by Ann B. Ross
I jumped straight up from my chair, startling Lillian, who was approaching with the coffeepot. “I’ve got to talk to Mildred.”
And, with a swirl of my bathrobe, off I went, leaving eggs cooling on my plate and coffee doing the same in my cup.
* * *
—
“Okay,” Mildred said after I’d explained what Sam had said about a conditional-use permit. “Then we have to get in and do our thing right away. But if the Pickerells, the Winsteads, and Jan Osborne will accept, say, five to ten thousand above what they’ve been offered, we’ll still have Madge’s group home sitting right where it is. Right?”
“That’s right,” I said, nodding even though she couldn’t see me, “because neither Madge nor her board owns it. Ridgetop Corporation is listed as the owner, and I’ll bet you money that it’s this Ridgetop group that’s trying to buy the rest of the block. But if we buy those properties out from under them, all they’d have would be the Cochran house. And what would they do with that?
“Listen, Mildred,” I went on, “the way it looks to me is this: Ridgetop wants the whole block, and Madge’s group was put there to make the homeowners willing, even eager, to sell. But if our plan works and we buy the other houses, Ridgetop will dump the Cochran house as fast as they can and move on to something else.”
“I get that,” Mildred said. “But what if they don’t? We could be left with a group home in the middle of our property—still owned by Ridgetop. What if they get mad enough to hold on to it just to get back at us?”
“No, I think once we foil their grand scheme they’ll be glad to be rid of it. We’re dealing with businesspeople, Mildred—as you keep reminding me. And they know how to separate the emotional from the financial. At least I hope they do.”
We were both silent for a few minutes, thinking over what the Ridgetop people might do.
“Well,” Mildred said, “if they decide to hold on to that one house, we could do something on the rest of the block that would encourage the Homes for Teens to move. Which would leave them with an empty house.”
“Maybe,” I said, dubiously, “but Madge is pretty much set in concrete.”
“Um-m, I don’t know about that,” Mildred said. “All we’d have to do would be to demolish the Pickerell and the Osborne houses. I drove past them the other day and, Julia, they’re hardly worth trying to restore. The Winstead house, though, probably has some historic value and should be saved. Still, with two houses gone, there’s enough room on the block for a wonderful new use that could qualify as being in the public interest, and it would—without a doubt—encourage the group home to move.”
“Like what?”
“I’m thinking,” Mildred said, “that a petting zoo would do the trick—with free petting tours for every elementary school child in the county, making it qualify as being in the public interest. Think of little calves and goats and llamas and sheep and a couple of mules, along with a few Shetland ponies. Maybe a camel or two. Think, Julia, of the baying, lowing, and neighing, to say nothing of the aromas that would waft over the landscape.”
“Mildred,” I said, laughing in spite of myself, “you have an evil mind.”
Accustomed as I was to Mildred’s flights of fancy, I gave little credence to her suggestion of a petting zoo. For one thing, Madge and her crowd would not be the only ones affected. Mildred knew as well as I did that Mr. Pickens wouldn’t stand for such a thing. He might organize a wholesale roundup.
But she quickly got down to business, telling me that her Atlanta attorneys were sending one of their real estate lawyers to represent us in slipping in behind the Ridgetop people and buying up the block we wanted.
“Their advice,” she said, “is to form a real estate holding company which would be the actual owner of what we buy. It’ll have tax and liability benefits as well, but the big thing now is to come up with a name so they can draw up the papers. What do you want to call it?”
“I don’t know. I’m still coming to terms with the term ‘liability.’”
She laughed. “It’ll protect us from liability, Julia. Don’t worry, I’m paying people to look after us. Think up a name.”
“I don’t know,” I said again. “How about M and J, for Mildred and Julia? Or just MJ, or we could go with last names and do A and M for Allen and Murdoch. I’m not good with names.”
“Well, you’re not very original, that’s for sure. But, listen, we don’t want people being able to guess who we are. I was thinking of something like Great Dane Properties or some such.”
“That’s not bad,” I said, thinking of a neat logo for our enterprise, “and it’ll provide a little misdirection, too. People will think it’s Mr. Pickens or Thurlow, since Ronnie’s the only Great Dane around, but they’d hesitate to tackle either one of them.”
“Just so they don’t think we’re an offshoot of Greyhound bus lines,” Mildred said with a laugh. “Anyway, go ahead and start converting to cash, because I’m instructing our agent to offer cash sales with immediate closing dates. We don’t want Ridgetop to come back in and top our offers. In fact, I want to get it done before they realize we’re nipping at their heels.”
“But,” I said, another worry popping up, “what if the homeowners feel obligated to Ridgetop? They’ve already accepted their offers.”
“Julia,” Mildred said firmly, “this is business. More money tops less money, and Ridgetop has for some reason delayed closing on those houses—waiting, I’d guess, the usual thirty days and probably to make sure they’d get the variance as well. They’ll get their earnest money back, so all they’ll be losing is the fruition of their grand scheme. Whatever it is.
“By the way,” she went on, “are you going to Sue’s tonight?”
“I don’t think so. Was I supposed to?”
“I’m sure you were. She’s trying to get some Christmas ornaments made for a couple of nursing homes.”
“Oh, my goodness, I’d forgotten about that. Since they’ve stopped doing the Christmas fair, I haven’t given making ornaments another thought.” I stopped and gave it a thoughtful moment. “I guess I should go, but I expect LuAnne will be there and I’m not sure I could keep from wringing her neck.” I laughed then, realizing that I’d almost put that agonizing evisceration called an intervention out of my mind. I’d pretty much consigned it to the “consider the source” category.
* * *
—
Well, almost, anyway. Every once in a while I’d get a flashback of Lynette’s earnest face or Madge’s authoritative voice or the self-righteous assumption of them all that I needed correction, and that they were the ones qualified to administer it. The insolent pride it had taken to sit in judgment on me—on anybody, for that matter—was staggering. So, no, I’d not entirely gotten over it.
So I sat down and wrote another note to Helen, telling her that I now fully understood how she felt and that I bitterly regretted my part in offering any kind of criticism of her use of Thurlow’s funds—which, I assured her, was the business of the two of them and no one else. Having been put in the same position in which I’d helped put her, I wrote, I now humbly begged her forgiveness.
And after signing my name, I felt a whole lot better. Humbling oneself when needed does wonders for the soul. And quietens the conscience as well.
But whether it would make Helen rethink her offer of Thurlow’s house for the Homes for Teens fund-raiser, I didn’t know. Maybe she wouldn’t be finished with her decorating—painters can be slow, to say nothing of back orders of fabric and wallpaper. It was entirely possible that she’d have to cancel the appearance of Thurlow’s house on the house tour.
One could only hope.
* * *
—
I spent the afternoon worrying over Sam, who was now racked by a horrendous cough. Urging him to go to bed, I plied him with liquids and aspirin and suggested calling the
doctor.
“It’s just a cold, honey,” Sam said. “It’ll run its course in a day or so.”
“Lillian,” I said, turning to her, “do you know where we stored the humidifier? Steam is what he needs.”
“What he need,” Lillian said, with the authority of one who knows, “is Vicks VapoRub and a hot flannel cloth on his chest.”
Well, for goodness’ sake, there was neither a jar of Vicks nor a piece of flannel in the house. Nor, as it turned out, a humidifier, having been discarded years before when it had sprung a leak. So I went to the drugstore and got what we needed, then had to listen to Sam moan about reeking of Vicks.
Chapter 42
Hesitant about leaving Sam to struggle alone with his cold, I nonetheless prepared to go out into the night to make Christmas ornaments. After pulling a thick sweater over my head, I had to redo my hair, apply a little color to my face, and use almost the last few drops of precious perfume before feeling ready to face another group of women. It was like putting on a coat of armor in case of an attack.
I had at first decided to forgo the drive to Sue’s and what might turn out to be another surprise to my system, especially after Mildred said it was too cold for man or beast or her. But Sue had called urging me to come, and Sam, for some reason, had urged me to go.
He was propped up in our bed against a number of pillows, with blanket and comforter tucked over and around him, books and magazines spread out on the bed, a tray of tempting liquids and curative medications on the bedside table, the humidifier steaming up the room, the television on, and the remote at hand.
“What more could I want?” he asked, indicating it all with a wave of his arm.
“Well, you might need something.”
“Then I’ll get up and get it. Go on, Julia, and enjoy yourself. I’ll be fine.”
So I went, but I didn’t much enjoy it. Sue had all the felt, rickrack, sequins, glue, and you-name-it needed to make ornaments for decorating Christmas trees at the chosen nursing homes. Plying a yarn-threaded needle to sew two halves of a star together, I sat at her dining room table along with Rebecca, Emma Sue, Callie, and Sue.
Noting with relief that neither LuAnne nor Helen was there, I wondered if it was because I was. If they were avoiding me, I determined I would not let it bother me. But of course it did—until something came up that bothered me even more.
No one had said anything about our reduced number, although Sue commented on how busy everyone was and left it at that. In fact, hardly anyone had anything at all to say, seemingly engrossed with the work in hand.
It wasn’t until Callie asked what I’d thought about the commissioners’ meeting that the conversation took on a life of its own.
Answering carefully, I said, “I was disappointed that they didn’t have the courage to vote publicly, but I guess that was too much to ask.”
“Well,” Callie said, “I knew before I left what they were going to do. While everybody was milling around, I went down the hall to the restroom and passed a room where the commissioners were putting on their coats. They were standing around, talking in sort of an impromptu closed session. Except it wasn’t so closed, because the door was partly open. So I listened.”
“That’s eavesdropping, Callie,” Rebecca said with a note of rebuke.
“No, it wasn’t. If they’d wanted to keep it secret, they should’ve shut the door. Anyway, Pete Hamrick was really holding forth about the number of people who’d been there and about how they couldn’t be expected to make a judgment with everybody and his brother criticizing everything they did. Then,” Callie went on with emphasis, “he told them—and I heard this as plain as day—that they’d better not get cold feet, because, he said, there’re always some people against progressive ideas. Then he said something about their having the authority to override the zoning board, and they’d better stick to their promise when the time came. And,” she concluded, “according to the newspaper, it looks like they did.”
My heart sank, as what I’d thought was going on had indeed been going on. I did, however, hold my peace, not wanting to air my concerns with those who were hardly affected by Madge’s invasion of a neighborhood.
I was surprised, though, when Sue said, “I thought there was something fishy about it from the start, and that just proves it.”
“I figured it was, too,” Rebecca said. “Pete Hamrick has been in the library almost every week since this all started, looking at law books and historic records and books on upgrading small towns. I know,” she went on, “because he came to the reference desk and asked for help to find what he wanted. I guess,” she said, with a wry twist of her mouth, “he thought that reference librarians were so wrapped up with Dewey decimal numbers, they couldn’t put two and two together.”
“Well,” Emma Sue said, “just don’t get crosswise of him. You know I’m not one to talk about people, but I’ve heard he has a one-track mind when he wants something. He can be very nice, but he’ll run over you if you’re in his way. But,” she cautioned, “I did not hear that from Larry, who would never compromise the sanctity of the pastor’s study.” She stopped and primly nodded her head. “I heard it at the beauty shop, which means that it wasn’t privileged information.”
Feeling that I was among sympathetic friends, I was tempted to release some of my outrage at both Madge’s high-handedness and the commissioners’ underhandedness. I was afraid, though, that once I started, I might also reveal the hand that Mildred and I were about to deal to those who thought they’d already won the pot.
I’ve never played poker, but I know the vocabulary and I’m not unfamiliar with high-stakes games. So I bit my lip and pondered this new information.
* * *
—
Studying on what had been said as I drove the empty streets toward home about ten-thirty that cold December night, I couldn’t wait to tell both Sam and Mildred what Callie had overheard. And to tell them what Emma Sue had said about Pete Hamrick, who now seemed up to his neck in monkey business as well as commissioners’ business. The decision to grant a zoning variance, even though disguised as a conditional-use permit, had apparently been cut-and-dried before Pete Hamrick had banged down the opening gavel. And furthermore, Madge had known there’d be no problem before she’d first put a foot in the Cochran house. I’d call that public corruption, wouldn’t you?
Driving slowly toward home, going in and out of spots of light from the streetlamps, I turned with no particular aim in mind onto Jackson Street—just taking the long way home. A few cars were parked along one side, but no one was out in the bitterly cold night. I had the long, straight, tree-lined street all to myself.
As I approached the Pickens house from a few blocks away, I noted that the first floor was dark, while the upstairs lights were on—they were getting ready for bed. I smiled then as I thought of Lloyd. He was back with his mother and Mr. Pickens so he wouldn’t catch Sam’s cold, and I pictured him now reading or working at the computer, preparing for his classes.
Then my eyes lit on Mr. Pickens’s fence and my smile turned grim. Why, I wondered for the hundredth time, couldn’t Madge have found a more suitable place to do her good works?
Taking in the Cochran house beyond the fence, I saw that lights were on in the front room, but the porch was dark—somebody had failed to replace a lightbulb. It was a little late for any of the good ladies to be working in the empty house, so I thought it likely that lights had been left on in the front room on purpose. Maybe, I thought, Madge wanted to discourage visits like the one we’d had by making it look as if someone was in residence. And perhaps someone was, for one car was parked in the driveway.
Slowing before coming abreast of the Pickens house, my attention was drawn by a car turning onto Jackson a few blocks in front of me. Watching through the windshield as it approached on the narrow street, I saw it swing into a space directly in front of the Cochran
house. A man jumped out from behind the wheel and, hunched over in a dark overcoat, hurried up the walk to the porch.
Intrigued by a seemingly late-night rendezvous, I pulled to the side of the street and watched as the front door opened and the man slipped inside.
Now, what was that about? Huddled over the steering wheel while appreciating the warmth of the heated seat, I knew I couldn’t linger with lights on and motor running. I had to either go on home or turn everything off and freeze half to death while waiting to see what would happen next.
Well, never one to just wait it out, I drove on past the Cochran house and turned onto the side street beside Jan Osborne’s house at the end of the block. After parking, I buttoned my coat up to my neck, pulled on my gloves, and hid my pocketbook under the seat. Feeling safe enough to cross the Osbornes’ yard—the house was dark—I hurried toward Mr. Pickens’s extended fence, edged onto the sidewalk to get around it, and crept toward a privet bush beside the front porch of the Cochran house.
All I wanted to do was see who was meeting at such an odd hour and why the man had seemed in such a hurry. My chosen bush, though, was on the opposite side from the lit-up living room, so I carefully picked my way to the back of the house, stooping over as I passed the small, dark kitchen windows, and slid along the opposite side toward the front porch until I got to a lighted window. Which was no help at all, for the blinds were closed.
The only thing to do, because I’d come that far, was to hunker down between a large holly bush and the corner of the porch. I couldn’t see a thing and I couldn’t hear a thing, but I’d be able to do both when the man decided to leave. The front door would open, spilling light onto the porch, and, with luck, there would be a few words between him and whoever he’d been meeting. But, oh, how much better it would’ve been if I’d been scrunched down to watch and wait in July instead of December.
