by Judy Baer
Maybe I’m jealous.
I pushed aside the embarrassing thought that I, a grown woman, was jealous because my dog likes Adam as much as he likes me. I smiled brightly. “What are you up to?”
“Not much.” Adam looked at me innocently. “And you?”
“That was a friend from work.” I walked into the living room as Adam followed. Because we’re both home much of the day, we’ve fallen into the neighborly habit of stopping to chat. When his door is open I know it’s a signal that company is welcome. He doesn’t seem to need an invitation to drop by my place. Thanks to our proximity, we’re both neighbors and friends, but we still don’t introduce Winslow and Pepto.
“So what does your friend do at Parker Bennett?”
“He’s an accountant. A ‘numbers cruncher,’ he says. He’s always teasing me about my car, telling me I need a new one.”
“Yeah, what is the story on that car? It’s bringing down the property values in the neighborhood.” He yawned and stretched the way Pepto does after an hour in the sun, his muscles rippling beneath his gray T-shirt. Those abs were a result of hours of crunches, no doubt. Adam could easily appear in an ad for joining your neighborhood gym.
“I keep it in the garage.”
“Yeah, and my Hummer doesn’t like looking at it in there either. It’s an eyesore, Cassia.” He sat down on the couch and patted the cushion next to him.
I joined him. “It gets the job done.” Hmm, new cologne.
“Maybe some day you’ll want to go more than fifteen miles before the radiator overheats, the wire holding the muffler in place drops off and you want to open the windows, which, I believe are all stuck in the closed position.”
“I have an appointment to get it fixed, okay?”
What is it with men and cars, anyway? It’s as if an old car—okay, a clunker like mine—is a personal insult to them, an intentional assault on their sensibilities.
“It’s budgeted for this week and I’m taking it in on Thursday.”
“Budgeted? Cassia, you’re a multimillionaire. Go buy a new car. A brand-new car.” He looked at my expression and threw his hands into the air. “I don’t get it. What is a new car to you now? You could pay for it and a dozen others with the interest you’ve earned on it already.”
My stomach sank and my eyes widened. “Interest? You mean there’s going to be more? I forgot all about interest!”
“You don’t have to sound so miserable about it. Most people like having their investments work for them.”
“Not me. Can’t I ever get this money train stopped?”
Adam stared at me so hard that I thought his gaze was going to slice right through me. He had something on his mind and was weighing the decision whether to say it or not.
“Spit it out,” I ordered. “You’re thinking so hard it’s getting noisy in here.” I nestled deeper into the couch. Winslow walked over to lick my hand.
“Do you want to go out for lunch on Wednesday?”
Well, knock me over with a feather! Adam Cavanaugh asking me out? I wanted to smack the side of my head and see if my ears and brain were still connected or if something had shorted out.
“That would be great,” I heard myself say. No playing hard to get for me. Food is food and fun is fun. I don’t pass either up if I can help it.
Feeling pleased and flattered, I had to immediately harness my eager little mind. I was the one with a date on the brain. He’d asked me out—not on a date, but just out. To eat. Like regular folks do. I’ve been without a social life so long that I’m beginning to imagine things. No attachments, pleasant conversation, a toothpick and a mint, that’s all. I’m feeling a little desperate for company of the opposite sex.
I even talked to Ken for half an hour last night.
“What’s happening in the big city, hon? Gunfights? Car chases? Fraud? Corruption? Are you locking your doors and windows?” I heard Ken’s gum snapping as he waited for an answer.
“You have the most skewed idea of city life I’ve ever heard. It’s lovely here.”
“Yeah, right. Whatever. Do you miss me?”
“Like a Minnesotan misses mosquitoes.”
I did feel a little guilty saying that when I was actually glad to hear my phone ring and pleased to see a number on caller ID that, for once, wasn’t a relative of mine. Fortunately, nothing ever offends Ken and my comment rolled off him as if he was wearing Teflon.
“Still got your sense of humor at least. When are you coming home?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you come here? You’ve got your grand-mother’s house to live in. I got us a couple new Sea-Doos so we can play at a lake somewhere. I’m also thinking about four-wheelers or dirt bikes. Or maybe you’d like a pair of riding horses better. I know how crazy you are about animals, especially Winslow. Say, how’s that big old dust mop anyway? I kinda miss him, riding with me in the pickup, hanging his big ole’ head out the window….”
Much as I resisted, I teared up at Ken’s attempt at sweetness. He really is one of the most generous guys on the planet. Thickheaded, but generous. He is also, as my friends in Simms tend to point out, charming, easygoing, funny, handsome, rich, enthusiastic and absolutely crazy about me. Ken himself once told me I was as precious to him as his dog, Boosters. Loving Winslow as I do, I understand. I think it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever said to me.
Okay, so maybe I like him better than I let on….
We talked about a lot of things—our mutual friends, the remodeling of the old cinema, the new sign installed at the park and the antics of Ken’s friends—and if anyone had been listening in, they would have sworn we were talking about twelve-year-olds and not grown men.
“Your friend Greta has been bugging me something awful. She wants to have a hen party when you come. She thinks you’ll have a lot to talk about now that you’re a millionaire.”
“I’m sure.”
“Aw, Cassia, don’t sound so down about it. I know you aren’t materialistic and you’re practically allergic to wasting money, but I’ve been a millionaire for a couple years now and I like it.”
I couldn’t help bursting into laughter. Only Ken would equate being a millionaire with some other pleasant pastime like bowling or having a picnic.
That’s probably why I have genuine fondness for the guy. Money isn’t an issue with him. He loves to work because he enjoys what he does. He likes the challenge of putting beautiful homes together and watching his clients’ responses. Though he won’t admit it even under penalty of death, he is artistic. It shows in the homes Ken builds. The details are always just right, the work flawless and those small touches that mean so much are always present.
When someone moves into one of Ken’s homes, there are already flowers there to welcome them, a box of chocolates and a thank-you note for purchasing one of Ken’s custom homes. And both crazy and thoughtful, Ken’s signature in his new homes has become bathroom cabinets stocked with soap, toilet paper and toothbrushes. There’s always a loaf of bread and a quart of milk in the refrigerator for the new home owners. If he knows there are children in the family, there’s usually a box of ice cream treats in the freezer, too. When the movers leave and the family is standing alone in the mess, there are at least some basics they don’t have to dig out of boxes. Simple, thoughtful and unusual as this practice is, Ken’s trademark gesture is forever being written up in local newspapers, real estate brochures and even statewide papers. Each time a story is published, the article sells half a dozen homes. Ken, in his cheerful, practical way, lives the golden rule by treating others as he would have them treat him. Now he’s thinking of adding a pound of coffee and a basket of fruit to his welcome gift, as well.
Even Ken is beginning to look like the one for me.
Long story short, I need to get out of the house.
Out of the house turned out to be a trip with Mattie to the community church I’d attended on Sunday.
“There’s a quilt show near y
ou this week,” Grandma Mattie said. “I saw it in the newspaper. Would you like to attend on Tuesday? Tomorrow?”
Translated, that meant Mattie would like to attend. Far be it from me to turn down a diversion. Shopping wasn’t any fun. I looked at things knowing I could afford to buy them and then reminded myself of the promise I’d made to myself not to spend a dime of the lottery money until I was sure what to do with it. Poor little rich girl, that’s me.
I drove my wreck of a car to Mattie’s and waited for her by the door. She came out looking like a spill from a paint box in a bright purple pantsuit and a feather hat that would put a cardinal to shame.
Oh, no, they’d gotten to her, too, that gang of ladies who roamed her complex wearing purple clothes and red hats. The group is a cultural phenomenon—older women throwing caution to the winds and having fun just for, well, for the fun of it.
“You look…f-festive,” I stammered. Her hat looked, other than having red feathers, like a derby or something Sherlock Holmes might wear or a blob of red jelly. Anyway, feathers drooped off the odd little brim like wilted leaves.
“Agnes, my next-door neighbor, loaned it to me. I’m thinking of joining their club, so she suggested I take her hat for a test run.”
Great. People used to cruise the streets in cars wanting to see how many admiring glances they got. Now my grandmother is taking a hat for a dry run. It’s a funny world we live in.
“So this is the church you’ve attended,” Grandma Mattie commented as we pulled into the parking lot of the rustic stone church. “How pretty.”
“And growing.” Traffic directors were waving flags and giving directions so as to make use of every inch of parking space in the lot. It reminded me of what they do in airplanes—add another row of seats into the same crowded real estate on the plane. Next thing I know, they’ll be forcing a couple more rows of seats and asking the passengers to “Please hold your breath for the next two hours so that you do not disturb the person in the seat next to yours.”
I helped Mattie out of the car and into the church. The main room of the education wing was now transformed into a quilter’s wonderland. Just seeing all this bedding in one place made me want to curl up and take a nap. Mattie immediately wandered off in a blissful haze, muttering something about samplers, log cabins and flying geese, to begin a conversation with a woman who had threaded needles poked into her lapels. She must have been an officer in the quilting brigade. I headed for the coffee shop set up in the church kitchen at the far end of the room, smiling at the people standing proudly by their quilts wanting to share their sewing techniques or fabric choices or whatever.
I sewed once. I made an apron, a pot holder and a set of napkins in 4-H because I’d heard people won prizes at the county fair. My mother attributes all the gray hair at her temples to that one sewing project. She’s still overly dramatic when she talks about it. After all, the doctor in the emergency room told her it hadn’t been necessary to bring both me and the sewing machine into the E.R. Of course, my finger was still attached, impaled between the needle and the foot feed. My screams must have been loud, because I remember Jane tagging along holding her hands over her ears. If I’m a bit of a drama queen, I know I come by it naturally.
“Ms. Carr?”
I looked up to see Pastor Carl Osgood smiling down upon me. “We met briefly at church last Sunday, I believe.”
Waves of recollection washed over me. Grandpa Ben always remembered all the new people in church, too.
“Yes. I’m new to the Cities. I’ve enjoyed visiting your church very much.”
“Good. You are most welcome. We have a lively, growing community here. The Lord’s working in big ways. And if you have any questions or I could be of service—spiritual or otherwise—please call me or come into the office at any time.”
Hmm. A twinkle of an idea lit a corner of my mind.
“Pastor Osgood, I’m wondering if you can tell me something about some of the worthy charities that are low on funds right now….”
By the time Mattie found us, I’d extracted a promise that he would do some research for me, “make a few calls” and see if he and someone in need could help me with my “money problem.” I’d never realized quite how many Christian efforts, missions, hospitals and schools were struggling around the world. I felt glimmers of hope. With Osgood working with me, I should be able to give my money away in no time at all.
CHAPTER 16
Adam was outside when I got home from the quilt show, the keys to his Hummer hanging rakishly from his back pocket, a cola in his hand. I parked—Randy prefers to say “hid”—my car in the garage and joined him out front.
Sometimes I long for a cherry cola like the ones Wilber Hanson makes—extra cherry syrup and a handful of maraschino cherries tossed in upon request. Mr. Hanson originally wanted to modernize his drugstore in the seventies by taking out the ornate old fountain, but since it was too big to move without great effort, he left it in place. Now it’s become the most booming part of his business. He’s even thrown up a few signs along the highway just as Wall Drug does. Instead of advertising cold water, he promises the best cherry cola in South Dakota. I guess if you wait long enough everything will come back into fashion eventually.
My grandfather believed that, and he never threw anything away. Grandma did, however, smuggle out that polyester leisure suit he bought on a wild and crazy whim, and gave it a nice burial. It was the only thing I ever remember him buying that was out of character. Grandpa in a leisure suit was like Grandma in stilettos and a boa….
“What have you been up to?”
“I was in church. How about you, Adam? Where do you go to church?”
He didn’t look up. “I’m out of town a lot, you know.”
Well, that had gone swimmingly. Not.
After we parted, it occurred to me that perhaps the reason Adam and I were neighbors had something to do with his lack of faith. Maybe I was here to be a part of his spiritual growth somehow. Possibly I’d be the one who’d lead him to the Lord…. I should have been a missionary. I certainly have it in my heart to collect lost souls.
“You give me the sign, Lord, if that’s what this is about,” I prayed silently. I’ve been praying for signs a lot lately. I hope I haven’t missed any.
Thursday evening as I walked past Adam’s door I impulsively asked him if he needed groceries.
Groceries to Adam are cat food, eggs, bacon and most anything with “instant” on the label. Apparently he was out of cat food, because Pepto was hissing and spitting at his cat dish as if it had better produce this instant or else. Pepto has been decimating light cords, drapery pulls and all his stuffed toys. Little headless catnip mice are lying all over Adam’s place. It’s disquieting to step on one when you’re least expecting it.
“Sure. I’ll go with you,” he said, and we set off companionably for a local market with a restaurant attached.
Five minutes into shopping, I heard a familiar voice.
“Cassia!”
To my surprise, Petty Betty and Paranoid Paula were coming down the aisle toward us.
“Hello, it’s good to see you both. You look wonderful!”
Adam eyed Betty and Paula as intently as they were perusing him. I could sense their news-collecting antennae go up and begin to twitch. Paula also held her designer bag even closer to her chest. They might be millionaires, but juicy gossip is something money can’t always buy.
“Adam, these are my friends and office mates from Parker Bennett. Maybe you remember them from lottery headquarters—Paula and Betty.” I felt him stiffen for a mere second and then relax into such blinding charm that even I felt the heat.
Betty and Paula thawed immediately as he lingered over their handshakes, seemingly reluctant to pull away.
Whoa, is he good. My question is…why? What makes Betty and Paula so interesting other than the fact that they’re millionaires? I watched them succumb to his charm. Betty’s eyelashes fluttered so rapidly that I w
as surprised she didn’t go airborne.
Adam should be used to the moneyed crowd by now. After all, he’s got me. Except, of course, I don’t spend mine.
Jealous, Cassia?
I glanced at Adam. He is a breathtaking man. He’s rugged, intimidating, funny, mysterious and too handsome for his own good, as far as I’m concerned.
I turned to Betty. “So how are you…really, I mean?”
I’d expected any answer but tears.
Betty dabbed at her eyes as Paula ineffectively patted her on the shoulder. Finally she gathered herself together enough to speak.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been having some trouble with my children.”
“No one is sick, I hope.” Betty has three high school and college-age children.
“I had no idea how my winning the money would affect them. It never occurred to me that it would be a problem for them.”
The way it was a problem for me? I wondered.
“They’ve changed,” Betty said. “We were never rich when they were growing up, but weren’t exactly poor either. The kids didn’t seem to mind occasional hand-me-downs or sharing a single secondhand car. And now…”
Paula picked up the story. “She’s having a problem with them fighting and arguing. Everyone is afraid that Betty is going to give one of the kids more money than she does the others. I told her to do it my way,” Paula continued. “Remember that will I was writing? Well, I cut all the lazy ones right out of it. You should see my son-in-law now! He cleans up and goes to work. Gave up television and has started to exercise. And he’s polite as a choirboy.”
“What changed?”
“He wants to get back into my good graces, of course. Right now I’ve got my daughter’s money tied up so tight that he couldn’t get to it with a hacksaw.” Paula smiled stiffly, satisfied. “I’ll keep him dancing to my tune for a few years, and hopefully, because my daughter loves the bum, he’ll learn some good habits. Maybe I’ll even want to give him money one day.” She smiled nastily. “And until then, I don’t have to watch him lie on the couch with one hand in the chips and the other on the remote.”
