"You mean all her junk and what-nots? Beats me. I think her estate is trying to sell the place. Heard a bunch of vandals broke in and trashed it good." He jammed his hat back down on his head and climbed into the driver's seat to turn over my engine.
What Poppy called "junk and what-nots" had been valuable antiques and collectibles. Miss Essie had named her place "The Treasure Chest," with a nod to this being the Treasure Coast, the waters where the Spanish Armada had sunk three hundred years ago.
As a young woman, Essie Feldman had led a glamorous life in New York City, hobnobbing with the rich and famous. She had a knack for discerning the rare, the odd, and the precious. Coupled with her keen intellect, she was a natural born businesswoman. After a nasty divorce, she moved here with her son, initially living with her aging parents. Looking around at them and their friends, she saw opportunity because she recognized that an aging population meant estate sales. And Essie turned this idea into a thriving business.
To Poppy, Essie's shop was full of "airy-fairy horse manure." But I knew better than to waste my breath. He was like that, opinionated and dismissive.
"My father likes nothing better than to stomp on a dream," Mom had once told me. "He can put out the flames of enthusiasm faster than anyone I've ever met. That's one reason your father and I moved away as soon as we were married. If we hadn't have left, we could have never gotten up the gumption to open our restaurant. Poppy would have laughed at us."
I watched the old man crawl out of the driver's seat and start poking around under the hood again. I almost started to argue with Poppy about the value of Essie's "junk and what-nots," but Dad had shown me the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut. "Never try to teach a pig to sing," Dad always said, "the pig'll get annoyed, and you'll go hoarse."
This was one of those times. A wave of tiredness sucked up the last of my energy. Why did it matter what Poppy thought of Essie and her business? She was dead now, as were my parents. And I was nearly dead on my feet from exhaustion.
I had to choose between walking around Stuart and finding a place to take a nap. A hot meal with real food was my third option, one that sounded more and more appealing.
"If Pumpernickel's Deli is open," I said to Poppy's back, as he moved around fiddling with Black Beauty's engine, "I might grab a bowl of soup. You want anything?"
When he didn't answer, I put on my sunglasses, adjusted my cap, and said, "Be back soon."
4
Behind Dick's Gas E Bait, there were three parking spaces separated by a narrow alley from three identical parking spaces that belonged to Essie's store. If not for the dead fish, I could have taken a shortcut, walking through the Gas E Bait, out the back door, and across the alley. But the stink still clung to my clothes, so I decided to take the scenic route, walking the long way around the block.
Going south from Poppy's I passed Marlin Dry Cleaner, a quick copy shop, and a party supply place. The closer I came to the corner where The Treasure Chest stood, the more I wanted to avert my eyes. Even from my spot on the sidewalk, I could tell Essie was gone.
Weeds sprang up between the sidewalk joints in front of The Treasure Chest. The two green urns that had bracketed the front door were missing, along with the vivid flowers and ferns Essie had tended so carefully. The display windows on the ground level had not been cleaned in a very, very long time. Boards had been nailed haphazardly over the windows on the second floor.
Swallowing hard, I stepped closer. The movement caused me to catch a whiff of the mouthwatering fragrances emanating from Pumpernickel's, which was across the street and behind me.
The sun's reflection made looking inside the store very difficult. So I shifted my position and squinted around a large red and white FOR SALE sign taped inside one window.
What a shock!
Even though Poppy had warned me the place had been vandalized, I was still stunned by the mess. Essie's once beautiful store was a disaster. If she hadn't already been dead, this would have put her in her grave.
Unsteady stacks of furniture leaned against the windowpane. Odds and ends, stray legs and drawers, were tossed haphazardly into the mix. Piles of broken pottery, a battered black umbrella, torn baskets, lamps without shades, and garbage was scattered across the floor. Drywall had been ripped from the walls, leaving exposed two-by-fours that looked a cadaver's naked ribs. The wonderful lead crystal chandelier that had thrown rainbows on the walls and ceiling was gone. All the display fixtures had been ripped out.
My stomach stopped giving off hungry growls and twisted into angry knots.
How could this have happened?
I stepped back to read the fine print on the FOR SALE sign. The listing agent was Hal Humberger of the Philomena Humberger Real Estate Agency. His photo showed a cocky man with fleshy lips and a pudgy chin.
Hal Humberger was now my sworn enemy. How could he have allowed this to happen to Essie's shop? This place was sacred to me—and to my family. Leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I closed my eyes and gave myself over to pleasant memories. I daydreamed of summer evenings when my parents opened the windows, to let in the sweet scent of salt from the ocean. I heard Essie's voice as she patiently explained to me what made an item valuable. I smelled the sandalwood soap she always stocked in the bathrooms. I heard the sound of the wind rustling the fronds of a nearby palm tree, and the cry of a seagull lifted by ocean breezes.
When I thought my heart would break, I opened my eyes and stared at the mess in front of me.
Who would want to buy this disaster?
The place had been ransacked.
More and more changes. I was sick and tired of changes, especially when they took away the things I cherished. When would they end? What did I have to look forward to? More emptiness? More losses? As I pondered all this, a car pulled up to the curb behind me.
I turned to see Hal Humberger himself, the man in the photo on the FOR SALE sign. He parked his gold Bentley on the street. In my head, my father warned me to stay calm, cool, and collected, even though I planned to give the real estate agent a piece of my mind! How could he have let this place get so run down?
Approaching him, I stuck out my hand to introduce myself, but he waved me away. He was too busy talking on his cell phone about "meeting later" and "always wanted to own one by him."
While he continued his rude conversation, I stood gagging on his fancy cologne.
After punching a button and loading the phone into the front pocket of his suit, Hal finally turned his attention to me. "Geez. You look like twenty miles of bad road."
I moved from sad to mad at warp speed. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could have said that would have made me angrier. My mother was always harping at me to dress up. "Are you really leaving the house like that?" she'd say. Hal's insult hit me where it hurt.
"Well, at least you made it," he said. "Your boss sent you with the check, honey? I didn't have time to type everything in on this contract. You won't mind doing that, will you? That's what he pays you for. That and other things," Hal said with a smirk.
"I'm not who you think—" I started to say, but Mr. Humberger wasn't listening. No, he was too busy rummaging around inside his briefcase.
I hate rude people who don't listen. Hal was clearly one of those guys whose tie cut off the blood flow to his brain. While I seethed, he thrust a handful of papers at me. He didn't even check to see that I grabbed them all. He didn't offer to help as I struggled to straighten them.
"The Treasure Chest, ha! More like The Trash Bin. It's going to take a Dumpster to haul away all that garbage. Or not. Maybe the demolition team can scoop it up."
"Demolition team?" Curiosity got the better of me, and I looked over the forms. I was holding the contract for this building!
"Yeah. Can't wait until they bring in the wrecking ball."
"What?" I glanced up at him.
Hal Humberger was rubbing his palms together gleefully, as if he were a small boy.
"They'll tear this p
lace down and build a new gas station, the Fill Up and Go. Can't wait to see the look on Dick Potter's face." Mr. Humberger snickered.
"Dick Potter?" I repeated my grandfather's name.
"Who else?" said Mr. Humberger. "I tried to get Dick to let me list the Gas E Bait. But no, he wasn't ready to retire. Then this sweet deal drops in my lap. This new Fill Up and Go franchise will put that old coot out of business. There'll be no way he can compete against a modern gas station with state-of-the-art equipment. Clean restrooms. A nice waiting area for customers. Floor to ceiling coolers full of cold drinks. Even a fast food vendor serving hot meals."
I was speechless, and he was right. A new gas station/convenience store combination on this spot would mean the end of Dick's Gas E Bait.
5
I couldn't think of anything to say, so I turned my attention to the papers in my hands. Finally, I stammered, "A Fill Up and Go will be built here? On this very spot?"
Mr. Humberger frowned at me. "Per our agreement. Your boss is getting this dump for half of what it's worth because Essie's son needs the money so badly. You got your checkbook with you?"
"Yes," I said, reflexively. I always carried it in my purse.
No way could I let someone tear down The Treasure Chest and build a modern service station here. Hadn't Dad said a million times that the gas station gave Poppy a reason to get up in the morning? Keeping Dick's Gas E Bait open was a matter of life or death. I couldn't risk losing my grandfather so quickly after burying my parents. I just couldn't.
But what could I do to save Poppy's business?
While Mr. Humberger tapped out a text-message on his phone, I started reading the papers and putting them in numerical order.
How could I stop this sale?
Mr. Humberger had said that the contract wasn't complete. What exactly had he left out? I looked at the first page. The "buyer" line was blank. I flipped to the last page. The buyer's name below the signature line had been left blank also.
Then it hit me: I could buy the property myself!
If I inserted my name, would Mr. Humberger notice?
The real estate agent was now blabbering on his cell phone, not paying the least bit of attention to what I was doing. The answer was obvious. He wouldn't notice.
Down to brass tacks. Was the price of the building fair?
Mr. Humberger had said that the building was being sold at a bargain price.
What was the amount of earnest money, and could I swing it?
The sum turned out to be a token amount. I could easily cover it with the money in my checking account, funds from the sale of my house in St. Louis.
Was there a way for me to back out?
According to the contract, the penalty for breaking the agreement was loss of the earnest money. That meant my risk was relatively low.
Was snapping up the property fair? Was it the right thing to do? Was it moral?
"You can take all that paperwork back to the office with you, get it signed, and return it later," said Mr. Humberger. "No need to bother your pretty head with details. All this business stuff is probably beyond you. Make sure you initial the part where I get to have one last look-see before you knock the place down. You understand why that addition needs your initials, right, doll?"
I hate being patronized. My temper got the best of me as I said, "I understand, and I don’t need to show this to anyone else. I can sign the contract."
"Hey, sweetheart, I don't care if Ponce de León himself signs it. I get paid either way." He went back to playing with his phone.
Grabbing a pen from my purse, I took a deep breath and signed all three copies. "Your turn," I said, handing the contract back to the real estate agent. Any minute now, surely he'd realize I wasn't the person he thought I was.
But he didn't. He scribbled his name next to the seller's already executed signature. He started to pass me one set of papers, and then he remembered. "The check?"
"Oh," I dug around in my purse again and came up with my checkbook. I wrote the check. Hal Humberger didn't even glance at my check or the contract as he stuffed the papers into his briefcase.
"You'll need these for the inspection." Mr. Humberger pulled a set of Yale keys from the pocket of his pants. Rubbing his pudgy hands together, he said, "Okay, don't let your boss forget, I'll want to get back into the building one more time and look around. Tell your boss that he owes me big time for coming and meeting you while he's off playing golf. What a life that guy has. Remind him that he would have never gotten council approval for this deal without our help. Philomena and me."
I nodded.
"Congratulations," he said, with a nasty laugh. "You've got yourself a dump full of trash."
"Dump? Trash?" I reached out and put a hand on the door of Essie's shop. The big display windows looked back at me like two sad eyes. The trim sagged, the molding over the lintel was chipped, and the door was splintered. The awning drooped like a flag of surrender.
Even so, something about the building spoke to me, stirring a deep longing I didn't even know existed. My dad used to chuckle, "Cara Mia, you have the strangest ideas. Where do you come up with this, my darling? Things are things, but to you, it's as if they had souls."
Dad had been right. I tend to get attached to inanimate objects. The Treasure Chest, Essie's old shop, held many fond memories for me. And suddenly I realized that this wasn't just about saving Poppy's business.
"Mr. Humberger, this isn't trash. It's a treasure."
"Whatever you say, sweetheart."
I fought the urge to smack him.
"Remind your boss that everything is still turned on. All the lights, water, electricity, and utilities. Can't wait to hear what happens when Cooper springs this on old Dickie bird," Hal Humberger said, as he jingled his car keys.
"Cooper?" My heart lurched in my chest. "Cooper Rivers?"
"Who else?" Hal Humberger burst out laughing. “You’re kidding me, right?”
Oh, Lord. What had I done?
6
I wobbled around in some sort of shock, heading in the general direction of my grandfather's gas station. "Of all the gin joints," I muttered to myself, quoting that famous line from Casa Blanca. How was it possible that I'd purchased a piece of property intended for Cooper Rivers, the boy I'd fallen in love with when I was fifteen? A man I hadn't seen in more than twenty years?
"What should I do now?" I whispered.
I tried to call Kiki Lowenstein, but my call went immediately to voice mail.
I closed my eyes and tried to conjure up my dad. He would have smiled and said, "You did what you thought best at the time. Take a deep breath and review your options."
I'd probably saved Poppy's bacon, even though I had double-crossed Cooper.
"I've really stepped in it." Giving myself a good shake, I started walking again. Slowly, so I could think.
What I needed was an attorney. He could read over my paperwork give me good legal advice.
"But it was supposed to go to Cooper!" I said to myself.
What had my choices been? There was no way that I'd walk away and let Poppy lose his business. None. Dad always said, "Family first," and I'd put my grandfather's needs before mine.
Thinking more logically, I considered the financial obligations of the building. Given my current footloose circumstances, I didn't need much money to live on. Fortunately, the restaurant and catering business were both doing well and depositing money in my checking account regularly.
My ex, Dominic the creep, was paying for Tommy's college education. So I was off the hook there.
That got me wondering how my son was doing during his first week of school. Digging in my purse, I found my cell phone. As usual, Tommy's number went immediately to voice mail. I started to leave a quick message for my son, telling him that I loved him, but one last beep told me my phone was dead.
I must have forgotten to recharge it while I was driving.
"Proof positive that it's past my bedtime," I sai
d to no one in particular. By my calculations, I'd been up for nineteen hours straight, not counting my brief nap in Georgia. A cloud of gloom infected all my thoughts: When did Cooper Rivers turn into such a jerk? Why on earth had he decided to put my grandfather out of business?
That sure didn't sound like the Cooper I knew. Not at all.
But then, things change and people do too.
"I hope I don't lose my shirt on this real estate deal," I mumbled. I reviewed my reasoning one more time. I couldn't let some fancy new franchise come in and run Poppy out of business. On the other hand, maybe he was finally tired of working. Maybe he wanted his life to slow down. That would explain shy all of his gas pumps were out of order. Perhaps that was why he hadn't cleaned the tank full of dead fish. Possibly, he quit caring. All the hallmarks were there. The negligence. The lethargy. The lack of attention. He'd actually been doing a crossword puzzle when I drove up!
Maybe Poppy wasn't as involved in his work as he had once been. Maybe he needed an excuse to retire?
If so, I’d made a very, very bad impulse buy. While other women splurged on purses and shoes, I’d gone and bought a building. What on earth would I do with an old tear down? A dilapidated piece of property?
7
Black Beauty wasn't sitting where I'd left her at the front of the gas station. As I approached, my grandfather stuck his head out the door.
"Your car's around back. Fuel pump's dead. Took it out. Had to order a part. It'll be here first thing tomorrow. That Camry ain't going nowhere."
I fought to keep my emotions in check. I hate being without a car. Absolutely hate it! I might go three days without hopping in a car, but knowing it's there and that I can drive away is what matters. Not having a ride makes me feel cooped up. Vulnerable. Despondent.
It took all my self-control, but I kept a smile on my face.
"Poppy? I have something to tell you," I said, gearing up for the big reveal.
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 67
