A Little Romance: Stories for Hopeful Hearts

by Marilyn M Schulz

  The old ladies exchanged glances, and Murphie got the impression that she had passed the second test—the first being the flip-flops, that is.

  The trail was longer than she thought it might be, as the descent had been made gradual—so older people could also enjoy it, she assumed. They made it down and then through a patch of shoreline woods to a very nice beach.

  Lillian pointed and said, “Around on the other side of the point out there is Cooper’s Landing. The developer bought the land and named it after himself.”

  Murphie said, “Cooper’s Landing—there’s a big billboard in town about a new resort there, I mean, further along.”

  Dorothy said, “What do you think of it?”

  Murphie wondered: The billboard or the resort?

  Murphie said, “I don’t know, I didn’t go. I came here first.”

  The women smiled to each other again.

  Ah, the third test passed, it seems.

  They walked one way for a few minutes, then turned back and continued on for a few more in the other direction. Springs from the hills were running down, carving little canyons in the sand and flowing into the ocean. A few people were on the beach here, but she saw several kites flying over on Cooper’s Landing. It was quite a distance; the kites looked like a swarm of colorful mosquitos, bobbing slowly and swaying in the wind.

  She murmured, “Looks like it’s crowded there.”

  The ladies said, “Let’s go up.”

  They seemed spry enough, and Murphie only helped where the railings or steps needed fixing. Then they continued to walk up the street (and up the hill) past all the cottages in the resort.

  The cottages were all white, though a bit dirty where the heavy rains dripped into the flowerbeds along the bottoms—meaning the gutters had to be cleaned, probably one of her chores . . . if she got the job. There were shutters on the front and side windows—the shutters and doors matched, though each cottage had a different color. The variety made the cottages seem less cookie-cutter, and a bit more . . . fun.

  Some of the shutters and doors used to be bright, but many seemed faded now. A few colors would easily pass as Easter egg colors, but there were also the standard: red, navy blue, dark green and bright yellow.

  Dorothy must have seen her looking at them. The woman said, “We need to paint some of these, they look depressing as Hell.”

  Lillian said, “Language, dear.”

  Dorothy said, “Bet she’s heard worse. Heard worse, haven’t you?”

  Murphie didn’t know how to respond, so she asked a question instead. “How many of these cottages are occupied, and where would I live?”

  “Oh, all of them, dear, now and again. There’s a waiting list to get in. It’s here or the county rest home and that’s a real pit.”

  Murphie found herself snickering, liking these women and feeling an affinity for no reason she could name. She glanced to see if they were managing the hill without too much difficulty—they preferred walking on the road to the narrow sidewalk. She didn’t mean to stare, so looked back and forth them as she followed. That’s when she noticed they both wore wedding rings.

  Were both widows? She’d probably find out soon enough—if she got the job.

  Dorothy said, “Our parents served in the Service too. Well, it wasn’t like you, but they did their part, and we did as much as we were allowed too.”

  “What did they do?”

  Lillian said, “Our parents worked with the blimps up north in Tillamook. Coastal watch—did you know the Japanese sent balloons over—small ones with bombs or something? One poor woman was killed.”

  Dorothy said, “It was war.”

  Murphie said, “I’ve been to the museum there. I love to see the old planes, and all the other military things from that era.”

  Dorothy sniffed, “That era—they weren’t old when our folks used them, those things were considered modern technology.”

  Lillian said, “Now, really, I’m not sure they were. Blimps are just like that zeppelin that blew up on the news report, and those weren’t at all like those airplanes they have there now—those are for show, but they were used in the wars, I bet.”

  Dorothy mumbled, “I know that, but using the blimps to watch the shore was also part of the war.”

  Lillian said, almost to herself, “I wonder if any of those planes have bullet holes? How brave . . .”

  Dorothy just shook her head at her sister’s musing.

  Murphie couldn’t help it—she laughed.

  The ladies did as well, to her relief.

  As they passed the other cottages, she noticed that the small buildings were offset from each other by about twenty feet—some with bigger backyards than front, and vice versa. There was also about thirty feet between.

  The yards all had flowers and tufts of decorative grasses or mounds of calla lilies that soon would be blooming. A few had a variety of daffodils—those blooms were sadly almost over this season. Others had tulips with fat buds just waiting to open with a few more days of warm afternoon sun, she figured.

  Lillian said, “Here we are, this is you.”

  It was number 10, at the end of the row and the end of the road, and almost the top of the hill. The door and shutters had faded into a sort of dusty color that was only reminiscent of red. Didn’t matter, it seemed to fit in here with the aging cottages, and from all of it—the town, the ladies, the cottages, the sea—Murphie felt a sense of . . . belonging.

  She sighed, and they all turned together to take in the view—it was spectacular from here. This hill was the highest point around, she noticed. Murphie could see the town and also the large curving shoreline with shimmering sands and bluffs with soil that seemed as light as schoolroom chalk.

  Jutting up from the sea randomly, like a giant’s had dropped broken cookies, were dark gray and brown rugged rocks—some large enough to have trees growing on top.

  The hills along the shore were gentle, but irregular; the highway she had driven on sliced through the covering of dark green trees—the colors here were wonderful. She could see why there would be an art gallery.

  The ladies sat down on the Adirondack chairs that were outside every cottage, but these looked a little dusty, like no one had sat on them for a while.

  Lillian said, “Whew, that’s a bit of hill.”

  Dorothy said, “I told you to take it slowly.”

  “We did, but I was talking and excited too. I’m fine, don’t fuss, but I could use some iced tea, couldn’t you?”

  They all agreed.

  But Dorothy said, “She should see inside first, now that we took the trouble to climb all the way up here.”

  Then she turned to Murphie and mumbled as she unlocked the door, “They all look the same, more or less, but inside is better than they look on the outside. They were built in the Thirties—part of the president’s plan to get us out of the Great Depression.”

  She probably meant FDR, that president, but Murphie asked for confirmation, and both ladies nodded.

  Lillian said, “The owner back then had the cottages updated in the late Forties—he put some veterans to work doing it, and we’ve been following that example since. Our father was one of those, and he fell in love with the place. Later, he was hired as manager, and the owner finally sold it to the family. Father had more work done—other wars, other vets.”

  “I appreciate the opportunity, ma’am,” Murphie said.

  “What rank were you?” Dorothy demanded.

  She said, “Sergeant First Class, ma’am, E-7.”

  Murphie found herself fighting back a salute, and the ladies seemed to find that amusing too.

  Lillian said, “You had responsibility then, didn’t you, First Sergeant Hawes.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but it’s just Murphie now. I’m no longer serving.”

  Dorothy said, “We were told you want to go to college.”

  Murphie wondered what else they were told. She decided to be honest and told them the bare necessiti
es about her fiancé, her debts and the new plans for her life—particularly that she hadn’t figured out what those might be as yet.

  Dorothy said, “He sounds like a bum. French poets—all he could do is teach in a private school and sponge off you. You would have been supporting him all your life, I bet.”

  Lillian nodded. “Better to have made a clean cut. Sometimes amputation is the only way to save the patient.”

  That sounded rather drastic, and she wondered just what they had done in their war—World War Two.

  She asked them.

  “Oh, well, were only girls. Children were much younger then, do you know what I mean?”

  “Naïve,” Murphie murmured, then regretted saying that.

  But Dorothy nodded. “Back then, when you were ten, you were ten. Now some ten-year-olds act like they are fifteen—or more. Kids are harder now, they have to be to survive, I suppose. It’s a different world, with violence and sex and drugs and all sorts of nasty predators, and so many things all coming at them all at the same time.”

  Lillian said, “They have so many devices—they text while they are listening to music, yet ignore the world all around. They call it multi-tasking, don’t they? Kids don’t just sit and read anymore, or look at the scenery out the window.”

  They sighed . . . all of them.

  Inside, the cottage was larger than she expected.

  The décor looked like late Fifties (she knew from magazines), with pink fixtures in the bathroom, but a nice tub and adequate shower. The vanity sink was pink as well, but the rest was a sort of white with black and gold speckles.

  Very retro—only it wasn’t retro when it was put in.

  Still, it was better than she had for a while—and private. This cottage, like all the others, had two bedrooms—both were small, but with a respectable-sized closet along one wall, and room for a double bed, a couple of night stands, and a dresser, but no more.

  She said, “Could I take out the bed in one and use the room as an office, with a desk and my computer, and a bookshelf and such, as there isn’t much room in the living room either. And I’d need a place to study.”

  They seemed agreeable.

  Dorothy said, “Store the extra furnishings in the shed—there’s a dry room in there just for that kind of stuff.”

  The living room already had a couch and a rather expensive easy chair (back when it was purchased in the Seventies) that her dad called an ‘ambition killer.’ Against the bedroom wall was a TV on a stand with a media player.

  In the corner behind the entryway door, there was also a wood stove with a glass front. A semi-circle was tiled all around it, but the rest of the floor was high-traffic carpeting, like you’d find in airports.

  Murphie noted there was electric heat as well.

  She said, “Is one of the duties to get wood for the stoves?”

  Lillian said, “Not quite. We have that delivered, but it’s stacked in the shed on the other side of the hill. Your job would be to deliver it to the front porches—all have a carrier there for that purpose. After that, people tend to it themselves. That’s also where the gardening tools are kept—the shed, and the lawn mower and wheelbarrow and such.”

  Dorothy said, “There’s a pebble path round the side of the cottage. Just walk on past, but for loading and unloading from vehicles, you have to go down the street before this one—that’s Sea Spray Drive. All the streets and avenues are named stupidly.”

  Murphie hadn’t even noticed any of that, but then, she was looking the other way at the view. She said, “So what other duties are included?”

  Dorothy said, “Oh, this and that. Fix a stove—sometimes the chimney, or the pipe or a damper, change a window slider or light bulbs that are too high for them. Help with holiday lighting outside—if you want. And mow the lawn. People tend their own flowerbeds and gardens, but sometimes they ask for help. You are free to assist, or not, your call, as long as you keep up your own.”

  Lillian said, “There are plumbing problems sometimes—dripping faucets are a regular occurrence, and sometimes they break the old knobs. But tenants have to unclog their own toilets, that’s sort of a private matter, we figure, and most people are too embarrassed to ask for help with that anyway.”

  Murphie tried to hide her smile at that. These folks here in residence seemed like her grandparents, God bless them. They all died by the time she had finished high school. This might be like getting them back again.

  Dorothy added, “So, nothing dramatic.”

  Murphie said, “Where’s the laundry? I drove around a little bit, but I didn’t notice one in town?”

  They opened what she thought was a coat closet. Inside was still a bar along the top, but now instead of clothes, there was a stacked compact washer and dryer. Better and better, this place was rather pleasant, and Murphie wondered how she was doing on the interview.

  She said, “Can we look around some more?”

  Some of the cottages also had tiny garden plots; those had mostly already been hoed—preparing for the new growing season, she guessed.

  She closed her eyes and put back her head . . . and just breathed. Unbidden, a tear rolled out of the corner of her eye.

  Lillian touched her lightly on the arm, then sniffed herself and said lowly, “Take your time, dear, we’ll be in the office.”Ó

  Dorothy ordered, “When you’re ready, come by for iced tea and a chat.”

  Murphie very much wanted to know, but she was too chicken to ask. She said instead, “Do you have many more people to interview?”

  “Interview, dear?”

  Oh my, were they forgetful?

  She swallowed and found her nerve: “People to interview for the handyman job. I mean . . . that is, I’m very interested.”

  Dorothy frowned, but she shook her head with a sort of a half-snicker and half-grunt. Then she walked off.

  Lillian said, “You may not have known it, dear, but we meant to hire you the minute we saw the flip-flops.”

  Murphie started laughing, and the woman wandered off.

  ~~~

  She walked around a bit on her own, noticing more things now, including some birdhouses by some of the cottages. There was a black cat with a few big white patches and white front paws sitting under one, and its tail was twitching angrily. When she came near, the cat ran in the other direction.

  Murphie went to the office cottage, #1, and the aquamarine door was now standing wide open. Inside was very nice, and the ladies were already having their ice tea—both in easy chairs. The black and white cat was now sitting on Lillian’s lap, but it seemed to be growling at Dorothy.

  Lillian said, “Now Orca—“

  Then she must have noticed Murphie, because she called, “Oh, come in, dear. All set and settled, are we?”

  This was not like the cottage she had just seen, not quite—clearly no one actually lived here. The ladies had forms for her to fill out—nothing too complicated, just for identification and tax purposes. As Dorothy went through to make sure they had everything, Murphie took in what they had done with this cottage.

  The kitchen was still intact, but there was also a breakfast bar that was clearly used for office counter purposes instead of serving food. It seems the living room was communal—with a long table along one wall and a big screen TV on another. One of the bedrooms had been converted into a storage closet—she knew because it said so on the door.

  The ladies explained that while people were responsible for cleaning their own places, their rent included all cleaning and bathroom supplies. Murphie opened the door. Inside were shelves filled with all sorts of things from paper towels and toilet paper to sink cleanser and floor wax.

  Lillian said, “One of your responsibilities is to keep this stocked. You’ll have to make regular trips to the warehouse store, and get good products—not the cheapest, but not too expensive. There’s a clip board hanging up inside, when someone takes something from the inventory, they are supposed to write it down.”
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  “Dorothy said, “They don’t always do that, but you can check every time you go into town.”

  Murphie nodded. “I can do that.”

  Dorothy said, “There’s a business credit card in the freezer, under the box of okra. I’ll call and have you authorized to use it.”

  “Okra?”

  “It’s safe enough. Nobody in the northwest eats okra, did you ever notice that?” Lillian said.

  Dorothy said, “Take the card whenever you shop for supplies for the cottages and bring back any receipts. Put those in the top drawer here by the fridge, and there are drinks in the fridge too—that’s also stocked from the warehouse store—soft drinks only, they have to buy their own booze. Take a look and get more of the same.”

  The woman opened up the bottom cupboards to show where the drinks were kept.

  Murphie nodded again.

  Lillian said, “The other cupboards have special cookware that people can borrow—they have a sign out sheet on the clipboard on the fridge. Things they don’t have room to store in their own places, or that they don’t have call to own themselves—pressure cookers, or big kettles for canning, or a large-sized crockpot.”

  Murphie opened a few, the drawers too. She wasn’t quite sure what some of the things were. She checked the bathroom—it looked similar, but had a sign on the door that said: Restroom.

  Below it was scrawled on paper: Turn on the fan!

  And below that: No sand allowed.

  She stuck her head into the second bedroom; there were a few mats rolled up and stacked in one corner. Several folding chairs and a few card tables were leaning against the wall. There was also a shelf with some books and board games. The closet doors were open, and hanging there were zippered bags that had numbers (2-10) with labels that said: Winter Coats.

  Very organized.

  Lillian said, “Some of us girls do yoga and other videos together. The boys like to watch sports, and sometimes we all get together for a potluck. Do you cook, dear?”

  “I do, but I haven’t done much in the last few years.”

  Lillian said, “Well, nothing special. We’re plain folks here.”