by Ann B. Ross
“I imagine so. Let’s order. Do you know what you’re having for lunch?”
“A refill of this, for one thing,” she said, tilting her wineglass. “Have one with me, Julia.”
“No, I’ll stick with coffee. A glass of wine would put me to sleep for the afternoon.” Actually, I was shocked at LuAnne’s consumption of alcohol. It made me wonder if she drank alone in that companionless condo she was reveling in. LuAnne had only recently left her husband of more than forty years after learning that for thirty of them he’d been having an affair with one Totsie Somebody. Even so, she’d been able to leave only because an ideal place to live quite economically came open—Helen Stroud’s condo when she’d moved into Thurlow’s house to take care of him. Even LuAnne could think of no excuse to stay with a faithless husband when the Lord had so conveniently provided a way out for her.
“Well,” LuAnne said, after we’d ordered our salads, “as much as I’m enjoying the solitary life—and I mean that, Julia—I do occasionally miss having somebody to talk to. I’m thinking of getting a dog—that would be close to having Leonard around. Neither would answer back.”
With LuAnne, one never knew when she was being serious, but I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I can tell you who might need a home.”
“Who?”
“Ronnie. Remember him—Thurlow’s dog?” And I went on to tell her how Ronnie had come to be a semipermanent guest in my home, and also hint a little about my concern for Thurlow.
“Well, first off, I don’t have room for a Great Dane. And second off”—LuAnne leaned forward to whisper—“do you really think Helen is robbing Thurlow?”
“No. No, I don’t, but Thurlow does. And that’s almost as bad.”
LuAnne leaned back in her chair with a look of consternation on her face. “You’re right. Even if he only thinks so, he could fire her and where would I be then? She’d want her condo back, and I’d be on the street. And just when I was really coming to love being settled by myself. I’ve even got a part-time job lined up—answering the phone, which I can do in my sleep. Oh, Julia, I wish you hadn’t told me. Now I’m going to worry myself sick.”
“Don’t, LuAnne, because that’s not going to happen. I’m sure Helen has foreseen just such a possibility. She has Thurlow locked in securely and legally, believe me. The only one I’m concerned about is Ronnie, because he’s used to being treated like a member of the family, and Helen has relegated him to a pen in the backyard.”
“Why don’t you keep him?”
“I may have to,” I said, sighing. “Except then I’d have to build a fence. But, speaking of fences . . .” And I went on to tell her about the Great Wall of China going up along the Pickenses’ side yard.
Chapter 15
“I’ll tell you what let’s do,” LuAnne said, cutting off my intention to enlist her help in taking Madge Taylor down. She sat up straight as her eyes brightened with a sudden idea. “Let’s drop in on Helen and visit with Thurlow. She asked me if I wanted a lease, and . . .”
“You don’t have a lease?”
“No, I saw no reason to go to the trouble. Helen and I are friends, you know.”
“Oh, my, LuAnne. That’s all the more reason to have one. Casual agreements between friends can lead to future problems. Just tell her that you’d be more comfortable keeping things legal between the two of you, and emphasize that it’s for her protection as the owner of the condo.”
“Well, I guess you know what you’re talking about with all the rental property you have. It’s a shame, though, that friends can’t trust each other.”
“It’s not a matter of trust,” I said. “It’s a matter of letting you sleep at night without worrying about a sudden eviction notice if Helen changes her mind.”
“You’re right,” LuAnne said, for once listening to my advice. “I’d be up a creek if Helen wanted her condo back. It’s really the only worry on my mind. And, I’ll tell you, Julia, I did not know how burdened I was in my marriage until I got out of it. And I’m not talking about Leonard’s dalliance with that Totsie woman. I’m talking about years and years of just plain incompatibility—and I didn’t even know what was causing my inner turmoil until I was rid of it—it was him all along. Now,” she said, taking another sip from her glass, “I’m feeling compatible with just about everybody.”
* * *
—
I pulled the car to the curb in front of Thurlow’s house, got out, and waited on the sidewalk for LuAnne to park behind me.
“My word,” she said as she walked over to me, “the place is certainly looking better than I’ve ever seen it. I rarely drove by here but when I did, I always thought it looked like a haunted house.”
“Wait till you see the inside,” I said, unlatching the gate and leading the way to the front door. “Thurlow’s apparently given Helen a free hand, or, more likely, given in to her demand for a free hand. Not that I blame her. Nobody, and certainly not Helen, as particular as she is, could’ve lived in such squalor.
“Now, LuAnne,” I said, as we approached the freshly painted front door, “let me suggest that if you mention a lease to Helen, you do it as subtly as you can. Put it as protection for her in that it will spell out your responsibilities in caring for her condo.”
“Oh, of course, Julia,” she said, a little testily. “I’m not at a complete loss when it comes to such things, you know.”
I wasn’t so sure about that, but I’d given all the advice she wanted to hear. I rang the doorbell, then asked to be announced to Mrs. Stroud when the maid answered the door.
We were shown into the morning room, and while Helen was informed of our visit, LuAnne looked around in amazement.
“This is gorgeous,” she whispered. “She’s restoring it to its original state, only I’m not sure it ever looked this good. Every club in town will want it on their house tour.” Then, in an even lower tone, she said, “I think I’m safe, Julia. Helen will never leave something like this.”
Then in came Helen herself, a welcoming but somewhat strained smile on her face. “How nice to see you both,” she said. “Do have a seat. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but there’s so much to oversee with construction going on.”
“We apologize for just dropping in, Helen,” I said, “and we can’t stay but a minute. We know you’re busy, but just thought we’d see how Thurlow is. He must be anxious for news about Ronnie.”
“That’s thoughtful of you because he is eager to hear how Ronnie’s doing. I have never in my life known a man so attached to an animal.” She stood, then said, “Let’s walk upstairs, and if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just leave you with him while I get back to selecting the flooring for the kitchen.”
“That will be fine,” I said, rising, too. “We’ll visit for a few minutes, then see ourselves out.”
So far, LuAnne had barely said a word, and she didn’t on our way up the stairs, her head swiveling around so much that she almost tripped on the painters’ drop cloth on the top step.
But as we walked across the landing to Thurlow’s room, she said, “Helen, my lawyer says that I need a lease on the condo, and I hope you won’t think it’s because I’m afraid you’ll want it back, because after seeing this, I’m sure you won’t. But, well, just in case and so I won’t worry about being evicted, would you mind signing one?”
As my eyes rolled so far back in my head that I was afraid they’d never straighten out, Helen smiled her serene smile and said, “Of course. Send me two copies. We’ll both sign them and each keep one. How long a lease would you like? One year, two, or maybe five? Whatever you want, because there’s always the danger that you might move and leave me with an empty condo. It will be a relief to know that I’ll have rent coming in for as long as the lease is in effect—whether you’re in it or not.”
A look of sudden dismay swept over LuAnne’s face at the realization that
a lease worked both ways. “What do you think, Julia?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. What about three years with an option to renew? And also first refusal if Helen decides to put it on the market. That should give you both some reassurance, as well as some breathing room.”
“Perfect,” Helen said as she tapped on Thurlow’s bedroom door. “If that suits you, LuAnne, we’ll get it done.” Then she said, “Please don’t stay long—he’s quite excitable and gets upset if he has too much stimulation.”
Well, they Lord, I thought, the last thing on my mind was stimulating Thurlow Jones. He generated enough of that all by himself.
“Look who’s come to see you,” Helen said as we trooped into Thurlow’s room. “It’s Julia and LuAnne. Do you feel like a little visit?”
Thurlow was in bed, propped up by pillows, his temporarily useless legs spread out under a sheet. He gave us a dismissive glance from under his thatch of white hair and white eyebrows, then snapped his fingers at the muscular, T-shirted man on the other side of the bed. “Mike,” he said, “hop to!” and the man immediately drew up two chairs for us.
“Well, ladies,” Thurlow said in his typically challenging way, “what lured you from your tea parties to visit the sick and ailing? Or the lost and lonely? Or the dead and dying?”
“Christian compassion,” I shot back at him. “And not one thing more.” As sick as he looked with patches of red on his cheeks, I was encouraged by the sharpness of his tone and the usual belittling comment he’d flung at us.
“Ha!” He came back at me quickly enough. “Glad to see you ain’t lost your spirit, in spite of marryin’ Sam Murdoch.” Then he glowered at me from under those bushy eyebrows. “Where’s my dog?”
“Ronnie is lying on a three-hundred-thread-count comforter in a corner of my kitchen. He’s been getting eardrops every four hours. He’s being walked and driven around and played with by Lloyd and the Pickens twins. He’s been overseeing some yard work that Mr. Pickens is doing, and he’s being fed by the best cook in town. In other words, Thurlow, Ronnie is in dog heaven and thoroughly enjoying your recuperation.”
“Well, I don’t want you spoilin’ him.” Thurlow turned his face away, then mumbled, “He won’t get any of that here.”
“He has another few days for the eardrops,” I said. “Would you like me to bring him home then?”
Instead of answering, Thurlow said to his minder, “Mike, get up from there and get these ladies something to drink. Some coffee, that’d be good, and I want some, too.”
LuAnne leaned forward, her mouth open to say something like we couldn’t stay, but I held her back, shaking my head. As soon as Mike left the room, looking back at us as he did so, Thurlow pushed himself farther up in the bed.
“Whatever she tells you,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “don’t believe it. She aims to get rid of my dog one way or the other, so don’t believe anything she says.” Then, even though I’d been watching for it, his hand snaked out as quick as a flash and grabbed my arm. “She’s gonna leave him in that backyard pen to freeze to death this winter—that’s her plan. Listen,” he said, shaking my arm, “I’ll pay you, Lady Murdoch. I’ll pay you to keep him for me. She thinks she’s got it all, but she don’t know everything.”
Hearing Mike hurrying up the stairs, Thurlow released my arm, but not before giving it a hard squeeze to underline his plea. Panting, Mike strode in, saying that the maid was perking coffee and would bring it up in a few minutes. It was clear to me that Mike had his orders about leaving Thurlow alone.
“I don’t think we can stay for coffee, but thank you anyway,” I said, getting to my feet. “And, Thurlow, don’t worry about Ronnie. He’s well settled for the time being. He misses you, I’m sure, but he’s enjoying his vacation with us.”
Then, as quickly as we could, LuAnne and I said our farewells and got out of there—down the stairs and out the door without disturbing Helen’s floor selection process.
“Julia,” LuAnne said as we neared our cars, “he scared me to death. What do you think is going on in that house?”
“I don’t know, but it worries me, too. Either he’s being thoroughly taken advantage of or he’s feeding us a bunch of wild stories. Whichever it is, though, it looks as if I’m stuck with Ronnie for the duration.”
Chapter 16
When Sam called that afternoon, it was all I could do to keep from begging him to come home. With his fine legal mind and his ability to calmly assess a situation, he could both explain our options to foil the plans for the Cochran house and tell us how to carry them out as well.
Instead, though, I said not one word of the turmoil we were dealing with, in spite of recalling the old saying that you can’t fight city hall and thinking that Sam could if he’d come home. That’s what I felt we were up against, and not only city hall but the city churches as well. Every person in town—except those it directly affected—seemed to think that the specific house chosen for homeless teenage boys was a marvelous thing. And those who were affected were expected to just accept it without a murmur—in fact, to smile about it and keep their mouths shut. In other words, the overriding attitude toward those who were unhappy seemed to be: Be quiet and stop spoiling our delight in how wonderful and selfless and Christian we are!
So I asked Sam about his travels and what he was seeing on his tours, and he told me in great detail about arches, Gothic windows with tracery, buttresses both flying and non, westworks, and ambulatories. He was having a fine time, so I encouraged him to bring home lots of pictures so he could show me exactly what he was talking about.
Lord, I missed him, but at the same time I was glad that he was doing something he’d long wanted to do. So, hanging up the phone without mentioning the plight we were in, I took up my lonely concerns again.
When Binkie’s secretary called and asked if I could come down to the office that afternoon, my spirits immediately soared. At least Binkie was working for us, and a meeting implied that she had news.
* * *
—
“Binkie,” I said, sitting forward in the chair in front of her desk, “tell me something good. I badly need some good news.”
“Sorry, Miss Julia, this is just an update—letting you know where we are at this point. Nothing’s settled yet. But I’ve discussed the problem with Janet Bradley, the zoning board administrator, and she tells me that the board of the Homes for Teens applied for a permit several times, each time under a different designation. They’ve called themselves a ‘residential care home,’ a ‘family group home,’ neither of which is permitted, and now they’re trying as a ‘foster care home,’ with the subheading of a ‘single-family dwelling.’ That, of course, is permitted as far as the zoning regulations are concerned.”
“But . . .” I started to protest.
“I know,” she said, holding up her hand. “But here’s the final word as far as the zoning goes: Any type of residential care facility in that area is not permitted. Foster homes are not specifically mentioned, but if the board of adjustments interprets foster homes as a type of residential care facility, then clearly the use of that property in that way is not permitted. Now, they may get away with calling themselves a single-family dwelling, although psuedoparents with six unrelated minors is hardly what the term ‘single family’ implies. So the Homes for Teens board may, when faced with that, change their plan or classification of operation to a conditional- or special-use designation and apply for a waiver. If that happens, as I’ve warned you, we will have a fight on our hands, and it becomes expensive.”
“I don’t care what it costs,” I said. “Especially if all they do is change the name but keep on doing what they’ve wanted to do all along. That would be defying the law, Binkie, while holding themselves up as the great philanthropists of Abbot County. I’ll tell you the truth, I’ve about come to the point of despair over this—their bleeding hearts have draine
d their brains, and they’re driving me to distraction with their determination to do what they want to do, regardless.”
“Well, don’t let it do that,” Binkie said as she shuffled a few papers. “We’re not done yet. If their plan is to have foster parents in the house—which seems to have been the plan from the beginning—they will have to have a license from the state. The foster parents will have to apply, be checked out thoroughly, and take a thirty-hour course in how to foster children. All of that comes from the Department of Social Services, and . . .”
“Yes, that’s what they’re doing. The DSS has been mentioned several times in the newspaper articles. But what I’m wondering is who will be the foster parents and who is going to pay them.”
“That’s another big question,” Binkie agreed. “The statutes governing foster homes require that at least one foster parent have a stable job. But then, of course, the state will pay a certain amount—some four hundred dollars a month, I think, but probably a little more for a teenager. I’ve tried to find out exactly how much, but it seems if anyone asks what foster parents are paid, they’re assumed to be in it for the money. But whatever the amount is, it means that the board of the Homes for Teens will not be totally responsible for the upkeep of the children.”
“Which means that the taxpayers will, while the board members take credit for it, right? And, Binkie, I wish that people would stop referring to fourteen- to eighteen-year-olds as children. Legally, I suppose they are, but some of them smoke and drink and take drugs and marry and drop out of school and get some girl pregnant and join the army and get in trouble—all of which, in my view, are adult activities.”
