“… two million dollars to Calvin Millet, two hundred and fifty thousand to Marie Delacroix, and one hundred thousand to Consuela Bocachica. Another five hundred thousand dollars has been placed in trust for Matthew Breck, who will be eligible to receive the bequest upon his release from Anamosa State Penitentiary in Iowa.
“In addition to his sword set, Mr. Tucker also bequeathed to John Smith a fifty-dollar shopping spree at the nearest Chuck E. Cheese’s. I am required to add, ‘The free pizza party with the four-hundred-pound rodent is in return for being a constant pain in the ass.’ The balance of his estate, net of taxes, is to be transferred to the Tucker Trust. Are there any questions?”
“What about his daughter, Mary Beth?” I asked.
“She was not named in the will, Mrs. Tucker.”
“She wasn’t? He gave away all that money and he didn’t leave her a dime?”
“I’m afraid not,” Clara replied. “Perhaps we can discuss it later. Are we done, Bill?”
“We are.”
“Then would you please dismiss the other attorneys with our thanks?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As the three silent lawyers stood to leave, Clara said, “Calvin, I would appreciate it if you could escort Bill’s associates to the courthouse. Stop at Starbucks on the way if you wish and tell Olga to put it on my bill. John will tag along as well.”
“May I ask why, Mrs. Yune?”
“I’d like to have a private conversation with the girls. We won’t be long.”
I had no idea what was going on. Judging from their looks of bafflement, Mona and Loretta didn’t either. After a few pecks and squeezes, we women were left alone in the dining room with Bill the Grumpy Lawyer, who seemed perfectly comfortable with the arrangement.
Loretta said, “This is all very mysterious, Clara. What’s on your mind?”
She replied, “Buford Pickett called a few hours ago, as a courtesy. On Monday, he intends to lay off nine bank employees and send fifteen foreclosure notices to local farmers. He would have done it a week ago, but he decided to wait until after the funeral. Wasn’t that respectful?”
“Why? We just got an inch of rain. Didn’t that help?”
“I had the same objection, Wilma. He told me it was too late.”
“But what about the disaster declaration?”
“I brought that up, too. His position is that cheap, guaranteed loans will help the larger, better capitalized operations, but it will do little more than postpone the inevitable for the smaller, weaker farms in the region. If the weather is dry again next year, he says that hundreds more will fail in the tri-county area.”
“Hundreds more? Did you say hundreds more? Ebb won’t survive.”
“That’s right, Loretta. Life as we know it will end, which means that we have a decision to make. We can decide, like my brother did, that the quality of human life is little more than a consequence of the laws of economics, or we can decide that here, in Hayes County, the laws of economics can be rewritten.” Clara turned to Grumpy. “We’re among friends, Bill. How much richer am I today than I was a week ago?”
He inhaled through his nose, then exhaled, “A hundred and seventy million dollars.”
“And how did you arrive at that figure?”
“The portion of the trust you inherited from Mr. Tucker is valued at a hundred and forty million. He left another eighty-two million from his personal portfolio to the trust, of which you now own 49.1 percent. Net of taxes, that rounds off to a hundred and seventy million.”
“Do you suppose that some of that could be used to rewrite the laws of economics?”
“For that kind of money, you could rewrite the laws of physics.”
“I believe we’ll set our sights a little lower to start. Does anyone have any thoughts about how we might rewrite the laws of economics here in Hayes County?”
“I have an idea,” Loretta answered. “If you gave some of your money to the farmers, they might be able to stay in business.”
Clara smiled. “As you must have guessed by now, Vernon and I discussed the same matter at length last week. What you may not know is that I offered to give the money to the farmers myself. He was amenable, but only if he failed with Clem.”
“Okay,” Lo said. “Now I’m confused. If you had already agreed, then why was the deal with Clem so darned important?”
“Vernon wanted to restore my brother’s faith in God before the operation, but he needed time to sell it. Clem could never resist a deal. It bought Vernon the time he needed.”
“So he asked you to stay on the sidelines.”
“Yes, but Clem was too smart for his own britches. Instead of listening, he tried to beat Vernon at his own game. I’d rather not make the same mistake.” Clara turned to Grumpy again. “Bill, I’d like to endow a foundation for the benefit of family farmers in southeast Nebraska.”
“How much would the endowment be, Mrs. Yune?”
“Half the day’s gains to start. What’s that? Eighty-five million?”
“Yes, ma’am. For my own edification, what would this foundation do exactly?”
“I haven’t had time to figure out how the mechanics will work. In principle, though, we’ll loan sums to distressed farmers at zero interest. Not large sums, but big enough to do some good: a hundred thousand to two hundred thousand per grant or thereabouts, and repayment will be strictly voluntary.”
“Are you sure, Clara?” Lo asked. “The IRS will treat a loan like that as a gift; so will the state. There’ll be serious tax consequences.”
“Actually, Mrs. Yune, that may not be the case. The farmers who receive foundation grants will be able to write them off against any losses they incur in the same fiscal year. If their losses are substantial, then the tax consequences may be negligible.”
“Start working on the details, Bill. I’ll chair the board, but I’ll need someone to manage the day-to-day. I’ve been a bit out of touch the last few years. Who do you recommend, girls?”
“How about Calvin?” I suggested.
“He’s a sweet man, but I don’t want to make money; I want to give it away. For that I’ll need a woman. How about you, Loretta? You’ve got a head for business.”
“Lily Pickett’s is better. She a whiz with taxes, too.”
“Then hire her as our treasurer. Please note that Loretta Parsons Millet will be our inaugural chief executive. She’ll join me on the board, along with Wilma and Mona here. Leave one seat blank; we’ll add a fifth member later. That’s enough to get you started, isn’t it?”
Grumpy made a note. “I’ll need a name, Mrs. Yune.”
“Didn’t I mention that? We’ll call it the Tucker Foundation.”
“I’ll also need an address.”
“Oops! Old age is such a nuisance; I forgot that, too. I’d like to locate the foundation’s headquarters here so I won’t have to leave to attend to business. Is that okay with you, Wilma?”
I knew the answer, but I asked the question anyway. “Does that mean that I won’t have a bed and breakfast any more?”
Clara smiled. “Tell me if I’m wrong, Bill, but I don’t see how one place can be both at the same time, not unless there’s a legal entity called a bed and breakfast foundation.”
“You may be right, Mrs. Yune, but the matter should be researched.”
“You all do a hell of a lot of research, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. One last thing: you’ll need to open a bank account for the foundation. Otherwise, money will be flying all over the place and the taxes will get mixed up.”
“Will a million do?”
“We can probably open a door or two with that.”
“Good. Will you follow me upstairs when we’re done, Loretta? I’ll write a check and you can take it to the bank. Bill will go along and help you with the paperwork.”
“Me? I can take it to the bank?”
Clara grinned broadly. “You’re the new CEO, dear. Stop in and see Buford while you’re
there, if you don’t mind. Tell him to expect a call from Omaha.”
Well, there it was. All I had to do was hold a mirror up to my face to see that Mr. Moore had been to Ebb again. In six short days, I had gone from being perpetually affianced to instantly married to widowed and enriched by the sad but preventable death of my arrogant, foolhardy husband. The drought had been brought to an end; my cute little goddaughter had been declared gifted by two of the oldest and oddest women on planet Earth; the Circle had discovered a secret club that dated back to Henry the Eighth; Beryl and Flathead had disappeared; Marta Kimball had passed away; the lieutenant governor had declared half the state a disaster area; my grandson had become a zillionaire under construction; my mute, reclusive boarder had turned into a chatterbox and the most philanthropic woman in state history; and my bed and breakfast career was all but over.
You know what I was thinking. “But what about Mr. Moore?” I said plaintively. “What if he comes back?”
“You can keep the entire second floor for yourself, Wilma,” Clara replied. “Can you spare one room?”
JUST BEFORE SUNDOWN, Bett Loomis, who is the town postwoman, appeared on my stoop with a big, brown express envelope in her hand. I was wearing a ratty pink housecoat, a hairnet, and running shoes when I opened the door, but it wasn’t like I lived in Buckingham Palace, was it?
“You’re working late,” I said. “Is that for me or Clara?”
Bett has been trying to quit smoking for so long that she has become addicted to nicotine gum. “It’s for you,” she replied between chews, “and it’s postmarked England.” In case you were wondering, we don’t see a steady stream of mail from Europe around here.
“England?”
“Take a look for yourself.”
Pretty red and blue stamps with pearl-white profiles of a young Queen Elizabeth adorned the upper right-hand corner, but there was no return address. “I can’t tell who it’s from, Bett. Should I open it?”
“It ain’t a bomb,” she answered, like I was a sissy. “I’ll open it if you want.”
“No, no. That’s okay. As long as you’re sure it’s safe.” I tore open the edge of the envelope and found a smaller one inside made of textured off-white paper and addressed to me. It contained a card of the same stock with a pretty, hand-painted watercolor of a black swan swimming on a translucent blue-green lake. A shiver ran down my spine as I read:
Dear Mrs. Tucker:
On behalf of Vernon, Marion, and all of Lohengrin’s Children, please accept my sincerest condolences for the untimely death of your beloved husband. Forgive us for being unable to attend his memorial, but other matters required our immediate attention. I hope you will understand.
With sorrow and regret,
John Warren
The Managing Director
I reread the card, which made me a little woozy in the head, so I sat down on the stoop to regain my sense of equilibrium, and then I read it again.
“Who’s John Warren?” Bett asked, looking over my shoulder.
“He’s an old friend of Mr. Moore’s,” I answered, “from the court of Queen Elizabeth — the first.”
Bett is a philatelist, not a history buff. She slacked her gum and remarked, “That’s nice. Can I have the stamps?”
Aftermath
KEEPING THE FAITH
RAINFALL LEVELS RETURNED to normal in Hayes County for the rest of the season, but it was too little, too late, just as Buford had predicted. Crops were nonexistent to flat awful, but no foreclosure notices were sent out and nobody was laid off. Clara put in a call to Fabrizio Santoni, the CEO of the National Bank of the Plains, to request that he give us a few extra months to get our county house in order. He is a nice man, but Clara’s emergence as his largest individual shareholder may have contributed in his consent. There is also a rumor running around the Abattoir that Lily threatened her husband with a painful, public, and extremely expensive divorce, but she never said so much as boo to me or Loretta about it.
My bed and breakfast business is history now. I accepted a few return guests for the county fair, such as it was, but they were the last. The downstairs is being converted into offices now, and most of my appliances have been moved up to the second floor, where Buzz Busby is building me a new kitchen with a center island. The parking lot is also being enlarged, and Clara, who rarely leaves the third floor except to come downstairs for a meeting, is having the roof retiled. It didn’t need it, but she said she would be the first to suffer from a leak.
In case you were wondering, Silas the Second appeared on the back stairs the night after Buzz’s workmen started tearing down my kitchen, and he has been back twice since. I get the impression that he is not fond of the changes. I have regrets myself from time to time but, given the circumstances, there was no way on Earth I could refuse.
Thanks to Grumpy and his troop of legal beagles, the Tucker Foundation was up and running in only thirty days. Casey Jaworski, who is an expert at farming, dairy operations, and lean times, became the fifth member of the board. As you might expect, her selection pushed a certain person’s nose out of joint yet again. Hail Mary believes that she should have gotten the nod, but Clara forbade it. I guess she failed to make an impression when she had the chance.
By Columbus Day, the foundation had loaned $4.7 million to thirty-one farmers in Hayes, Gage, and Pawnee counties. We’re still getting upwards of fifty applications per week, but we all agreed that we couldn’t deplete the fund too quickly, so we limit ourselves to one grant per day. Even that has attracted the attention of the press, which has kept poor Lo running all over the place. Somehow, she has still found time to raise my goddaughter, although it has to be a bit of a chore. Last week, Laverne came home from preschool and announced, “I hate meatloaf!” Marie, who cooks for Calvin and Loretta nowadays, had taken the ground round out of the freezer to thaw, but she hadn’t even cracked an egg.
It would have been a tragedy to board up the River House, so Mona, Mark, and John moved there in my stead. The very next day, Consuela and her husband disposed of all the toothy dead heads on the dining hall wall. Mark is working for Calvin and the Tucker Trust after school, and John has been retained by the foundation to find Mary Beth Tucker, Clem’s estranged daughter, plus Herb and Barb Knepper. He caught up with Rufus and Winnie Bowe in Geraldine, Montana, two weeks ago and they are on their way home, but nobody is on the lookout for Beryl and Flathead Williams. I hope she has found her ocean by now.
The news of John Warren’s sympathy card pushed Lily Park Pickett to the verge of apoplexy, of all people. The next thing I knew, she had formed an official Circle committee to investigate Lohengrin’s Children. Pokie, Tulip, Louise, and a dozen other girls have thrown in with her, plus Edith Pickerel, the librarian from England. Lately, they have organized themselves in subcommittees: one is researching the widows; another is looking into the mystery of the Lady Be Good; and a third has just been created to investigate a legendary oasis called Zerzura on the Egyptian border near Libya. Coincidentally, it was thought to be inhabited by descendants of the Crusaders, and it was located within a few hundred miles of where the Lady Be Good went down.
Lily invites me to all their meetings, but I have yet to go. I make up some kind of excuse as a rule, but the real reason is that I don’t want to know any more. In particular, I don’t want any more facts. I have nothing against knowledge; it’s just that I want to keep my faith in Mr. Moore intact. A person can’t have faith in a fact; it’s a fact. Faith is a belief; it requires a measure of doubt. For that matter, so does hope, and I hope with all my heart that he can find his way back to Ebb one day. Until then I will keep his room ready, and I will await his return, along with Loretta, Laverne, and a thousand others.
Wouldn’t you know it? Mr. Moore was right all along.
Uncertainty is the spice of life.
Published by
ALGONQUIN BOOKS OF CHAPEL HILL
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olina 27515-2225
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New York, New York 10014
© 2008 by George Shaffner. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
eISBN 978-1-56512-644-2
The Widows of Eden Page 26
