by Ann B. Ross
“Lillian,” he’d said, after making a thorough fool of himself, “that outfit was made for you. I’ve never seen anything like it.” And of course he hadn’t. Nor had anybody else, for that matter. I could’ve smacked him for bringing up what the rest of us had been trying to ignore, but Mr. Pickens wasn’t known for his tactful ways. What surprised me, though, was that Lillian had taken no offense; she had just been tickled to death with his attention. Which just goes to show what a man who has a way with women can get away with.
Little Lloyd suddenly sat up. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars? Why, that’s more than twenty-five thousand an acre, which is what those view lots up on the mountain’re going for.”
Lillian groaned at the thought, knowing as we all did that there were no views on Willow Lane.
“How can Mr. Gibbs do that?” Little Lloyd asked.
“He knows what he’s doing,” Sam said, frowning as he considered the matter. “Although that water-bottling notion of his beats all I’ve ever heard of. I wouldn’t put it past him to have something else up his sleeve.”
Yes, he did, and I knew it was my house, but I wasn’t about to mention it.
Mr. Pickens turned to Sam and said, “You know Gibbs better than any of us. You think he’d listen to a counter-offer?”
“We could make one,” Sam said, “but he won’t take it. He’s known for setting a price and sticking to it.”
Sam looked across the table at me and smiled. “Don’t beat yourself up about it, Julia. I’ve got a feeling he doesn’t want to sell at all. He’s set an unrealistic price on it to discourage us, while at the same time appearing to cooperate with a community effort. He’s never much cared what the town thought of him but, in this case, he might.”
“I’d hate to tell you what I think of him,” I declared. “It’s not like he’d just want to sit on empty land when there’s money to be made. And how in the world he can think he’ll make money on bottled water, I don’t know.”
Sam shook his head. “It doesn’t make good sense, does it? What’s likely is that he’s had an offer for less than he quoted you, and he’s trying to jack us up to get a better one.”
“Well,” Hazel Marie chimed in, “why don’t we meet his price? I don’t see why we can’t raise two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and besides, we wouldn’t have to have that much up front, would we? I mean, we could get a bank loan to make up the rest.”
“Somebody’s got to be good for the rest of it, sweetheart,” Mr. Pickens said. Hazel Marie bit her lip and looked away.
“But she’s right,” I said, coming to her defense. “Why couldn’t the property itself be collateral for the major portion of the loan?”
“Ordinarily it would be,” Sam said. “Except it’s not worth that much. Look at the condition of those houses, for one thing. And anything in that section of town wouldn’t be highly valued by any bank. They’d know it’s way overpriced.”
“Well, what’re we going to do?” I asked, just about at my wit’s end with every idea being shot down.
“Raise the money,” Little Lloyd piped up. “And we can do it if everybody pitches in. We’re going to have our first car wash this weekend, and the Scouts’re going to rake leaves and donate what we make.”
“Bless your little heart,” Lillian said, reaching across his chair and hugging him.
“And remember the house tour,” Hazel Marie said. “That’ll bring in a good bit.”
“Not nearly enough, though,” I said. But fearing that I was throwing cold water on their optimism, I went on. “But every little bit will help.”
“What we need,” Sam said, “is some big money-raising events, something that’ll get the whole town involved, maybe even bring in people from out of town.”
Hazel Marie’s eyes widened as a thought came to her. “Maybe something like a basketball game between the doctors and the lawyers,” she said. “Or a talent show with a big-name performer. Or a music festival! Oh, I know, maybe some country-western star like Alan Jackson would come and perform for us. That’d be a sell-out like you wouldn’t believe.”
Mr. Pickens smiled at her in the way I occasionally did at Little Lloyd when he had some high-flown idea. “That’d be great, sugar, but I doubt Alan Jackson would come to Abbotsville, regardless of how worthy the cause.”
“Well, he might.” Hazel Marie couldn’t help but pout, but at least she’d spoken to him.
“A charity golf event might work,” Sam offered. “Maybe get a few professionals to play with us amateurs—if, that is, the weather will cooperate.”
“We may have to schedule that for spring,” Mr. Pickens said. “Or we’ll be shoveling snow to find the cups.”
Little Lloyd giggled at the thought.
“One thing we can do starting right away is call some of the movers and shakers in town,” Sam said. “Both individuals and businesses. First thing tomorrow, I’ll start on a list of the folks who’re well-heeled enough to make sizeable donations. That ought to prime the pump for the rest of the town.”
“That’s good, Sam,” Mr. Pickens agreed. “That’ll be where the big money is. But we need to get as many people involved as we can. I mean, have things that appeal to different interests, if you follow me.”
“Like what?” I asked, beginning to feel some hope that we really could raise that money. And if we could do it within three weeks, there’d be no risk in putting up my house to hold off Clarence Gibbs. My heart began to thud at the possibility, both of making it happen and of losing it all.
“Well, like a Poker Run, for instance; that’ll bring out a whole ’nother segment of the population.” Mr. Pickens grinned in that devilish way he had. Hazel Marie cut her eyes at him, unable to resist, and Sam perked up considerably.
I was afraid to ask, but I did. “What in the world is a Poker Run?”
“Oh,” he said airily, waving his hand as if it wasn’t important. But the way those black eyes of his glinted in the light of the chandelier put me on my guard. “It’s just a way for us motorcycle types to raise money for charity.”
Lillian frowned at the word charity, while I frowned at the word motorcycle. She mumbled something under her breath, but I spoke right up.
“Sam,” I said, “whatever he’s got in mind, I want you to stay out of it. I’ve seen how you drive that machine, and you don’t need to be playing cards at the same time.” I stopped as they stared at me, then went on. “Besides, we Presbyterians don’t believe in gambling, and you know it.”
Mr. Pickens’s shoulders began shaking as he leaned his head practically on the table. Sam was trying not to laugh, but was having a hard time holding it down. Little Lloyd had a little smile on his face, but was too polite to laugh out loud.
“Well, what’s so funny?” I demanded.
“Oh, Miss Julia,” Hazel Marie said, ignoring Mr. Pickens and his antics. “You don’t play cards while you’re riding. It’s more complicated than that. It’s like, well, you ride to different places and draw a card at each stop. Then at the end of the run, you see who has the best hand, and that’s the winner.”
“I never heard of such,” I said, still mortified at being laughed at. “How in the world does that raise money? Sounds more like just an excuse to ride around on those things to me.”
“There’s some truth in that,” Sam agreed, his face now composed into a kindly smile. “But we could get sponsors beforehand, and the riders could make bets based on the cards they draw at each stop. Then, of course, all the players have to ante up, so with a good cause like we have, there’ll be a lot of money to start with. And whoever wins the hand will donate whatever’s in the pot.”
“The pot,” I repeated, not understanding the terminology. “Then why would anybody want to play if the winner doesn’t win anything?”
“It’s like you said, Miss Julia,” Mr. Pickens said, still trying to get himself under control. “It’s an excuse to ride and do some good, too. Besides, we could have a prize of some
kind for the winner. Some kind of bike accessory, maybe, or a free tune-up.” Then he seemed to get serious for a minute. “Too bad it’s not warm enough for a Bikini Bike Wash.”
“It’s a lot of fun,” Hazel Marie assured me, while ignoring him. “J. D. took me on a short one a few weeks ago, and I enjoyed it ever so much.” She bounced a little in her chair, as the idea began to appeal to her. “Listen, you wouldn’t believe the amount of money that could be raised. We only went with a small group and they raised several thousand dollars. If we get a whole big group of riders, why, no telling what we’d bring in.”
“Really?” I asked, perking up at the thought.
Mr. Pickens eyed Hazel Marie warily, then ventured, “You’ll ride with me, won’t you, sugar?”
Hazel Marie flounced herself, swished her hair a little, then settled down with a martyr’s sigh. “I guess I could, for Lillian’s sake. But you better behave yourself.”
Mr. Pickens smiled like a milk-fed cat. “You’re on my backseat, then. Sam,” he went on, “who’s going with you?”
I glanced at the wistful look on Little Lloyd’s face, knowing that he wanted to go. I held my breath, hoping that he’d be preserved from risking life and limb. I was ready to put my foot down if Sam wanted to take him. It was bad enough, to my mind, that Sam was considering the perilous venture for himself. I wouldn’t be able to stand having the both of them in the way of danger.
“Julia,” Sam said.
“Yes?” I responded.
“I’m answering J. D.,” he said. “He asked who I’m taking, and I said you.”
“Oh, no, Sam Murdoch. Nobody’s taking me anywhere. I wouldn’t get on that thing for all the tea in China.”
“I’ll go, Mr. Sam,” Little Lloyd said.
“You’re going,” Mr. Pickens said, smiling at the boy. “We just have to work out the seating arrangements.”
“Hazel Marie,” I began to protest, “you can’t . . .”
“Miss Julia,” she said, “I promise you he’ll be safe. But we really want you to go. You’d love it, I know you would. But first, we’d have to get you some pants so you can straddle the backseat.”
I reared back in my chair. “If you think I’m going to pull on a pair of pants and hike myself astride one of those machines, why . . .” I nearly choked at the thought. “I can’t believe you’d think I’d do such a thing. No,” I said, shaking my head, as determined as I’d ever been in my life. “No way in this world would I ever consider it.”
“I know what’ll solve that,” Sam said. He looked at Mr. Pickens. “J. D., will my Road King take a sidecar?”
Mr. Pickens’s white teeth gleamed against his tanned face. “It sure will, and that way, Miss Julia, you can wear whatever you want.” He looked over at Lillian and winked. “Although I was really looking forward to seeing you in one of Lillian’s running suits.”
Lillian began to laugh at that unlikely event, and everybody except me joined in. I didn’t see a thing funny in the idea.
Sam looked at Little Lloyd. “That’ll work out so all of us can go. You can ride behind me, and Julia’ll be in the sidecar. How about that?”
The child nodded his head up and down like a yo-yo, delighted to have his place confirmed.
“Sidecar, backseat, or running board,” I said. “I’m not getting in or on any of them. And I’m not gambling my money in any kind of card game. So just leave me out of your plans, and that is that.”
I stood and began to gather the dishes, then I stomped out to the kitchen. But not before seeing another wink exchanged between Sam and Mr. Pickens.
Chapter 17
I made an effort and recovered myself enough to be pleasant for the rest of the evening, but I refused to listen to any further plans that included me as part of that outlandish Poker Run idea. Except at one point when Sam sidled up to me as we adjourned to the living room, saying that he really wanted me to go with him.
“You’ve threatened to take Lillian in my place,” I told him. “So why don’t you do it?”
“No, ma’am!” she said, as silverware clattered on a tray. “Don’t be makin’ no plans for me to go on that ’sickle. I’d as soon live in a tent as get a house on the back of one a them things.”
Then she realized that she might have sounded somewhat ungrateful. “I mean, Mr. Sam, I sure do ’preciate what y’all tryin’ to do, but me an’ that machine not cut out for one another. Why, I’d prob’bly mash them tires flat if I got on it.”
“No fear of that, Lillian,” Sam told her. “You should see some of the riders in our club. They’d make three of you, and they haven’t flattened any tires yet.”
Then Mr. Pickens added his two cents’ worth. “I can put a sidecar on mine, Lillian, if you want to go. Hazel Marie can ride behind me, and Lloyd behind Sam, and you and Miss Julia can ride in style in the sidecars.”
“Nossir,” she said, shaking her head. “Y’all got to count me out. ’Sides, I got the high blood, an’ crawlin’ on one a them things make it shoot up outta sight.”
Oh, Lord, I thought, she’s right. I knew Lillian had high blood pressure because she took medicine for it, and I knew she didn’t need any stress beyond what she already had. In fact, just the thought of riding on a motorcycle made my own heart race and my mouth go dry. No telling what it would do to her.
“Just leave Lillian alone,” I said. “Neither of us is going with you, and as far as I’m concerned, the whole idea is ill-conceived and mortally dangerous.”
That pronouncement didn’t have the effect I’d hoped it would, which was to stop the whole thing in its tracks. I sat in the living room, holding my peace, while the others continued to make their plans, discussing what route they would take, how many miles they’d go between stops, who would want to join them, what supplies to put in the storage bins on the back, where they’d rendezvous at the end, and how much money they might raise.
I watched Sam as closely as I could without attracting his attention, looking for evidence of diminishing faculties, not wanting to find any, but, on the other hand, thinking that any suspicious sign just might keep him at home. But he was talking sensibly with Mr. Pickens, answering Hazel Marie’s questions in his usual courteous manner, and making plans with Little Lloyd on how they’d load the Road King.
I declare, I thought to myself with a sudden start, what am I thinking of? There I was feeling reassured about Sam’s state of mind by the way he was participating in a conversation, when the whole conversation was on a subject that indicated a state of dementia in the first place.
Yet I couldn’t discount their efforts out of hand. If I made that agreement with Mr. Gibbs, I’d have to support whatever fund-raising idea they came up with—even a Bikini Bike Wash, as long as I didn’t have to wear one.
It wasn’t long before Sam got up to leave, saying that he had house guests to see to. I’d heard Lillian go up the back stairs to her room, and he’d probably taken that as a signal to end the evening.
He started for the door, winked at me, and cocked his head at Mr. Pickens, who’d been edging closer and closer to Hazel Marie until she was mashed up against the arm of the sofa.
I followed Sam to the door, realizing as he had that those two wanted some time alone, which suited me fine, except Hazel Marie didn’t seem to be that eager for it. But she’d fooled me before where Mr. Pickens was concerned.
I put my hand on Sam’s arm, hoping to get in another word to dissuade him from pursuing the reckless idea of running around on two wheels. I wasn’t against the idea, I was just against his participation in it.
Instead, he sidetracked me by saying, “Julia, if you know anybody who might make a sizeable donation, you might want to go ahead and approach them about it.”
“I’ve been thinking of that,” I said, handing his jacket to him. “And I have an idea or two. I went to see Mr. Benton down at the bank this morning about setting up an account for the funds we raise, and he told me he’d make sure it was done. He said
he’d make the first donation himself, which I thought was nice of him, but no more than I expected.” I paused, thinking of the bank that Wesley Lloyd Springer had owned, which had passed to me for the short while between his passing and Binkie’s unloading it for me. I’d not foreseen any trouble setting up the account, nor of having everybody who worked there make a donation to it. After all, I still had a considerable interest in the bank, and none of them wanted to get crosswise of me. “And,” I went on, “I made my donation, too, which I can increase if need be.”
Then I led Sam closer to the door and said, “But I’ve also done something I’m not sure about, Sam, and if you don’t think it’s right, I hope you’ll go to the bank tomorrow and straighten it out.”
“I can’t imagine what you’ve done,” he said, with that smile that made me a little weak in the knees.
“I let Mr. Benton put my name on that account. Well, I mean as treasurer of the Willow Lane Fund, which is the name we came up with. I put Mary Alice McKinnon’s name on it, too, since she’s so good with figures.”
“That’s perfectly all right, Julia. Somebody has to be able to access the account, and I expect people think both of you are as trustworthy as they come.”
I smiled, proud of my reputation in town. “Well, I didn’t want anyone to think I’d overstepped. I’d just not thought about it until I got to the bank, and that seemed the easiest thing to do at the time.”
“If it makes you feel better, I nominate you for treasurer, and I’ll second the motion, as well.”
“Now, one other thing,” I said, smiling at his idea of Robert’s Rules, which I was familiar with from my association with any number of women’s organizations. “I’d like you to talk to Little Lloyd and Hazel Marie about their contribution.” I stopped, bit my lip for a moment, then plowed right ahead. “Maybe you ought to talk to Binkie, too. Let her look over Little Lloyd’s assets with you, before you do . . . I mean, before you let him do something rash. That’s something Binkie can help you with.”
