The Most Famous Illegal Goose Creek Parade

by Virginia Smith

  Where did Disagreeable Dogs and Cantankerous Cats wait?

  Dismissing the snarky thought, she asked, “What about reptiles? Do you treat many of those?”

  Though most of her vet school classmates avoided caring for reptiles if they could, Susan loved them. She shared her apartment with a bearded dragon she had inherited during a practicum when he escaped the confines of an inadequate enclosure and surprised his owner’s mother in the shower. The stunt, apparently the last of many, had resulted in banishment from the family home. Susan had assured the tearful little boy that she would take good care of Puff and love him forever.

  Susan never broke a promise.

  “Not many,” the doctor admitted. “I’m afraid things are pretty common in Goose Creek. Very few exotics. Nothing out of the ordinary to speak of.” His expression brightened with a sudden memory. “Though Clete Watson’s boa constrictor did come down with a skin fungus last year.”

  “You treated it with Canesten cream?”

  “Yup. Cleared up in a couple of days.” The man’s lips curved into a broad smile. “You know your stuff. I had to look up the treatment. Makes me feel better, knowing I’m leaving my patients in competent hands.”

  Now he was flattering her, something to which Susan was not susceptible in the least. If she decided to buy the Goose Creek Animal Clinic from Dr. Forsythe, the decision would be based on a careful analysis of all available facts. And in order to thoroughly analyze the situation and make an informed business decision, there was one more thing she must do.

  “I’ll want to inspect your records,” she told him. “Accounting, payroll, and of course the patient charts.”

  “I thought you would. It’s all in here.” He patted the top of the computer monitor on the reception desk. “My receptionist convinced me to convert from paper last year. Against my will, I might add, but I figured I’d better get automated before I handed the place over to someone else. A young person like you probably knows your way around a computer better than your own living room, but an old man like me needs things written out.” He picked up a thin folder from the desk and extended it toward her. “The password and instructions are here. Have at it.”

  Startled, she stared at the folder without taking it. “You mean now?”

  He tossed a set of keys on the desk. “You drove all the way up here to see the place, so there’s no time like the present. I’m going to take those pups out for a romp before I head home for the night. You’ll lock up, won’t you?”

  He was going to leave her here alone? Was he insane? How did he know she was trustworthy?

  Shock must have shown on her face, because he gave her an encouraging smile. “After you contacted me last week I called a couple of your professors, longtime friends of mine. They vouched for you.” He winked. “And besides, the petty cash and all the good drugs are locked in the safe.” With a final grin he set the folder on the desk and disappeared behind the door leading to the clinic section. A moment later the dogs’ plaintive yips changed to joyful barks and she heard the clang of kennel doors being opened.

  Susan hesitated only a moment before seating herself in the rolling chair. She reached for the folder, a sense of excitement swelling inside her chest. If the books looked as good as she expected, she was going to do it. Take Daddy up on his offer to cosign a loan, buy a veterinary clinic, break her apartment lease, and move to Goose Creek, Kentucky.

  Heaven help her.

  The evening wore on with Millie maintaining a pleasant attitude that nagged at Al. What scheme was she cooking up? He found it impossible to concentrate on Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy with her sitting there, rocking and knitting and humming an off-key tune like she hadn’t a care in the world. Even his favorite show, Person of Interest, failed to distract him. How could it with that gargantuan house lurking in his mind like a monster, overshadowing his thoughts?

  Over a hundred years old, she’d said. Probably hadn’t been maintained at all. Old man Updyke had been a pinchfist.

  He aimed a scowl in her direction. “I’ll bet the plumbing is original.”

  She looked up from her knitting, eyebrows arched over inquisitive eyes. “What was that, dear?”

  “The Updyke place. Like as not those old pipes are et up with corrosion. Wiring’s probably shot too. That place is nothing more than a giant tinderbox. One spark and poof.” He sketched an explosion in the air with his hands.

  “Ah.” Her head dipped serenely before she returned to her task.

  Al glowered as he directed his attention to the fifty-two-inch flat screen television the kids had given him for Christmas. He couldn’t see a thing beyond the image of that steeply pitched roof, the shingles ruffled like a frilly bedspread. No repairing that mess. They’d have to put on an entire new roof, and all those steep levels and chimneys would cost a fortune.

  From his bed between their chairs Rufus gave a quiet yip in his sleep and his back legs buffeted the air. Squirrel-chasing dreams, no doubt. It was the dog’s single redeeming grace, as far as Al could see. Rufus hated squirrels with a passion and successfully kept their yard and birdfeeders squirrel-free. Of course he’d been known to tear through screen doors when he spied one, and once the pursuit of his mission had cost them a set of living room draperies.

  There were probably hundreds of squirrels living in all those massive trees surrounding the Updyke house. Maybe thousands.

  Millie’s cheerful voice interrupted his brooding. “How about a slice of lemon cake?”

  “What?” Al twisted in his chair to level a wide-eyed stare on her. Lemon cake, made from his dear mother’s recipe, was his favorite dessert in the world. A staple at family Christmas and Easter celebrations, the recipe called for the cake to sit for three days entombed in a cocoon of plastic wrap in order for the tangy glaze to fully saturate every spongy morsel.

  Was there no end to the woman’s machinations? No depth to which she would not sink?

  “Lemon cake,” she repeated, wrapping her knitting needles in yet another half-finished wooly scarf and stowing the bundle in the basket at her side. “I made it on Wednesday.”

  On Wednesday? So this scheme wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment idea at all. She had two days’ head start on him.

  He allowed suspicion to saturate his tone. “Why?”

  Her eyes widened. “For tomorrow, of course. But you seem out of sorts this evening, so I thought a treat might put you in a better mood. I think two days is long enough, just this once.”

  Tomorrow? Tomorrow was Saturday. Nothing special about a Saturday besides being a weekend. Saturdays did not warrant lemon cake in and of themselves. Something else then. Were the kids coming for the weekend? Lord, he hoped not. He loved them dearly, of course, but baby Lionel was a handful now that he’d started to walk. A glance around the room revealed that Millie had not put her immense collection of knickknacks up out of the toddler’s range. Not the kids then.

  Wait. What was the date? This morning he’d turned the page on his calendar to March twenty-third. So tomorrow was the twenty-fourth.

  Drat!

  He’d forgotten their anniversary.

  “A piece of cake would be good,” he conceded with a nod.

  Millie bustled out of the room, humming. Rufus bounded to his feet mid-snore and waddled after her, no doubt hoping for a handout.

  Al stared after them, chagrinned at his lapse. No need to admit his near-error. He’d get up early and run out for a card. Maybe pick up some flowers too, something special in light of the lemon cake. After thirty-six years of marriage—no, thirty-seven—they’d moved beyond the gift stage decades ago. He settled deeper in his recliner, his taste buds anticipating the first delicious bite of sugary tartness.

  Then he jolted straight up as realization struck him like a slap in the face. Millie did know him well. His mood was lighter already. That in itself was more than a little alarming.

  Millie sat in bed, leaning against fluffy pillows and paging through the Better Homes and G
ardens she’d picked up at the Save-A-Lot that morning. This month was a special issue devoted entirely to old home renovations, which she and Violet agreed must be the Lord giving a divine nod to her plans for the Updyke house. So many beautiful pictures of country kitchens, updated bathrooms, and cozy bedrooms. Already the image of the entry hall she would create loomed clearly in her mind’s eye. Comfortable and welcoming, something that would set people at ease the moment they stepped through the doorway. Not too much furniture, or it would feel crowded. A simple runner on the floor, a few old-fashiony pictures on the walls. A small table, a coat rack, and maybe an antique wooden bench. She’d always admired those. The handrail on the stairway would take on a regal gleam with a little polish and a lot of work.

  When Albert came out of the bathroom in his pajamas, she casually set the magazine face-down on her nightstand.

  “That yard is mammoth,” he announced as he slid beneath the comforter beside her. “Do you know how long it would take to mow it?” He pounded his pillow, a tad more violently than necessary, and settled his head into the indentation.

  “You could buy a riding mower.” The moment the suggestion left her mouth, she realized her mistake.

  Albert sat straight up. “Do you know how much those things cost?” Accusation sparked in the glare he turned on her. “I’m not made of money, you know. I’m retiring in three years. Three years, Millie. We need to start tightening our belts. Saving our pennies. Stretching every dime.”

  “You sound like Violet,” she remarked mildly.

  Momentarily distracted, his mouth snapped shut. Violet’s constant use of clichés drove her husband insane.

  “In this case, it’s justified. Mildred Richardson, you’ve gotten an idea in that head of yours and it’s addled your brains. You’re not thinking clearly. We need to be on the same page, now more than ever.” He warmed visibly to his topic. “Retirement looms, Millie. It looms over us like clouds on the horizon. Those clouds can be white and fluffy”—the heavy creases on his brow deepened—“or they can be dark and threatening.”

  Oh, dear. His voice had taken on the dramatic tone of a bad Shakespearian actor. Never a good sign.

  “Don’t take on so, dear. Remember your blood pressure.”

  “I am remembering my blood pressure,” he countered. “What do you think my blood pressure will be when I’m seventy-two years old and forced to go back to work because we’ve spent all our money fixing that behemoth of a house? By then the computer industry will have left me behind. My skills will be obsolete.” Reproach settled over his features. “I’ll have to go to work as a Walmart greeter. Is that what you want, Millie?”

  “Now you’re just being ridiculous.” She rearranged her pillow. “You act as if the house were ready to collapse, and you haven’t even seen it. For all you know it might be in perfect condition. It could be a real bargain. Maybe even an opportunity to make money.”

  There. Though that was definitely a broad hint at step two in her plan, it wouldn’t hurt to let him ponder the idea of making money. She turned off the light on her nightstand and slid lower beneath the comforter. “The least you could do is look at the house so we know what we’re turning down.”

  In the silence that followed, she turned onto her side—facing Albert, because after all tomorrow was their anniversary and she did love him and didn’t want him to think she was angry with him even though he was being stubborn—and closed her eyes in preparation for sleep.

  “Fine. I’ll look at it.”

  Surprised, Millie’s eyes flew open. “You will?”

  “As an anniversary present.” His expression hardened. “And just so you know, while we’re inspecting the house I intend to point out all the flaws and pitfalls of this crazy scheme so you will put it out of your mind once and for all.”

  Of course he would. But getting him through the door was an important step, and it had happened rather more easily than she’d expected. An excellent sign.

  “I would expect nothing less.” Millie sat up to place a tender kiss on her husband’s tight lips and felt them soften beneath hers. “Thank you. I love you.”

  “Do you?” His eyes searched hers. “Even after thirty-seven years?”

  “Now more than ever.” She flashed one of the dimples he loved to kiss. “Turn off that light and I’ll prove it.”

  With a click darkness descended, and Millie nestled into the familiar warm embrace of her husband’s arms.

  Mother Richardson’s Lemon Cake

  Cake

  ¾ cup oil

  1 cup canned apricot nectar (comes in a can in the juice section)

  4 eggs

  ½ cup sugar

  1 lemon cake mix

  Glaze

  1½ cups confectioners’ sugar

  ¼ cup lemon juice

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour a Bundt cake pan. Mix all ingredients thoroughly and pour into prepared pan. Bake at 350 for 25 minutes, then reduce the temperature to 325 and bake for another 25 minutes. Cool slightly, then remove cake and turn it over onto a cake stand or cake carrier with a cover. While the cake is still hot, poke all over with a toothpick, and then pour on the glaze.

  Cover the cake stand, and then wrap the covered stand tightly with several layers of plastic wrap. Let the cake sit for 2 to 3 days before serving.

  Chapter Three

  Ah, Saturday! Al stood on the back deck gazing out over his orderly lawn and lifted his coffee mug in a salute to the day. In just over three years he would join the ranks of the retired, and every day would be Saturday.

  Except Sundays, of course. Retirement would not alter their Sunday routine. He would still rise at the leisurely hour of seven-thirty, spread the Herald Leader across the kitchen table to peruse while he sipped coffee and enjoyed the cozy sound of Millie’s humming—hymns on Sundays, of course—while she whipped up a breakfast of their pre-church standard, banana bran muffins and egg white omelets.

  And Tuesdays in retirement would not be Saturdays either. The men at Woodview Community Church got together for breakfast on Tuesdays, and he intended to join them once his Tuesdays were free. Oh, and Thursdays wouldn’t be Saturdays either, because—

  Mercy! How his thoughts did ramble. He must be getting old.

  A movement drew his attention to the corner of the yard. A red-breasted robin fluttered to a landing atop a whitewashed wooden fencepost. Clutched in its beak was a long piece of dried grass. It cocked its head to fix Al with an ebony stare and then launched into the branches of the ornamental crabapple in the center of his yard. Al’s spirits rose even higher. The robins returning to the Goose Creek valley, and to his yard, were a welcome sign that spring was truly here.

  “Don’t worry, Mother Bird,” he told the robin in a quiet tone. “I’ll hang the feeders soon.”

  With a glance at a lemon-yellow sun rising into an azure sky, he turned and entered the house.

  “I think I’ll walk down to Cardwell’s and see if anyone’s there,” he told Millie.

  “All right.” At the kitchen sink, up to her elbows in soapy water, his wife tilted her cheek for a kiss.

  He obliged her and turned to go.

  “Why don’t you take Rufus with you?”

  Al skidded to a halt. He cast a scowl toward the corner where Rufus had stirred enough to raise his head from his cushion at the mention of his name.

  “I’m sure he’d much rather stay with you.”

  Her humming barely paused. “The walk will do him good.”

  “He doesn’t listen to me if you’re not there.” His voice took on a petulant tone that he abhorred but did nothing to filter. “He adores you. Me, he barely tolerates and then only if you’re around to impress.”

  She flipped on the faucet and rinsed a dish before setting it in the drainer. “Nonsense. Rufus loves you. It’s just that you’re sterner than I am so he thinks you don’t like him. Try speaking nicely to him.”

  He deepened his scowl, and the dog’s tail gav
e a cautious wag. With a loud sigh to inform his wife that his capitulation was only for her and not due to any desire to spend time with her pet, Al left the room to retrieve his jacket. He returned with Rufus’s leash in hand. Seeing it, the dog leaped off his pillow and began an enthusiastic display of whirling acrobatics, nails tapping an erratic rhythm on the linoleum.

  Millie laughed, a delightful sound in any circumstance, and seemed to enjoy watching Al try to snag the animal’s collar.

  “Hold still, you mutt,” he commanded, and though the dog ignored him he managed to hook a finger beneath the collar and clip the leash in place. Bending at the waist put him in close enough proximity to get a whiff of pungent doggie odor. He wrinkled his nose. “Phew. He needs a bath.”

  “He had one last week. You can’t bathe them too often, you know. They’ll develop dry skin.”

  “Hmm.”

  Rufus headed for the exit, toenails scrabbling as he tugged the leash to its full extent. Al wound his end around his hand and allowed himself to be pulled toward the front door.

  “Don’t forget your cell phone,” Millie called after him. “And turn it on, please.”

  Cell phones, in his opinion, were a sign of society’s downfall. People these days couldn’t walk down the street without a phone glued to their ear, inflicting their private conversations on everyone around them and completely inattentive to their surroundings. A plague, that’s what they were.

  “Why?” he asked. “I’m just going to town. Won’t be but an hour or so.”

  “Because I’m going to call Louise and set up our appointment to see the house. If she can squeeze us in this morning I’ll call you.”

  He swallowed a grumble because, after all, he had agreed to inspect the place. A man’s word was his word. If only she wouldn’t put him in the position of being a naysayer on today, of all days. No doubt she would still be irritated with him over the candlelit anniversary dinner they always enjoyed together.