May Belle’s fingers began to move as she spoke the names and counted them out. “Not counting Earl and me, let’s see, that’s six adults and four children.”
“Got it.” Dorothy pulled down May Belle’s gown and rearranged her covers in case Gladys stormed the place. She scooted through the house, opened May Belle’s front door and, after a quick greeting, said, “May Belle’s back is still bothering her. But she’s treating it and she’s asked me to tell you she has taken reservations for a total of ten people, not including her and Earl. Six adults, four children. I’ll only be here a little while more, then I’ll go home and tally up my reservations. I hate to rush you, Gladys, but I’m sure you’re working hard to round up all the numbers to give to Theresa and I don’t want to hold up that important process. Good-bye.” She closed the door. Gladys whirled on her heels.
“There must be something in the air today,” Dorothy overheard Gladys saying as she tromped down the sidewalk, visions of slamming doors and Nellie Ruth and Edward Showalter glued together at the hip playing in her head.
23
Considering the accusation that had been made, it had been a quiet two days at the Landerses’ house. In the wake of the wild scene at Harry’s and with company around, Arthur and Jessie both felt the uncommon pull of restraint as well as an ongoing loss for where to even begin addressing the issue at hand. Every once in awhile they’d accidentally make solid eye contact, intentionally holding it until one or the other looked away, realizing that no amount of staring, not even straight into a person’s eyes (not even when giving them the evil eye), could reveal a window into his or her thoughts.
“Maybe familiarity is everything” kept running through Jessie’s mind like an unbidden mantra. More than once she’d studied her own photo on their bedroom wall and recalled how happy she’d been playing ball. How happy she’d been to look into the bleachers and see her handsome new husband standing in the midst of an otherwise sitting crowd as she’d walk into the batter’s box, hear his voice cheering her on, “Give ’er a good rip, Mugsy!” Arthur had never once made her feel like she should quit, a request Lester had—with and without words—pinned in the air. She couldn’t imagine not having had the opportunity to freely travel and use her talents to the best of her ability for as long as she’d been able. She couldn’t imagine not having had Arthur by her side, cheering her on, sharing her victories or whipping out his Hohner and giving her a few bars of “You Are My Sunshine” before the games and after the defeats. “My Action Jackson Jessie,” he would say when he gave her a bear hug. “Ya gave ’em all ya had but they jist had more today!”
Arthur continued to waffle between wanting to kick himself in the behind for jumping to conclusions and feeling like throwing something at somebody. (Maybe Jessie’s been on ta somethin’ all these years!) But mostly he was stuck tripping over memories: planting the annual gardens, Jessie dragging the hoe and he dropping in the seeds, she too impatient to disperse them; hearing the roar of the throngs of She-Bats fans as they leapt to their feet to cheer Mugsy McGee Landers; how they’d stuffed down the sorrow at the continuing monthly discovery that once again there would be no child—and the day they’d silently stopped waiting.
But then, then there was this past summer when she’d pitched her way to the senior citizens’ league championship for the Wild Musketeers. More than once in the last couple of days he’d thought about the kiss he’d spontaneously planted on his wife’s lips after that game (right there in front of everybody), such was his joy in her victory, such was the exuberance of the resurrection of long-buried emotions. (He wondered if Lester had paid special attention to that, the googly-eyed weasel!) He smiled in spite of himself thinking that even during all the times Jessie had winged whatever at the outhouse while he was “hiding” in there, pelting it until he thought his eardrums would break, his marriage felt alive.
Now he could picture it: the state of his marriage was alive.
About the only thing he couldn’t seem to picture was Jessie having spent twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week with Lester, whose life ran by the clock and the day’s special. She was still too much of a wild spitfire for that kind of a routine. Herm was right: he’d imagined everything!
Herm and Vera had spent their sparse private moments since the incident sharing the gritty details of their observations. Herm talked about Arthur’s erratic behavior after his explosion at Harry’s, including tearing around town, staring at the photographs above the shuffleboard and then his bizarre yelling at the creek to shut up. “Oh, Hermie!” Vera had exclaimed with a hushed voice before unfolding the details about Jessie’s patch of rubber and how she hadn’t said a word, really, about the actual incident at the grill. They both vowed they didn’t want to do anything to cause more strife, which ultimately led them to make a pact that they would not butt in, no matter how tempting. “Mum’s the word” concerning the incident. But most importantly, Vera admitted she’d grown “a strong intuitive feeling” that nothing was, nor had ever been, going on between Jessie and Lester and she was sorry she’d ever mentioned it. “Hermie, sometimes I think I just talk out of my head. I don’t know why you listen to me,” she’d said, a tone of remorse lacing her whispers. He’d pulled her close and given her a squeeze. “Well, sugarplum, we all have our moments.”
In light of all the tensions and private thoughts—especially after Herm asked everyone if they’d like to play a game of euchre and he thought all three of them were going to pummel him—the men and women had spent most of the past forty-eight hours paired up avoiding one another. The women had twice driven to Hethrow to browse, Jessie hating every minute of Vera’s aimless shopping but finding it more tolerable than dealing with Arthur. They’d even stopped by The Piece for lunch, their curiosity having been piqued at the Hookers’ meeting. Vera asked Jessie if she saw anything on the menu that looked to be a New York City dish. Jessie shrugged her shoulders, but when Johnny came to the table, she challenged him—and there was no other word for it—to point it out. He said he was glad word was spreading and that the New York City special would soon be unveiled. He encouraged them to come again next week since it was sure to be in place by Tuesday. As soon as they left, he wrote a giant note to himself and posted it in the kitchen: “CREATE NEW YORK CITY DISH! NOW!!!” For lack of anything else to do to keep them busy, the women had also done a little grocery shopping for their Thanksgiving meal, including picking up two cans of French-cut green beans, Durkee onions and a bag of bread cubes for the stuffing.
While Jessie and Vera were busy hopping from one place to another, Arthur and Herm took long wandering drives in a twenty-mile radius to check out the county’s “progress” (or lack, thereof, they decided), stopping for an occasional beer break and a few games of shuffleboard at The Tap wherein Arthur’s eyes never once looked up at the wall of photos. They’d also spent a couple of leisurely hours prowling around Swappin’ Sam’s. Sam had nearly talked their ears off about a rolltop desk he’d “procured just yesterday.” He claimed it was from a mansion on the East Coast but didn’t explain how he’d found it or how it had arrived since he hadn’t left Partonville. When the cousins pulled away from the store, Arthur said he never did trust a man who would use a snakey word like “procured.” Herm agreed. “There are regular-type words that are just trustworthier, like hows about ‘I bought it’ for instance.” The two men nodded their heads for the next eighth-mile. “But I still find Sam and his stories entertaining,” Herm said, which was followed by another eighth-mile of head nodding. The teen from Hethrow driving behind them mused over how the two old codgers reminded him of the head-bobbing hula girl he’d once seen when browsing with his mom at Swappin’ Sam’s.
Friday evening all four of the Landers clan went to the show in Hethrow, none of them having been for . . . well . . . they couldn’t even remember when. Arthur never wanted to pay for a theater ticket when television was cheaper and his La-Z-Boy was more comfortable, and Jessie admitted to having trouble
sitting still in movies. But Herm and Vera had not only talked them into it (“I heard tell there’s a vintage Buick in the chase scene, Art”), they’d continued talking nonstop all the way to the theater and back, so uncomfortable were they to find themselves all locked up in the car together—a little fact Herm and Vera hadn’t thought through before recommending the outing. Arthur and Jessie both wanted to slam their hands over their ears during the drive. They were neither one used to nonstop chatter. That night in bed Herm told Vera he swore he could “see electrical arcs of air cracklin’ between them two.” He said he had never in his life been so glad to get out of the car and into the theater. The whole time they were in there, though, he said he’d spent more time dreading the ride back than paying attention to the movie. He had to ask Vera how the guy in the Buick had actually managed to escape in the midst of all that shooting, then he bemoaned what a waste of a good car it had been when he learned the car had burned in that fiery scene near the end. Vera confessed to Herm that she, too, had been tense throughout the picture show, dreading the ride home. And yet, she said with a hopeful tone in her voice, her intuition told her the waters were calming. “Time and prayer—and I’ve sure been praying!—work more miracles than we might imagine, Hermie,” she said, patting his stomach as she snuggled up to him. “It’s probably a good thing we’re here just to help them keep a lid on their emotions until they’re both thinking more clearly.” She kept her mum’s-the-word promise by not adding, “especially since you ignited this mess to begin with.”
Katie leaned her head back on her terry-covered bath pillow and pondered the iridescent light in the blanket of bubbles that skimmed the bottom of her chin and covered her body, aside from her bent knees which protruded like mountain peaks rising out of a sea of clouds. One thing she did adore about the mouse house was this deep old claw-foot tub. Her mind wandered from Josh’s upcoming first long-distance solo car trip to her first Thanksgiving at her ex in-laws’ house. She’d hated creamed peas ever since. Her thoughts finally settled on the wave of lonesomeness that continued to engulf her when she pictured herself this holiday. Although she was glad to have the distraction of serving the Thanksgiving dinner at church, she had concerns about her first honest-to-gosh volunteer job—and what gene was she missing that that was the case! She was especially happy to know she would at least spend a good portion of the day around Dorothy. And her family. Her grandsons. Her sons, Vinnie and Jacob. Jacob, whom she pictured carving the bird. As if to erase that thought she blew at the bubbles, a few breaking free and slowly drifting toward her feet. Before the bubbles even burst she’d shifted her thoughts to how good the familiar thrill of a new commercial real estate and business endeavor felt. But such a mix of emotions. . . . As prepared as she’d been going into her meeting with Colton, what she’d done afterwards—equally prudent, hope-filled and risky—had blindsided her like a cold water balloon to the back of the head. What’s up with me?
Colton moved toward her, his hand extended, perfect pearly whites gleaming through his tan, deep green eyes flashing streams of sparkles right at her. As wily as that man could be, there was no doubt about the fact he was drop-dead gorgeous. Gorgeousness aside, however, they were meeting today as adversaries. She quickly zipped up any feminine responses and put on her game face, even when he complimented her on her suit, for which she cordially thanked him as though she’d barely noticed what she’d thrown on this morning. After briefly glancing at their menus, they each ordered a specialty salad. While they waited for their food, they engaged in casual touch-bases about how long it had been since they’d last connected, who had moved where, built where, retired, moved up and on, gone bust after a bad gamble.
By the time their food arrived, Katie had made it clear she’d conducted a recent study of the whole of Hethrow and its surrounding areas. She shared a few earnest accolades about his and his brother’s shrewd planning. “We enjoy what we do,” he said with ease. “Of course, we had a few more plans, but then. . . .” He winked. He had of course been referring to Crooked Creek Farm. She raised her eyebrows and smiled.
“I can’t help but wonder if you’re enjoying whatever it is you’re doing out on that farm, Kathryn. You never seemed the farm type to me.” Katie noticed a slight change in the tone of his voice. Although he was, of course, digging, he was also teasing her. He asked if she was becoming a modern-day version of Eva Gabor in the old television show Green Acres. She bit back her recent mouse-and-boredom saga and shrugged, as though she had no need to explain her life to him—which she did not. The conversation then quickly moved from one thing to the next as they ate their salads and circled each other, testing the waters of their intent, knowing the reason for the meeting was at hand as soon as their plates were cleared and coffee was served.
“So, what’s on your docket, Mr. Craig? I imagine you and your brother have your eye on your next expansion project. In fact, I have no doubt that’s why you phoned me.”
“My dear Ms. Durbin, can’t a man phone a woman just because he’s a man and she’s a woman?” His eyes leisurely dropped to her necklace, moved to her lips, then back to her eyes.
“Of course he can,” Katie said, casting her eyes to the napkin she rearranged on her lap, keeping them there until she could earnestly look up with a make-no-mistake-I-am-here-to-do-business look and tone in her voice. “But in this case, this woman holds title to the topic of the day so let’s get down to it.” He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled at her with admiration. She was a worthy opponent, always had been. He knew there would be no casting Kathryn Durbin under his spell—which, of course, made her all the more attractive to him as a woman. But he loved the game as much as she did, and for now, the game was on. He’d concluded by the fact she’d returned his call that she was in the market to deal and now here they were. Why else would she have purchased that place to begin with if not to make a profit—from him?
“How much?” he asked flatly, sitting as still as a post.
She pulled a bulging file folder out of her briefcase. “I’m not sure it’s for sale—at least not quite yet. For right now, it is simply my property.”
“My property,” he said. “Sounds like you’ve not only moved in but staked claim.”
“Not so much staked permanent claim, perhaps, as become a launching pad for possibilities.” She opened the file but kept the top sheet of blank paper in place. “What do you know about the National Register of Historic Places’s relatively recent announcement that the . . .” She shifted her paper to the side and ran her finger down a few lines until she found the sentence “that ‘the General Services Administration’s Center for Historic Buildings, Office of the Chief Architect is partnering with the National Park Service to digitize records of listed GSA properties to make them....’”
“Whoa! What’s the National Register of Historic Places got to do with Crooked Creek Farm? Crooked Creek Farm has certainly not been . . .”
“Well, I’m sure you’re familiar with the Preservation Easement Program and how charitable remainder trusts can . . .”
“Kathryn Durbin, stop.” He held up his palm like a stop sign as he shook his head. What on earth kind of a wild goose chase was she off on here? She was smarter than this. That acreage was a gold mine for development, not preservation and. . . . He studied her face. “Historic places? Preservation Easement Program? Surely you’re not thinking about trying to block development?”
“Possibilities lend value,” she said with obvious pleasure. And yes indeedy, she had been exploring all of these possibilities because one day, all the land around Crooked Creek would be up for sale—including the Landerses’. The more pearls like parks, historic sites, possibly greenways that could separate Hethrow from Partonville—and Crooked Creek Farm was certainly that gateway, as he very well knew—the more valuable everything around it would continue to become.
In the wake of her silence, Colton’s eyes cast up and off to the left. Katie knew he was trying to get in her brain,
envision her strategy. Then something struck him like thunder! She knew he was probably already running surrounding per-acre figures in his head and subdividing them. He looked at her, smiled, then with intent and control—and in order to try to smoke her out—allowed his face to relax into something between neutral and disgust.
“From what I hear and observe,” he said flatly, “the whole of Partonville and most people in it could be declared historic. But as you well know, old does not always lend value, Kathryn. In Partonville’s case, I’d say old simply means ‘useless as is.’ There is nothing either historically valuable or quaint about that town that might otherwise attract investors or residents. No drawing card, schools. . . . The biggest drawing card Partonville has right now is its potential to be an upscale suburb of Hethrow, offer larger estates, a gated community.” Although that’s what he said, what he didn’t say was, “unless one day another town begins to boom to Partonville’s west,” which is exactly what Kathryn Durbin had figured out and he knew it! She was a worthy opponent, to be sure. More worthy than he had bargained for.
Katie blinked. Even in the midst of her major moment (during which time she should have been inwardly gloating to have caught him so off guard), she was astounded to find herself feeling personally offended by his “useless as is” remark about Partonville. But she refused to allow any portion of her face to twitch.
“Useless as is?” she asked, her tone revealing nothing. “Certainly you don’t mean that the way it could be construed.”
“Oh, come on, Kathryn. You’re too savvy to not see the writing on the wall. (He would give her nothing if not a challenge.) Partonville is all but over. Ready or not, progress is poised to march right over it. Flatten it. Create something new out of the ashes.”
Dearest Dorothy, Who Would Have Ever Thought?! Page 23
