by J. J. Murray
It’s so quiet, Hope thought. Where are the people? One grocery store, one pizzeria. We’re not in Brooklyn anymore.
“Quiet town,” Dylan whispered.
“I’ll say,” Hope whispered. “Why are we whispering?”
“We don’t want to wake anyone,” Dylan whispered.
“Why are most of the buildings light blue?” Hope asked.
“Must be a Kismet thing,” Dylan said.
They checked out the menu posted on the wall outside the Kismet Inn in front of the marina, where a dozen or so boats were tied up and rocking in front of a small beach.
“Can we eat here for lunch?” Hope asked. “I want to try this seafood salad.”
“Sure,” Dylan said. “It’s either here, the pizza place, or Surf’s Out.” He pointed to a nearby restaurant. “Those are our choices.”
Hope sniffed the air. “I love the smell of the ocean.”
“Let’s go see it,” Dylan said.
They walked down Oak Street past the Kismet Fire Department.
“Not many windows to shop here, Mr. Healy,” Hope said.
“Maybe we’ll just look in some windows,” Dylan said. “Beach houses have lots of windows. We could do some beach house walk-bys, and if nothing else, we can kick up some sand.”
Hope took his arm. “I don’t care what we do.” As long as I’m with you.
“They say this town is more laid back than Ocean Beach,” Dylan said. “Ocean Beach requires you to get a permit and a license just to ride a bicycle, and you have to keep your yard perfect or face fines. All cats in Ocean Beach have to wear bells. You can get a fine or even jail time for being too loud or cursing in Ocean Beach. Not here.”
“Damn,” Hope said. She looked around. “And I wasn’t arrested. I like this place.”
No one in my apartment building, however, can ever visit Ocean Beach. They’d be locked up getting off the boat.
“I don’t see anyone,” Hope said, looking at small but well-tended houses with picture-postcard yards.
“I guess this is what you get in the off-season,” Dylan said. “We have the whole town to ourselves.”
“I like it this way,” Hope said. “It’s peaceful, and you don’t have to look six ways before crossing the street.”
The beach appeared at the end of Oak Street with fences holding back the dunes.
Hope smiled and took a deep breath. “Just look at that view. Nothing but ocean, waves, and sand.”
“I hear there’s a nude beach somewhere around here,” Dylan said.
“Really.”
“I’m sure they won’t be active today,” Dylan said. “A tad bit chilly. Come on.”
They walked the beach as far as the Fire Island Lighthouse, and on the way back, they looked at houses.
Hope was disappointed. “Most of these houses are too far from the beach,” she said. “You might be able to see the ocean from your roof. The closest ones to the water, though, have to cost millions, and they’re no bigger than your apartment.”
They passed what looked like a shack high up on a dune.
“And that one has to have a nice view of the ocean,” Hope said, “but look how tiny it is. It could be a storage building with windows. So lonely. It probably doesn’t even have plumbing. It’s no more than a cottage, and it has to be smaller than my apartment.”
“It’s for sale,” Dylan said.
“That sign is ancient,” Hope said. “I’m sure there’s a reason no one has bought it.”
“Maybe Hurricane Irene swamped it,” Dylan said.
“Probably,” Hope said. “I’ll bet the land is worth a hundred times the value of the house.”
They turned up Bay Walk and saw a monster of a beach house.
Wow, Hope thought. Now that’s what I’m talking about! “I want it.”
“That’s awesome,” Dylan said. He took out his camera. “Go to the mailbox and act like you’re getting your mail.”
Hope flipped open the mailbox, posing and pointing at the house.
Dylan took the picture. “What do you think? Four, five bedrooms?”
“At least.” She smiled. That’s more of a mansion than a beach house. Easily three or more million dollars. “And that’s a chimney. It has a fireplace. And look at that deck. It goes all the way around.”
“I’m guessing you like that one the best so far,” Dylan said.
Hope nodded. “Buy it for me.”
“How much do you think it would be?” Dylan asked.
“Let’s say it’s three million, give or take,” Hope said. “A twenty percent down payment would be about six hundred thousand dollars. Your mortgage payment would run at least fourteen thousand a month.” Who on earth has that kind of money? If Dylan and I pooled our Odd Ducks money, we could only afford to live there for sixty days.
“I wonder if they rent it out in the off-season,” Dylan said. “That might be fun.”
“But I want it all the time,” Hope said, pouting. “Win the lottery for me.”
Dylan pulled her up Bay Walk. “I’d rather win your heart than the lottery.”
“You already have,” Hope said. “But could you at least try?”
Dylan laughed. “Let’s go eat.”
Hope and Dylan were the only couple eating at the Kismet Inn, and in less than half an hour, they had eaten baked clams, seafood salads, and bowls of Manhattan clam chowder.
“You ever have the feeling you’re being watched?” Dylan whispered.
Hope nodded. “Must be your long hair. They think you’re someone famous.”
“Ha,” Dylan said. “It’s you they think is famous, not me. That outfit really looks great on you.”
“So glad I opened it early.”
Dylan sat back and sipped some lemonade. “What do you require in your beach house?”
“What I just saw,” Hope said.
“The last one?”
Hope nodded.
“It was nice, but that wasn’t my question,” Dylan said. “What would be the bare minimum you’d need for your beach house?”
“Well, I have to be able to see the ocean from any room in the house,” Hope said. “That’s a given.”
“Bedrooms?”
“At least one, two would be better,” Hope said. “It would have to have at least one washroom with a tub big enough for the two of us, a nice big kitchen, a great room with a fireplace, oh, and a deck to eat out on.” She pushed back from the table. “That’s all.”
“And how much would you expect to pay for such a house?” Dylan asked.
“More than I will ever make in my lifetime,” Hope said. “It’s just a dream, Dylan. Really.”
“It’s fun to dream,” Dylan said.
“Yes.” She smiled. “Every day is a dream with you.”
After a return trip to Bay Shore in the water taxi, and after a few tense minutes waiting for the Cadillac to start, Hope pushed up the center armrest and fell asleep while leaning on Dylan’s arm, and she had another dream . . .
Hey, this is a nice house. I wonder whose it is. Oh yeah. It’s mine. This is a dream house. I own every house in my dreams. Nice view. That water is so blue, and it’s warm. Let’s walk outside on that deck. Is that a tropical island offshore? Palm trees everywhere. I must be thinking of the Caribbean. I shouldn’t have eaten the clam chowder. People on the beach are waving to me. Who are they? “Come on down,” they say. I leave the deck and notice I’m naked. Well, so are they. A nude beach is in my front yard. As soon as my foot hits the hot sand, a cat looking very much like Whack crosses my path. “Hey, Whack!” A moment later, a policeman runs up to me and arrests me for indecent exposure and for not belling my cat, and then he adds an assault charge when I curse him out in French . . .
She awoke with a start. “We there yet?” she asked lazily.
“Almost,” Dylan said. “You were dreaming. Was it a good dream?”
The house was nice. “I was arrested for indecent exposure at a nude beach.”<
br />
Dylan laughed. “Are all your dreams so ironic?”
“Sometimes,” Hope said. “It was Whack’s fault. She wasn’t wearing a bell.” She looked out the window and sat up straighter. “Isn’t this Washington Avenue?”
Dylan nodded. “Almost there.”
“We’re not going back to Christmas land?”
“Nope,” Dylan said. “We have to christen your apartment.”
Hope stretched. “Yes, we do.”
Once inside her apartment, Dylan handed Hope a sprig of mistletoe.
Another prop!
“Wherever you put it,” he said, “I have to kiss it.”
I like this holiday game very much. “You’ve been carrying a piece of mistletoe with you all day,” Hope said, backing away toward the bed, unzipping her jeans.
“Two, actually.” He withdrew another sprig from his pocket, his pants dropping to the floor a second later. “I have one, too.” He pulled her new sweater over her head.
“Ah. So all I do is . . .” She touched her mistletoe to her stomach.
Dylan kissed her stomach while Hope removed his shirt.
Dylan stood and touched his ear with his sprig.
Hope kissed his ear while removing his underwear.
“What if I touch something you could kiss, but it would be better that you did . . . more?” She waved the mistletoe in the air as Dylan unsnapped her bra and tore off her panties. “I mean, what if I wanted you to do more than kiss it?”
“Tap it twice,” Dylan said, removing his underwear. “Tap it twice, and I’ll do something nice.”
She knelt on the bed. “I intend to tap things twice all weekend.”
Dylan nodded. “Tap-tap,” he whispered. “Tap-tap.”
My djembe rejoices!
“Let’s play some music . . .”
NOVEMBER 25
Only 29 more shopping days until Christmas...
Chapter 22
With Kiki’s help at the DocuTech and the Baum, Hope had spent the three days before Thanksgiving in relative peace. Though Aniya’s card was still breaking all Odd Ducks records, orders for their other Odd Ducks Christmas cards had dwindled to only ten or fewer a day. Hope felt some sadness but not much.
Sales of her new “Sister Love” cards were increasing daily.
When Kiki had seen the cover of the first “Sister Love” card, she had cried and given Hope a long hug. “Why, that is me and Angie on this card! Oh, and it says, ‘I will stick with you forever’ inside.”
Aside from the stick figure bodies, the resemblance was obvious. “Kiki” was short with curly hair and a banduu, and “Angie” was tall with straight hair and too many teeth.
“You should do these in color, you know,” Kiki said on Wednesday. “You must put a rainbow banduu on my character.”
“That will increase our costs, Kiki,” Hope said, watching the clock. Ten more minutes, and I am off for four consecutive days of bliss. I hope Dylan has plenty of groceries because I intend to blockade his door with the Christmas tree. Oh, and unplug his TV. No football games for us. Just . . . games. I hope Dylan brings what’s left of the mistletoe. What could tapping three times signify?
Justin burst from his office looking more composed than usual, his purple shirt tucked in, and his tan khakis less wrinkled. “Mr. Yarmouth is making a surprise visit at six.” He stood smiling, his arms behind his back. “That’s in ten minutes.”
“I don’t mean to be picky,” Hope said, “but if it’s a surprise visit, how do you know when he’s coming?”
Justin began to speak and stopped. “Um, I knew he was coming today, I got an e-mail memo, and since the workday is almost over, I’m, um, expecting him to surprise us any minute now.”
“So it was not a surprise to you that he was coming,” Kiki said.
“Um, right,” Justin said.
“So where is this surprise?” Kiki looked at Hope.
Hope shrugged. “I guess the surprise is on us.” She turned to Justin. “What is this surprise meeting that really isn’t a surprise meeting going to be about?”
“All I know is that it concerns the future of the store,” Justin said, “and it is mandatory that we all be here.” Justin cut his eyes to Hope. “It may involve bonuses.”
Is he kidding? Doh make joke, Justin, yuh makin’ joke!
Since it was, however, the first mandatory meeting of any kind in Hope’s ten years at Thrifty, she began to worry. This meeting sounds ominous. Is Thrifty closing? We’re doing all right. Maybe Mr. Yarmouth is retiring and has sold out or is selling part of his interest in the store. Or maybe, someone is getting fired.
Someone wearing purple.
Someone tall, regal, and white-haired entered the store wearing a gray, worsted three-piece suit and black tie, his long black umbrella tapping the floor, dark eyes under bushy silver eyebrows scanning the store.
This someone was Mr. Cyril M. Yarmouth.
He is getting so old, Hope thought, but he’s definitely still spry. “Good evening, Mr. Yarmouth.”
Mr. Yarmouth nodded to Hope. “Miss Warren, so good to see you.” He nodded at Kiki. “And you, Miss Clarke.”
Mr. Yarmouth still has his English accent. I suppose it’s charming. Okay, it is.
At six, Justin locked the front door and turned the sign the moment Dylan appeared at the door.
Hope held up one finger, and Dylan nodded, leaning against the parking meter on the sidewalk.
“Have we been busy today, Mr. Tuggle?” Mr. Yarmouth asked.
“Um, yes, sir,” Justin said. “We’ve been, um, cranking ’em out all day.”
“Good, good,” Mr. Yarmouth said. He moved toward the counter, stared a moment at the ficus plant, and laid his umbrella on the counter.
“Would you like a chair, Mr. Yarmouth?” Kiki asked.
“Certainly,” Mr. Yarmouth said.
Kiki rolled out Hope’s swivel chair, and Mr. Yarmouth sat.
“Have you told Miss Warren of the changes, Mr. Tuggle?” Mr. Yarmouth asked.
Changes? What changes?
“Um, no,” Justin said. “I was waiting for you to arrive.” Justin turned to Hope. “Um, Miss Warren, you have to stay until closing from now on, or, um, you’re fired.”
“This is ridiculous!” Kiki shouted. “Hope practically runs this store!”
Wow. Yet for some reason, getting fired doesn’t bother me a bit.
“Yes, Miss Clarke,” Mr. Yarmouth said, “for the last ten years, Miss Warren has done a superlative job of keeping this store going. I know this well. And at no time, Miss Warren, have you asked for a raise or a promotion. You are a good, steady worker. And until this fall, you hadn’t asked for any time off for a sick day or a holiday. When Hurricane Irene hit on Sunday, you were at work on Monday. I could always count on you.”
“But not anymore,” Justin said.
Why am I being so silent? I should be airing out all of Justin’s foolishness.
Mr. Yarmouth poked out his chin. “I understand you are now working down the street from three to five o’clock every day teaching art to children and using some of your accumulated sick and vacation days.” He folded his hands, his fingers long and manicured. “Is this correct?”
Hope nodded.
“Are you planning, Miss Warren, to make your teaching job there permanent?” Mr. Yarmouth asked. “Because if you are, I urge you to make a career change and work there all day. This way I can hire another worker who will be here all day. I cannot afford to have problems because you are not here through the end of the business day.”
“What problems?” Hope asked.
“We are in danger of losing HSBC Bank because of your absences,” Mr. Yarmouth said. “They were highly displeased with their annual Christmas cards this year.”
What? “I didn’t run any Christmas cards for HSBC.”
“Um, yeah, Hope,” Justin said. “They came in last week. You weren’t here all day, and Kiki left early for some reason. The HSBC man
brought them in and said he needed them immediately, so I ran them. I thought they looked fine, but they weren’t.”
“What was wrong with them?” Hope asked.
“The Christmas tree was blue, not green,” Mr. Yarmouth said, “and the word ‘Merry’ was spelled M-R-E-R-Y. HSBC has already sent them out. Their employees now have them.”
Hope stared at Justin. “Are you dyslexic and colorblind?”
“Um, yes,” Justin said. “I mean, I’m colorblind, but I’m not dyslexic. I didn’t, um, proofread anything.”
“I still don’t see how this is my fault,” Hope said. “Mr. Yarmouth, you hired a colorblind person to work in a copy shop?”
“Traditionally, this shop has been a black-and-white operation,” Mr. Yarmouth said. “I did not see any harm.”
Hope went to the mainframe and tried to pull up the HSBC card. “It isn’t here.”
“Right,” Justin said. “They gave me the original.”
“Do you still have it?” Hope asked. “If you do, I can fix it.”
“Um, I gave back the original,” Justin said. “I know, I know, I was supposed to file it in case they needed more.”
“So their copy came to you with a blue Christmas tree,” Hope said.
“Um, no, that’s just the thing,” Justin said. “I’m sure it was green, but I must have hit the wrong buttons back there.”
Hope shook her head as she moved back to the counter. “How is any of this my fault, Mr. Yarmouth?”
Mr. Yarmouth sighed. “If you had been here, Miss Warren, you would have caught HSBC’s spelling error and not pressed the wrong button Justin must have pressed. Justin tells me you trained him on the machine, so it is ultimately your fault, not only for not being here but for not training Justin properly on the machine.”
Doh ge’ meh vex, nuh! “I’m not Justin’s boss! It was never my job to train him at all. He should have come to this job knowing how to run every machine, and I told him if he ever had a problem to give me a call and I would have come here to solve it or at least talked him through it over the phone.”
