The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club

by Lexi Eddings

  “Then where did he sleep?”

  “He made himself at home in the middle of my bed.”

  “Finding a pet is a blessing, but it’s even better when the pet finds you back,” Charlie Bunn said. “Sounds like Speedbump has already made you his person.”

  “Well, he’s over at Doc Braden’s now,” Jake said. “He’ll make a good dog out of him.”

  That reminded Lacy of what her dad said about squirrels. The only good one was a dead one. “Oh, Jake, you’re not having him put down.”

  “Heck, no.” Jake frowned at her. “Speedbump’s only there to have the sorry trim we gave him evened up, get all his shots, and . . . well, let’s just say I won’t have to defend my leg’s virtue anymore after the doc is finished with him.”

  Jake started toward the kitchen again but Valentina Gomez called him back. “I’m proposing a new group project for the club today, Jake, and I think we’ll need you for this. Will you join us?”

  “OK.” He folded his well-muscled forearms over his chest. “I’ll help if I can.”

  “Good, because you know the target of this project, maybe better than any of us.”

  Target? That sounded like someone was about to be ambushed by a flurry of good deeds.

  “Who is it?” Lacy asked.

  “Off the record,” Valentina said, lifting a perfectly shaped brow.

  “Of course.”

  “It’s Lester Scott,” the pretty Latina confided. “He’s an alcoholic and—”

  “And an abusive husband,” Marjorie interrupted.

  “At one time, yes,” Valentina conceded.

  “As I heard tell, it was many times,” Marjorie said.

  “All right, he has a bad history, but that’s just it. It’s history. I looked up his records and he hasn’t been charged with anything violent for the last ten years or so. I don’t think he’s beyond help.” Valentina paused, but no one said anything. “Look. He’s homeless and he’s here among us. Are we going to ignore him?”

  They had so far.

  “Isn’t that what Samaritan House is for?” Marjorie asked. “Why doesn’t he go there?”

  “A temporary bed is like putting a Band-Aid on an arterial bleed,” Valentina said. “Samaritan House deals with immediate needs, not helping people find their way back into society.”

  “Lester may also be dealing with some mental illness. A high percentage of the homeless are,” Heather added. “In fact, I wouldn’t doubt it if that played a part in the abuse in his past.”

  “None of us are qualified to help with that,” Mr. Cooper said.

  “No, but I want you to think about it this way. What if he were sick with something else?” Valentina said, leaning forward for emphasis. “Say he had diabetes or some other chronic illness. None of us, except maybe Heather, would be qualified to treat him for that either. Would that mean we wouldn’t try to help him?”

  “Of course not,” Heather said.

  “He’s a veteran,” Jake said quietly. “He may be a drunkard and a lout and maybe crazy to boot, but we can do better by him than we have. Whatever you’re planning, Valentina, I’m in.”

  Lacy watched in awe as one by one, the group agreed to join Jake in Valentina’s “Project Lester.” She was the visionary, but it took a leader to rap softly on their souls and make them open the door. Jake was just the man for that job.

  Something glowed in her chest. She’d always been attracted to him. No sane woman wouldn’t be. But now, she admired Jake, too. Compassion was a rare thing in this world. Jake had shown it for Speedbump, and now he’d shown it for Lester, who was probably just as lost and afraid as the little dog had been. Jacob Tyler was a good man.

  As advertised, they were hard to find.

  “I’ve already talked to Lester’s attorney. I sort of have the inside track since I’m married to him,” Valentina said with a wink and a grin. “Anyway, Tomas thinks he can swing a deal with Judge Preston if we have all our ducks in a row. Now, here’s what we need to do.”

  Chapter 21

  Whether it’s giving a witness statement, speaking up for those who cannot speak for themselves, or giving someone a kick in the pants when they need it, too many people claim they don’t want to get involved. What? Do they want to hide in a hole while others suffer around them?

  What are we living for if not to get involved in the lives around us?

  —Valentina Gomez, a wise Latina who believes everyone is entitled to her opinion

  Lacy made it a point to be present at Lester’s sentencing that afternoon. She had no intention of writing anything for the paper about it. The bare facts would come out in the weekly report sent over by the courthouse. But the thought of adding to them . . . well, since Jake was involving himself in Lester’s fate, the story felt too personal for her be objective. She wanted to see if Judge Preston would go along with the Warm Hearts Club’s plan.

  She was also there to give Danny moral support. Her stomach had stopped doing flip-flops whenever she thought about him. Something more like friendship had solidified in place of that fluttery feeling. Daniel was part of her life and always would be. He’d just never be that endless night sky again.

  By the time the “Summer of Daniel” had happened, Lester was gone. His son had never wanted to talk about him back then. She figured he might now and if he did, he’d need a friendly ear. These proceedings could be the catalyst Daniel needed to lance that old wound.

  Too bad he was a no-show.

  The bailiff called Lester’s name and he was led into the courtroom wearing an orange jumpsuit. After the charges were read, silence reigned while the judge studied the paperwork before him for a few seconds.

  “Mr. Scott, I see that you were convicted of shoplifting in Tulsa six years ago.” Judge Preston’s gravelly voice reminded Lacy of Darth Vader with a head cold.

  “Yes, sir. I was in a grocery store and I tried to make off with a box of Twinkies. In my defense, Your Honor, I was mighty sharp set at the time.”

  “Are you aware that upon a second offense, it is within my purview to fine you the sum of one thousand dollars?”

  Lester’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Sir, meanin’ no disrespect, but that don’t make no sense. If I had a thousand dollars, I wouldn’t have had to steal something, would I?”

  “No one has to steal, regardless of their situation, though hunger might be considered a mitigating circumstance in your first conviction. However, you did not try to steal food this time.” The judge glared at Lester and then at his attorney. “Mr. Gomez, I suggest you instruct your client to limit his responses.”

  The public defender, Valentina’s husband, leaned over to whisper something to Lester. The old man nodded and folded his hands before himself, fig-leaf style.

  Jake slid into the row of chairs beside Lacy. “How’s it going?”

  She shook her head and mouthed, “not good.”

  But it was incredibly good of Jake to take time off from the grill to be present at Lester’s sentencing. Granted, by three in the afternoon, things had slowed to a crawl at the Green Apple, but still . . . Lester wasn’t anything special to him.

  Except another veteran.

  The judge cleared his throat. “The law grants me wide discretion in these sorts of cases. By statute, you can be incarcerated for as long as one year.”

  “A year? For a teddy bear?”

  His lawyer shushed him. Lester’s shoulders slumped.

  “Larceny is no small crime, no matter the value of the item in question. In light of your recalcitrant attitude, I’m inclined toward a year sentence to protect the hardworking merchants in our town,” the judge said with an expression that would have served him well at a poker table. “So ordered.”

  He rapped his gavel smartly.

  “A whole year.” Lester’s knees gave out and he plopped into the chair behind him.

  “However,” the judge said as he looked at another sheet of paper on his bench, “it seems there are those who belie
ve you are worth saving. They have petitioned the court for leniency in your case.”

  Lester looked around in expectation, trying to figure out who might have spoken for him. Lacy spotted Heather Walker, Charlie Bunn, Mr. Cooper, Marjorie Chubb, and Valentina Gomez sitting in the back row. All the members of the Coldwater Warm Hearts Club were present except Ian, who was probably still in class.

  But Daniel wasn’t there.

  Lester’s face fell.

  “Well, God bless ’em,” he muttered. “Whoever they are.”

  “Here is what’s going to happen, Mr. Scott,” Judge Preston said. Lester’s lawyer encouraged him back onto his feet. “You will serve thirty days in the county jail. Then the rest of your year sentence will be suspended, depending on your comportment once you’re discharged.”

  “I’ll comport the heck out myself, Your Honor,” Lester said. “See if I don’t.”

  The judge glowered at him. “I understand you are an alcoholic.”

  “I been known to take a drink.”

  “You won’t for the next thirty days. While you serve time in jail, a representative from the local AA will visit you on a regular basis, and once your thirty days with the county are up, you will continue with the program.”

  “Not wanting to dispute your word, Your Honor, but ain’t that sort of thing s’posed to be voluntary?”

  “Yes. And you’re going to volunteer,” the judge said. “Otherwise, I’ll reinstate the year sentence and you’ll serve the rest of your time at the Oklahoma State Penitentiary in McAlester.”

  Lester shuddered. Doing time in “Big Mac” was no joke. The prison housed the most dangerous criminals in the state.

  “In addition to remaining sober once you’ve served your initial thirty days here in the county jail, these are the other requirements for your continued parole. I’ve been informed that the Walker family has generously given a grant to the psychology department at Bates College to start a free mental health clinic.”

  This development had Heather written all over it. Lacy shot a quizzical look at her friend. Heather winked back. She might not be willing to accept a place to live from her parents, but belonging to one of the wealthiest families in the county did have its perks.

  “By the time you are released from county, the clinic should be ready to accept patients. You will be one of its first,” Judge Preston told Lester.

  The old man scratched his head. “If you say so.”

  “I do. And you may no longer camp out on the streets of Coldwater Cove. You must accept housing.”

  “Reckon the main question on that point is what housing is going to accept me?” Lester said. “Samaritan House is good for a bed for three days, tops.”

  Charlie Bunn stood. “If I may, Your Honor, I’m in a position to offer Mr. Scott a place to live above my garage. It’s not the Ritz, but the efficiency apartment there has all the essentials.”

  “I see from the petition for leniency that you intend to offer this situation to the defendant rent free?” the judge said as he continued to study the document before him.

  “Not exactly, sir. I intend for Mr. Scott to pay for his rent in yard work and gardening.” Mr. Bunn shot the judge a toothy smile. “I plant a mean vegetable patch every spring.”

  “Mr. Scott, do you agree to these terms?”

  Lester nodded to the judge and then turned to Mr. Bunn. “Much obliged.”

  “Wait till you see the size of my garden,” Charlie said as he resumed his seat. “Then we’ll see how obliged you are.”

  “You must also have gainful employment,” the judge said, ticking off the next item on the list before him.

  “Well, now I’m sunk,” Lester said. “Ain’t nobody going to hire an old drunk.”

  Jake rose to his feet. “No, but I’ll hire a recovering one.”

  “As will I,” Mr. Cooper joined in. “Mr. Tyler and I have worked out an arrangement so that each of us will employ Mr. Scott part-time. He’ll work a couple of days a week at my hardware store and a couple of days at the Green Apple.”

  “And one day a week in my garden,” Charlie Bunn reminded Lester.

  The homeless man’s eyes glistened and he blinked hard several times. “Thank you. Thank you all kindly.”

  “And since these citizens of Coldwater Cove have come forward to help you, Mr. Scott, one of the conditions for this unusual arrangement is that you are hereby ordered to help someone else as well.” The judge scanned the assembly. “I understand someone has a volunteer position for the defendant to fill.”

  Marjorie rose to her feet. “That’s me, Your Honor. Mr. Scott can join me at the senior center on Saturdays where he’ll be playing cards with the patients there.”

  “A game of poker, maybe?” Lester asked eagerly.

  “Good heavens, no. These are friendly card games. You’ll play for the pleasure of conversation around the table and entertainment only.” Marjorie started to sit, but then thought better of it and straightened again. “And he must be clean-shaven and dressed presentably when he arrives at the center or he will not be admitted.”

  “So ordered,” the judge agreed. “Do you accept these terms, Mr. Scott?”

  “Reckon I have to, Your Honor.”

  “Indeed, you do, Mr. Scott. Because unless you do, I’m compelled to point out to you that your life will only get worse.” Judge Preston’s face screwed into a frown. “The court fears you are not taking this seriously.”

  “Oh, no, Your Honor. I’m taking it dead serious. To be right truthful, if you was to tell me I was going to die if I don’t do somethin’ different, that wouldn’t motivate me much. Dying is easy. It cures all ills, they do say,” Lester said. “I sleep in an alley and eat out of trash cans mostly. It’s hard to imagine something worse. But I figure you’re a smart fellow, Your Honor. Wouldn’t be sitting there in them fancy robes if you wasn’t. When you claim things will get worse for me, I have to believe you. And ‘worse’ is not something I think I can face.”

  The judge nodded slowly. “Very well. Mr. Gomez will draw up the agreement for you to sign and if you adhere to the program outlined in court today, you will have a chance to change your future for the better, Mr. Scott.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. I’m good to go.”

  “You’d better not. Leaving the area after you serve thirty days in jail will violate your parole. You are hereby ordered not to stray from this county until one year from today. I expect you to live up to your part of the bargain.” The judge lifted his gavel again, poised to give the bench a sharp rap, but he stopped himself. “Mr. Scott, I am compelled to warn you that bad things will happen if you deviate in the slightest from the terms you have agreed to today.”

  “How ‘slightest’ we talkin’?”

  “Miss a day at work or your volunteer assignment, except with a doctor’s written excuse. Fail to keep an appointment with the Bates College psychologist. Do a poor job in Mr. Bunn’s garden. Touch a drop of alcohol or any controlled substance, and you’ll be arrested again,” the judge said. “Trust me. You do not wish to appear before me a second time.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself, Your Honor,” Lester said. “I bet you’d be ever’ bit as pleasant to meet a second time.”

  If the judge had been a teapot, he’d have been steaming like mad. “On the day that you appear before me again, your year sentence will be reinstated. You’ll be sent to McAlester to serve the remaining time on your sentence without further recourse.” He banged the gavel so hard, Lacy feared it might break. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir, Your Honor, sir. I think you just explained what ‘worse’ is.”

  Chapter 22

  Miss Holloway’s ninth-grade class will present

  Shakespeare’s Macbeth in the high school gymnasium this Friday at 7 p.m. Don’t miss this tragedy.

  —from the Fighting Marmots Notes section of the Coldwater Gazette

  On Thursday morning, Lacy dropped by the Lutheran Church to take a
picture to go along with her article on the Royal Order of Chicken Pluckers. It took longer to corral the members than she anticipated.

  For one thing, it was hard to pull them away from their assigned “royal” duties. The men lifted heavy pans in and out of the ovens for the ladies, boned the baked chickens with willing hands, and mopped up after themselves when a whole platter of white meat was dropped on the way from one counter to the other. Snapping candid pics of them doing the work was no problem.

  Setting the Chicken Pluckers up for a group shot, however, was a challenge. At first, Lacy made the mistake of asking them to arrange themselves by height. No one wanted to admit to being the shortest man there, so it turned into a back-to-back showdown with much surreptitious tiptoeing and stretching. In the end, she instructed half of the fellows to take a knee as if they were a football team posing for the high school yearbook.

  Then once she got them all lined up for the shot, invariably after she snapped the shutter, someone would claim their eyes had been closed and she needed to take another picture. In the end, she took a full dozen shots and promised she’d print the one with the least number of visible eyelids in the bunch.

  Then she dropped by the post office to mail a package. After studying the painting she’d bought at Gewgaws and Gizzwickies a week ago, she was still tantalized by the suspicion that it might be more than a clever imitation. She just had to know for sure. Neville Lodge, a colleague from her art institute days back in Boston, with art history credentials out the wazoo, had told her to send it to him for verification. He’d be able to tell if it was merely a copy of an Erté or—and Lacy scarcely allowed herself to hope—if it was something much more.

  The value of a genuine, previously unknown Erté would go a long way toward retiring her loan to the O’Leary brothers.

  So after her parcel was on its way to Beantown, Lacy’s day off from the Gazette began in earnest and she headed out to meet Jake to work on his mother’s lake-house chair. When she pulled into her parents’ driveway at nine-thirty, Jake was already there. He and her dad were deep in conversation near the garage’s open door. Her father handed him a steaming mug of coffee and, not having been forewarned, Jake accepted it.