a microphone.

  "But what does the 'I' stand for?"

  "Intoner, as in one who utters words of encouragement."

  "Oh, I see," I said.

  Roger continued, "Ever since I gave the motivational presentation at the high school homecoming, I've had a hankering for more time in the limelight."

  "Limelight? You?" Although Roger was a member of the Speaker Circle, a club formed to encourage business speaking, I could scarcely contain my surprise. But the glint in Roger's eyes showed he was deadly serious.

  "Think about it, Ollie," he said, half closing his eyes, "all those people listening to me, taking page after page of notes, nodding in agreement, and jumping up inspired as I intone my words of wisdom. Can you imagine it?"

  I couldn’t.

  "When are you giving your first presentation?" I asked, trying to sound upbeat. Then added, "I'd love to attend."

  Roger didn't notice the instant regret in my eyes but kept talking. "That's just it," he said, a deep frown forming on his forehead. "I don't know, yet. So many friends like you have agreed to attend, but I haven't found a place large enough. I might go with the library conference room, but that would mean standing room only."

  He folded his arms and grinned like an excited schoolboy.

  It was then I sensed someone was watching. I glanced over at the counter. The barista stood in front, hands on hips. His lopsided eyes were half closed, head tilted so his ears pointed like an electronic receiving set—in our direction. The barista's mouth opened and closed, repeating the exact same sequence of words Roger had just spoken

  Suddenly, his chin, pointy like the end of a carrot, twitched. He opened his eyes, picked up a tea towel, and with quick, light steps crossed the café, coming to a stop at our table.

  "How y'all doing?" he said, making a pretense of cleaning the table. "I couldn't help but overhear your new venture, Roger. Don't want to discourage you, but the chances of becoming a motivational speaker are astronomical. I mean, you've more chance of finding the needle."

  "The needle?" said Roger, eyeing the barista with daggers.

  "The needle in the haystack," replied the barista, placing his hands back on his hips.

  "Oh," Roger said, "I'm not looking to be an international speaker, like Tony Robbins, or Zig Ziglar, no, no, no. My world is the Hill Country of Texas. If I get fame in this region, of course I'll travel, but only on request, and for the appropriate fee."

  The barista tilted his head to one side. "What's ya gimmick?"

  "Gimmick?" Roger echoed uncertainly.

  "All motivational speakers have a gimmick. Tony Robbins has the fire walk. What's your gimmick? Get a good one and it will pull in the crowds."

  Roger shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Haven't got to that section of the course yet. But when I do, I'll let you know."

  The barista rubbed his chin. "Tell you what, once you get your first booking..." He nodded toward the bulletin board behind the counter. "Put up your flyer; there are plenty people around these parts who'd attend."

  Roger grinned.

  The barista turned and walked quickly back to the counter.

  "Ollie, I've told you what I'm up to," said Roger still smiling. "What's going on in your world?"

  "Student assignments but haven't gotten much done yet this morning."

  Roger chuckled. "Ollie, the morning was hours ago. It's one thirty-five right now."

  It took a moment for his words to sink in. Then I let out a gasp. The two p.m. meeting with the engineer from Bee Mound Drilling!

  I jumped up. "Sorry Roger, got to go."

  I scurried toward the café exit. "Good luck with your certification," I said, throwing the words over my shoulder.

  Chapter 5

  By the time I climbed into
my Tahoe, a heavy sheen of perspiration clung to my forehead. I opened a bottle of water, took a sip, started the engine, cranked up the air-conditioning, and pointed the SUV toward Ealing Homestead—home.

  The afternoon traffic was heavy. The Hill Country Jazz Festival was on at Old Monroe's Ranch. Traffic on the main road leading back toward Ealing Homestead crawled. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel as the vehicles ahead stopped and started.

  I called Bee Mound Drilling.

  No answer.

  My eyes flicked to the dashboard clock—one forty-five p.m. At this rate, I thought, I'd get to Ealing Homestead well after the engineer had left.

  Then the traffic stopped.

  Oh crap!

  Again, I called Bee Mound Drilling.

  Again, no answer.

  Suddenly, the brake lights went off and the great trail of vehicles crawled forward once again. It was two thirty-five p.m. by the time I turned into the lane that led home. I clenched my fists in frustration knowing the engineer would have left by now.

  "Oh crap!" I said aloud, "I need that oil well opened."

  Despondent, I swung the SUV around a bend that led to the edge of the property. On a barren patch of dried ground close to the abandoned well, a Bee Mound Drilling Company truck was parked.

  I pulled up, parked, and got out.

  A figure in a hard hat and boiler suit strode confidently from the well.

  It was a woman!

  "Ollie Stratford?" she said. The voice was familiar.

  "Yes. Are you the oil well engineer?" I tried to hide my surprise but failed.

  She nodded. "I'm Ruth Minary, the senior engineer at Bee Mound Drilling Company. We spoke earlier."

  She was a fireplug of a woman with a mop of bleached blond hair sticking out at random angles from under the hard hat. Up close, her tanned, weathered skin betrayed too many hours exposed to the Texas sun.

  Ruth extended her hand.

  "Nice to meet you," I said shaking it. Warm, firm, friendly.

  "Nancy Fisher owns Bee Mound Drilling," she said, answering the look of surprise in my eyes. "Do you know Nancy?"

  I didn't and shook my head. "Nope, don't think I've met Nancy Fisher."

  Ruth grinned, her crooked teeth amplified a genuine smile that lit up her whole face. "Nancy's just about the nicest boss in the world. And Bee Mound Drilling is about the best company in the Hill Country."

  "That's some praise," I said with genuine admiration.

  "Worked for the company over ten years. I'm in no hurry to leave." Ruth crossed her arms, and her brow furrowed. "Just hope it stays that way. I want to stay with the company until I retire."

  Now I was curious. In my New York days, my husband John and I sought individuals who showed exceptional leadership. We'd study, hang out, and learn from them. I wanted to meet Nancy and decided to invite her to speak at the Sisters of the Creek Coffee Circle.

  "My team won't have much problem reopening your well," Ruth said breaking into my thoughts.

  "Really?" I almost burst out laughing with joy, but caught myself, fixing a smile on my face.

  Ruth continued, "My dad remembers when Mr. Castleman, the former owner, closed the well. It was after the oil price crash in the nineties, I think. Dad says there's a large reserve down there."

  "Really?" I said again, the smile turning into a broad grin.

  Ruth took off her hat, running a roughened hand through her hair. "If Dad is right, we'll soon bring it to the surface."

  "That's good. That's great. That's…excellent!" I could barely keep still with the excitement.

  "Now, I have some paperwork for you," said Ruth, walking toward her truck. She opened the door, carefully reached inside and with an unusual jerky movement pulled out a stack of papers.

  "Review at your leisure, and sign where it's marked. Mail the signed document back to us. Remember to keep a copy for your records. Once we get the signed copies one of my team members will get back to you with a start date."

  "Thank you."

  She nodded, stood by her truck door, but did not climb in. "If you get the papers back to us this week, I'll see if we can squeeze you in before the end of the month."

  I gave a little prayer of thanks.

  "Meow."

  The sound came from Ruth's truck.

  "Meow, meow, meow."

  "What have you got in your truck," I asked, peering in through the window.

  Ruth's eyes darted around nervously. Then she sighed, opened the door, reached inside and pulled out a tiny, scrawny, black-and-white kitten.

  "Found this little chap by the oil well. No sign of any others, don't see how the pitiful thing can make it out here on his own."

  The kitten trembled, his dark eyes wide. It looked hungry.

  Ruth glanced at me, a wry smile on her face. "I called my find into headquarters. The boss, Nancy, told me to take him to the Medlin Creek Animal Shelter."

  "Nancy said that?" I quizzed, impressed.

  Ruth smiled, the edges of her eyes wrinkled.

  "Yep, and she will pay for board and lodging until the little fellow finds a new home."

  Impressive, I thought, very impressive.

  "The animal shelter's Augustine Granger's place," I said. "Tell you what, I'm one of Augustine’s volunteers. I have a bunch of donated goods I must drop off, may as well do it today. Give me the kitten, and I'll swing by the shelter."

  Ruth's lips tugged into a smile. "Would you? That would be great."

  She handed the scrawny fellow over, climbed into her truck, waved, and was gone.

  Chapter 6

  The kitten turned, its huge, sad eyes stared up into my face.

  "Okay, okay, let's get you some food and fresh water," I said, holding it firmly.

  I rummaged around in the trunk for the donated animal shelter items, found the crate, placed it on the passenger side with the kitten inside, filled one bowl with food, and another from a bottle of water. For several minutes I watched as the scrawny kitten ate, lapped greedily at the water, and curled up, closing his eyes.

  There was still a mountain of student assignments to grade, and lesson plans to prepare. I folded my arms drumming my fingers. "Better drop the kitten off now, and finish my work later in the afternoon," I muttered.

  I climbed back into the Tahoe, started the engine and pulled out of the driveway. The traffic had eased somewhat although progress was slow.

  Forty-five minutes later I pulled onto the gravel drive of the Medlin Creek Animal Shelter. The parking lot, usually full now, was empty, so I parked in a spot close to the entrance.

  With the engine idling and air-conditioning on, I jumped out, leaving the kitten in the crate. A paved pathway led to a one-story, rectangular, concrete building. The entrance, covered by a large awning, offered scant relief against the late afternoon heat.

  The main entrance led to a brightly painted reception area behind which was a long row of kennels housing stray dogs—one or two to each unit. On the counter, a lavender diffuser did little to mask the doggy odor. A teenage girl reading a magazine looked up as I entered.

  "You are only the second person to visit this afternoon. How can I help you?" she said in a bright, cheery voice.

  "Well, I volunteer here, so I don't suppose I count," I replied.

  "Oh, I'm at the high school, and am trying to get my volunteer hours," she explained. "Today's been so slow. Seems everyone is at the jazz festival."

  "Or on their way to the festival," I said, thinking about the heavy traffic.

  The young girl smiled. "You're Doctor Ollie Stratford, aren’t you? My sister, Jacky, takes one of your classes at Medlin Creek Community College. Jacky loves your class."

  "That's so kind," I said with a grin. "Today I need to drop off a stray kitten, then back home to grade student papers. Is Augustine in the kennels or outside with the livestock?"

  "Neither. She went home and said I should lock up in an hour and drop the keys off."

  I returne
d to the truck, picked up the crate, and strode along the pathway to Augustine's house. It was next to the animal shelter, so I didn't have far to walk.

  Augustine sat in an old rocking chair on the porch, rolling back and forth, her eyes closed.

  "Augustine," I called.

  She didn't stir.

  "Augustine!" This time I shouted.

  She opened her eyes.

  "Ollie, it's been a slow day at the animal shelter, so I decided to come home early." She stood up rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

  "Another kitten for you," I said, holding up the crate.

  Augustine rushed forward, placed her hand inside the crate and pulled out the kitten. Under the fragrance of her Mary Kay Journey Eau de Parfum, I could smell a trace of the animal shelter.

  "Oh, isn't he just adorable," she said, letting out a little laugh and lifting the kitten level with her face. "Do you have any brothers and sisters?"

  "Don't think so," I replied for the kitten, then explained how the Bee Mound Drilling Company engineer had found him. "Do you know Nancy Fisher?" I asked, wrapping things up.

  "Oh yes," cried Augustine. "Nancy's company Bee Mound Drilling is one of our largest sponsors. I don't get to see much of Nancy, but her company is a platinum sponsor for our annual fundraiser."

  "Nancy's agreed to pay for the board and lodging of the kitten," I said with a smile.

  Augustine gave the kitten another cuddle.

  "I think I've got the perfect spot for you. Back in a moment," she said, turning and walking inside the house with the kitten.

  I slipped into a wicker chair, closed my eyes and rocked back and forth. In the distance I could hear the occasional yap of a dog from the main shelter, otherwise, it was peaceful out here. My head fell to one side, I drifted off into a deep sleep.

  "Ollie wake up!"

  Augustine's outstretched arm shook my shoulder.

  "What?"

  "Ollie, wake up; it's almost six p.m."

  It took several moments for sleep to clear from my mind. I stumbled to my feet. "I'd better get going," I slurred. "Still have a boatload of papers to grade."