A Little Romance: Stories for Hopeful Hearts

by Marilyn M Schulz

“I set up the wireless for the office, and I have a separate one for my cottage—it’s too far for this, but I can do that for others if you want them to all be on the same one—or separately, in case people want their privacy . . . I mean, if they want.”

  “Cool. You learned that in the service.”

  Not on purpose, but some stretches were long and boring, and picking up a manual or asking questions made the time go by faster. Seems some of it came in handy for other things too.

  Murphie couldn’t hide her smile.

  Dorothy smiled back, but said, “Let’s look at some colors.”

  Murphie said, “So the colors on the cottages are bright colors, or old standards like dark green and navy and red. You could stick with that, or what about something in the earthier tones or combined colors, like some kind of blue-green, or—”

  “Lillian says I have no creativity at all.”

  “No offense to Lillian, but pink is hardly creative. But I understand, in fact, I empathize. I have no artistic talents at all. I wanted to be a chef once, but now I can barely cook for myself. I’ve totally lost interest. But I can see where purple would be an easy choice . . . and red is even easier.”

  Dorothy seemed to soften a bit. She nodded, and mumbled, “Even basic crayons only had eight colors, and one of those was white and one was black.”

  “Why don’t we go to the store together then, and you can see the colors on the paint samples instead? We can get all the paint and supplies this trip, so people can’t change their minds, and Lillian can’t complain if she doesn’t like what you picked. We can even pick the shade of purple for Duncan.”

  Dorothy seemed happy with that prospect. At first, Murphie thought the feelings might be mutual between Duncan and Dorothy, but now she had second thoughts. Dorothy was not shy about men, and she was a good judge of character. The more time Murphie spent around the two, the more she knew they were totally unsuited.

  Out of the blue, she asked, “Who owns the Sea Haven Cottages—Lillian and you?”

  “Our father left them to us both—equal shares. Lillian’s husband was a sweet man, but he had no head for business. He left her in debt. Mine was a rat, but the fortune he made was community property in that state. I bought her share so she could pay off her late-husband’s debts, but really, we run it together and still think of it as ours, but the name on the title and the tax records is mine. Why do you ask?”

  Valid question. Murphie said, “Well, Duncan . . . he’s . . . well, he takes advantage of people’s good nature, especially when it comes to money.”

  “I don’t have a good nature. He’s a cheapskate and a sponge. You have experience with that, I heard. But Duncan is harmless, not clever enough to be a schemer, that’s the only reason we keep him on—you wouldn’t believe the deals he gets us on things like hardware supplies and building materials . . . and cars.”

  Murphie said, “I’ve been thinking about trading in my car for a pickup, do you think he could help me get a good deal?”

  “Buy him lunch, and I guarantee that. Don’t tell him you need help; just say you need some company. If he sees a salesman, he’ll dicker on his own—it’s in his nature, and he won’t even notice that he’s doing it.”

  “Let’s go then. Let’s see, we need some kind of purple for Duncan, some color for you, and red for me—I want that kind that looks like fire engines, something like that.”

  “They have more than one shade of red?”

  Murphie could tell this was going to be a long afternoon.

  In the end, they got a lighter shade of purple for Duncan that was labeled ‘Spring Violet.” Murphie got “Hothouse Tomato” and Dorothy ended up with a mid-tone brown that was listed as “Melted Chocolate.”

  ~~~

  The next day, Murphie started with Duncan’s cottage. She took down the shutters and used a wheelbarrow to haul them up and over the hill to the shed—but that required a few trips.

  Good exercise, she told herself, and not difficult. It was more like . . . annoying . . . and inefficient.

  Still, any day that nothing nearby blew up was a good day.

  She’d already set up some make-do sawhorses to lay them on to paint. Taking the door from the shed, she found it wouldn’t do in the wheelbarrow—too big. She’d have to carry that on her own. The door wasn’t heavy, but awkward, and those particular muscles holding it burned a little as she went down toward the cottages.

  She had to stop a few times to give them a rest.

  As Murphie finished attaching the spare door, Duncan came home from wherever he’d been. The bag was obvious—the liquor store. He also had bag of oranges and a can of mixed nuts with a big yellow sticker that said: HALF OFF!

  He said, “Need some help with that?”

  “Yeah, great, take that end and we can head up and over to the shed. Dorothy helped me pick out the purple, that’s the color you wrote down, right?”

  “The same color as hers?”

  “Not quite. Hauling this stuff is a real pain in the— You know, I really need a truck. Do you know a good place to buy? I can’t afford a new one, and I’ll probably trade in my car. Got any ideas?”

  “That might take awhile.” He looked at his watch.

  After setting the door on the sawhorses, they left and she locked up. She said, “Got other plans for the rest of the day?”

  He looked at his watch again. It was only eleven.

  He said, “It will take a while to drive there, and then there’s lunch—”

  “Lunch is on me.”

  “Well, then what are we waiting for?”

  Candy from a baby, she thought.

  It was too easy, she couldn’t be happier if she had a paid person to do the same thing. All that it cost her was a lunch, because she actually got more money from her car than it cost for the pickup.

  On the way home, she said, “You’re a magician, Duncan. Thanks.”

  Murphie wanted to ask where he had learned that negotiating skill, but he had other ideas, and asked her about women.

  He said, “Sure, I’ve dated, but up until now, just haven’t found the right one. How can I talk to Dorothy? She’s so distant, she’s so . . . well, strong and self-sufficient.”

  Murphie didn’t quite know what to say. Instead, she said, “I don’t know her very well. What are you bringing to the potluck? What should I bring?”

  “I’m bringing oranges and nuts, but something like chili might go good. Or chicken enchiladas, those are wonderful. Or beef stew—I haven’t had that in ages.”

  ~~~

  After finishing Duncan’s Violet Spring and Dorothy’s Melted Chocolate, they stood at a distance and looked in the late afternoon sun.

  Lillian said, “Well, I must admit that I was skeptical, but really it’s not so bad.”

  The brown had a bit of a rose-tone that made it look interesting, and the violet was down right . . . pretty.

  Lillian murmured, “Melted chocolate.”

  “Makes me hungry,” Dorothy said.

  The next morning, it was time for Murphie’s red. At least it was cheerful, she thought, trying not to remember . . . blood.

  But she was tired of hauling shutters back and forth—taking them down, putting them up—same with the door, even with the help of the pickup truck.

  She decided to just be careful and paint them where they were. They needed a little sanding too, like the others had, but really, why paint both sides when you only could see the one?

  Give it to the lazy person, they’ll find the easy way to do it—one of her officers used to say that. He was right, but she hadn’t realized before that he might have been talking about her.

  Sanding first, using an attachment on the drill she found in the shed. Not bad, she thought, and that went fast on the shutters. For the door, she took it off the hinges, but didn’t replace it with the spare. Murphie figured to do that later, if she needed.

  The painting was a bit harder, because she had to be careful not to get a
ny on the white part. She managed the shutters on one side of the house, but that took a few hours—longer than before because she had to be careful. Finally, she finished, and stepped back to admire her work, hoping no bugs would get stuck in the paint.

  But as she stepped back with the painter’s cup and brush still in hand, she stumbled on a rock. She managed not to fall, but spilled red paint on her new overalls—Dorothy insisted she get some. They were light colored too, and the paint was bright and obvious.

  Murphie thought about changing, but that would get messy in the house, so she decided to just continue on, and buy some new ones later at her own cost.

  The other side of the house was now in full sun. She thought about putting it off until it was in the shade, because paint in full sun . . . well, there was probably some rules about that . . . maybe she could look it up.

  She started to go inside, but then remembered the paint she had spilled on herself. How could I forget? It was obvious, and it was still wet. Didn’t matter anyway—with the door down, the cottage was open. Beau sleeping on the doormat inside, and the cat was on the table, snoozing on her laptop.

  Murphie thought about shooing him away, but Orca looked quite comfortable, and it was her own fault for not putting up the spare door right away.

  She started to paint anyway, but only got through the edges when the day caught up with her. She sat . . . just for a minute . . . then set the paint and brush aside and stretched out on the lawn. I’ll just close my eyes for a minute, she thought.

  Murphie sighed, brushed at a fly . . . and then she was gone—dozing in the sun.

  Something brushed her face. She twitched.

  Then something touched her wrist and then her neck.

  “Orca, get off,” she mumbled.

  “What did you say, miss?”

  Her eyes flew open—people were standing over her . . . uniforms . . . and flashing lights—firemen, paramedics.

  What the heck?

  She sat up, but one of the men gently pushed her back down. He said, “Take it easy, miss. Where exactly are you hurt?”

  “Hurt?”

  She saw a few of the tenants, but they didn’t look worried. Instead, Ruth was frowning, but attentive, while Ed and Coreen were trying not to . . . smile?

  Murphie said, “I’m fine, what’s going on?”

  One of the firemen—two were kneeling on each side and one was on his knees at her head—said, “There’s a lot of blood, miss. You’re just in shock.”

  “Oh my, no, I’m not. It’s paint. It’s just Hothouse Tomato. What’s going on?”

  Those hovering nearby groaned and turned to go. Crisis averted, she supposed. She heard them mumbling then, and one even laughed.

  The men on both sides said, “Can you get up?”

  “There’s nothing wrong— Who called you? I’m sorry, I’m fine. I must have dozed off, that’s all.”

  Ruth stepped forward. “You looked hurt—all that blood.”

  “It’s paint, red shutters and door—I just stumbled and spilled some, that’s all, Ruth. Don’t worry.”

  That didn’t help.

  Murphie sighed and tried to get up.

  The men at her sides got up too, lifting her by the arms. The fireman at her feet said, “You sure you’re all right then?”Ó

  “I’m embarrassed, does that count?”

  He smiled and pushed his hat back. “No, afraid not.”

  She tried to read his nametag—she thought it might be Callo— or Calla—something, but he was moving now, and she couldn’t quite make it out. Murphie remembered his smile though—and the twinkle in his eyes.

  The firemen all loaded up and were off. What nice people, she thought, and maybe they were relieved that it wasn’t something awful after all.

  When she glanced to the other tenants milling around now, none of them owned up to calling the paramedics, which for this county and this area were the firemen. None of them seemed too concerned, but a few of them, she noticed, seemed to think it was quite amusing.

  ~~~

  Murphie wasn’t there a whole month when something else unexpected happened. It had been storming out, and she had been inside for most of the day. She didn’t think much about it when the phone rang—she figured something had blown away from one of the cottages, and she’d have to brave the storm and go fix it.

  But it was a familiar voice on the line.

  Kale said, “Oh great, it’s you, so I finally found you again.” He laughed and added, “My parents didn’t know where you’d got too. I’m just going to come right out and say—it didn’t work out with Kyla. It was a mistake and I’m sorry for hurting you, sweetie. There, all better. We’re getting an annulment, and well . . . why don’t you come to France, it’s lovely there. I’m home for another week or so, and we can fly back together.”

  She wanted to say: I have a better idea, sweetie, why don’t you go to Hell?

  But she remembered what her father said about forgiveness. And also that her mother told her not to be bitter: It makes you so ugly on the inside, that it was bound to start showing on the outside.

  Murphie also heard Kale’s mother’s voice in her head: “The heart wants what the heart wants.”

  That’s just an excuse to hurt whoever you wanted, and worse, steal something from them. He didn’t think of it as stealing though—maybe he still thought he was worth the gift of her money and all she’d been through to get it. But it wasn’t just from her now, he had stolen from their future, from their children, and from their parents’ grandchildren, she thought.

  He stole from all of us.

  He said, “Are you still there? I know it’s a shock, but really, you can’t blame a guy—you were gone for so long and the time difference and getting up in the night just to talk to you and well—Kyla has the biggest, firmest—”

  “I presume there is a point?”

  He smirked, she could tell. He said, “No, I guess you don’t have to know about those.”

  Then he laughed again—it sounded false, like it was forced. Clearly the man was still oblivious to Murphie’s feelings, and he continued, “Turns out, she was kind of a spoiled brat, and—”

  She interrupted, but said very calmly, “You are a spoiled brat. You are selfish and a thief. And your parents are awful people too. I was lucky to escape from you, and my only regret is how much money you took.”

  “You gave me that money—”

  “I trusted you, and it was for the both of us, for our future, for our home and children. I wanted to spend my life with you.”

  “Well, so come to France. All if forgiven.”

  All is forgiven?

  She took a deep breath, then another. Finally she said, “Not a chance.”

  “Maybe when you have a chance to calm down. Think about it some, will you?”

  “Hold your breath, and I’ll get back to you. By the way, how much of my money did you spend on Kyla’s engagement ring?”

  “You just said it was our money.”

  He sounded now like a defensive child.

  She laughed, but it was cynical. She said, “You don’t get it, do you? Even now, you just don’t see what a lousy person you are.”

  “No need to get bitchy.”

  Murphie was speechless now. Her dad was right, why waste emotion on a man like him.

  On the phone, Kale was now apologizing for what he called the “b-word.” He must have figured out that insulting her was no way to get more money. That’s all it was. You can’t do the things he had done and still claim it was love.

  She thought about the great men who had gone home in flag-draped boxes—they too had their flaws, just like any other human being. But she would have died for those other men, and maybe some had died for her.

  Other people were so much . . . worthier.

  Kale didn’t deserve anymore of her—he’d taken enough.

  Not one more moment, not one more tear.

  She said, “I forgive you.”


  He stopped talking for a moment, then said, “What? The connection is fuzzy.”

  “I acknowledge that you are a bad person, and I forgive you for the horrible selfishness. Don’t ever contact me again, and if I ever see you again, don’t talk to me, I don’t know you.”

  That was the truth.

  She hung up.

  In the end, she wasn’t quite as strong as she wanted to be. Murphie cried herself to sleep, but in the morning, the storm had cleared, and the sun came up to show the bright and beautiful day.

  ~~~

  Better than tourist season, this was also planting season. Murphie had no garden plot of her own prepared, but she helped the other tenants in their gardens and around their houses. Ruth planted some herbs around her cottage, and Herb and Larry planted some vegetables where petunias had been before.

  Murphie wanted to help, because it would help her learn how to prepare her own. She was weeding her own flowerbeds now, thinking about putting more flowers in, when she noticed a pile of refuge out in back of her cottage.

  Funny, she hadn’t noticed that before, but that needed cleaning away first, and then she could stake out a patch for a garden. From the pile, she loaded some things into a wheelbarrow, but much of it was old wood that looked to be from cabinets and such. Maybe someone in the neighborhood had done some remodeling, and just dumped it here—how rude . . . and how intrusive.

  Two dogs, she thought, and not a bark between them.

  As she pulled things away, Murphie saw that an older pile was down below, quite overgrown. It had clearly been there for a season or two, but she hadn’t noticed it before. She glanced around, and figured this was as good a time and place as any to start preparing for her own little garden.

  She worked the rest of the day to clear it—minus time for changing some light bulbs, driving Duncan to the post office to mail some things, and Murphie meant to stop to get a few groceries at the local store.

  Duncan said, “You’d save money if you bought in bulk at the warehouse store. The prices here are a lot higher.”