Dearest Dorothy, Merry Everything!

by Charlene Baumbich

  In her worst moments Katie Durbin wondered what on earth she’d been thinking buying this building and announcing such an ambitious project; in her best moments she was once again Kathryn Durbin, businesswoman, exhilarated by the challenge, knowing that the more she took on, the more the overload fired her adrenaline. It was so good to feel alive again! For three whole days she’d done nothing but talk on the phone to architects and a few retailers from Chicago she knew well and trusted. She’d surfed the Internet for any information she could find regarding large rehabbed buildings in rural areas, see what kinds of facilities they’d brought in, how they’d thrived, or not—and many had not. But she decided she needed to erase all doubts and sentimentalities and focus her energies on success. “Out with the old and in with the new,” she’d heard. Exactly. Under her direction, “the old Taninger building” would be no more. In its place would stand a thriving new beginning.

  As Edward Showalter had proven by the previous jobs he’d done for her, he was knowledgeable, thorough, tidy and more than reasonable. He was by far the best electrician and handyman she’d ever worked with, and throughout her years in commercial real estate development in Chicago, she’d been involved with dozens of them. The man could do anything from rewiring a house to building furniture. Although she would love to give the trustworthy Edward Showalter the entire job, or have him serve as contractor, she feared it might be more than he could handle, especially in her frenzied time frame. If he had a year to get it all done, he was no doubt capable of handling everything, pulling in people when he needed them. But in reality, some of the structural projects she’d projected on her legal pad would likely need entire crews. Yes, to transform the old open-floor-plan Taninger Furniture building into a mini mall was going to be quite an undertaking, perhaps too much for any one man—especially a man highly distracted by his new love for Nellie Ruth McGregor. Still, at the very least, Edward Showalter would be involved when it came to projects like special wiring, lighting and painting. Or making shelves and building partial walls, and. . . . She made a note to give him a call to ask him to meet with her, reserve her a huge block of time, talk openly about his limitations. She trusted they could hammer out his role and agree on financial arrangements.

  But first, the architect. Focus, Katie! Focus! Edward Showalter or any contractor would need to see some drawings.

  Early on she’d decided the best plan of attack would be to procure an architect from Chicago to draw up a few rough drafts encompassing some of her ideas—like an atrium. Yes, an atrium would tie things together nicely. Whether said atrium should, or structurally could, encompass all three floors (lower level, first and second floors) was going to be one of her first questions, and she’d finally found someone who was willing to travel the distance and commit to staying in the area for a couple days at a time while they worked through the possibilities. Although she’d never met the man, he’d come highly recommended and she told him so. “Likewise,” he’d said over the phone. “It will be lovely to finally meet the famous Kathryn Durbin, Development Diva,” a statement which he followed with a warm and kind laugh, one she’d liked. She’d booked him a room at the Lamp Post hoping that the motel would help render a sense of what she was after with the mini mall: homespun, vintage, welcoming. He was due to meet her here at the Taninger building within a half hour.

  Although the pool of reputable architects in Hethrow was a healthy one (likely cheaper and certainly more convenient), she didn’t want any overlapping with the Craig brothers’ endeavors. Best to keep all specific plans to herself. She had a competitive history with Colton Craig that was strained by his involvement in a series of incidents that led to her losing her last job, and more recently he’d offered her an obscene amount of money for Crooked Creek and the opportunity to consult with him and his brother, an offer that made her reel.

  But then, then he’d gone and insulted Partonville, a little town and its people she had, in spite of her resistance, become a part of. The land war was on: no, Partonville would not be bulldozed and it would not become the next suburb of Hethrow. The little town she had once chided as Pardon-Me-Ville would find new life if she had to invest every last cent to her name. The wheels were already set in motion and as far as she was concerned, there was no turning back now. Colton Craig would eat her dust.

  Before securing the architect, she had hurled herself into a fury, believing she first needed to decide exactly what type of stores and how many of them she wanted in the mall. This was a whole new ball of experience since although she’d spent much of her professional life in cutthroat commercial real estate development, she’d only bought and sold properties to developers, not personally rehabbed and selected the stores. Where to begin? She didn’t want to openly advertise for lessees and end up with unsuitable occupants, ones that didn’t “fit” with her vision. As it turned out, she needn’t have worried about finding lessees. Since word had spread concerning her mini-mall endeavor, she’d started receiving calls from seemingly every business wanna-be in and out of the area. Any message she received from a chain store went straight into her circular file; the mini mall was all about grassroots entrepreneurs, the little guy and gal.

  Between brainstorming and all the calls she’d been receiving, thus far her “Possible Occupants” file bulged with thirty-three entries ranging from an antique store (a for-sure) to a massage therapist (maybe wouldn’t fly here) to a tea room (no doubt, tea room was in), not to mention a bath and body shop, yarn shop (she’d read knitting had made a comeback), candy store, kite store, coin shop, birding supply shop, consignment store for handmade items (a must), art gallery, “adult store” (Where are these people getting my name?), upscale jewelry store, two tattoo artists. . . . She shuffled the papers until she realized that in order to get moving, she would just have to go ahead and have an architect render a few possibilities for the square footage usage for at least six and up to a possible ten, maybe even twelve?, businesses rather than wait to fill the spaces and then begin building. Before construction actually began she could have potential lessees take a look at their proposed square footage and layout and tweak it a bit as necessary, perhaps even allowing for a few revisions as construction took place.

  Flux. Yes, she wanted a plan in place, but she also wanted to allow for a certain creative air to blow throughout the whole endeavor since she wanted each space to have its own unique flavor, shape and feel rather than churn out another building with the atmosphere of a big-box retailer. She was after ambiance, the right ambiance to tie each store together, something she hoped she could create with a great lighting scheme and, of course, her atrium. Something else to talk to Edward Showalter about, she thought—although she wondered if he even knew what the word ambiance meant. Sigh.

  During one of her late-night planning/envisioning sessions she’d started a “reserve shop” folder for establishments outside the mini mall—outside of the town square, in fact. But none of the store fronts or interiors would be allowed to appear contemporary in design; she wanted the entire Partonville area to smack of either historical integrity or down-home cozy. (She scribbled “cozy and comfortable” on her PR page, then “viable and vintage.”) She brain-stormed ways she might create marketing synergy among scattered retailers. Perhaps she could incorporate built-in glass showcases throughout the walkways in the mini mall, places to display a few goods and placards from the other shops around town. Something else to talk to the architect about. Scribble, scribble, scribble.

  Although all the mini-mall stores didn’t really have to be ready to open at the same time, Katie wanted the grand opening to be so grand, she’d get press in Hethrow that would cause Colton Craig to sit up and take serious notice. In order to protect her greater plan, she’d also been systematically buying every possible piece of real estate in that fringe area around the square and rural parameters of Partonville. She was so determined to protect her financial investments that she’d even tolerated a recent stop at the ever-greasy-spooned H
arry’s Grill. She’d been circling the square one morning and spied not only Cora Davis, the town crier, in her usual spot at the window, but Gladys was still at the counter, too. Perfect.

  Katie seated herself at a table and ordered dry toast and black coffee, about the only thing she could tolerate in this establishment. The more she looked around the place, the more it reminded her of Mayberry, which, she decided, was good. And if she was looking for real vintage characters to lend local flavor, she couldn’t plant a better one than Lester K. Biggs, or anyone at that counter, for that matter. It made her smile to realize how there was so much to do in Partonville and yet, in some ways, so little.

  Upon overhearing Katie’s order, Gladys spun on her stool, noted Katie’s inviting smile and said, “We order our toast the same way!” quickly covering the remaining bites of her butter-smeared toast with her napkin. “Something else we have in common,” she said in a booming voice. Katie had to work to keep from audibly groaning at Gladys’s comment. Surely Dorothy couldn’t be right: she and Gladys just could not have that much in common. Nonetheless, it was time to fertilize the grapevine, and where was it more rooted than at Harry’s?

  “Gladys!” Katie said with a painted-on smile, “I’m glad you’re here. It looks like you’re done eating, but if your mayoral duties can wait a few minutes, why don’t you bring your coffee over and join me? I have something I want to talk to you about, and in a way, it is town business.” Gladys beamed, grabbed her coffee and stomped (not on purpose, she was just a heavy-footed woman) on over. She set her coffee on the table, tugged at the bottom of her blazer and seated herself. After they exchanged a few words about poor Rick and Sadie and the funeral arrangements, Katie raised her voice a decibel to make sure it reached Cora, whose upper body was already tilting their way. “Here we are, barely past your Centennial Plus Thirty and now we have Rick Lawson’s death drawing people together again. Things like this certainly cause us to think about what really matters, don’t they?” She paused here a moment as though to let the weight and earnestness of what she’d said sink in.

  “You know, Gladys, I’ve learned since moving here that Partonville is a town that cares.” (She made a mental note to write in her PR folder: “Partonville Cares.”) “What with Hethrow knocking on our door, it’s important we never lose this strong sense of community you’ve worked so hard to cultivate. I know that in order to really help Partonville continue to thrive, you’ll be encouraging any residents who want or need to sell their properties to sell to locals, not to outside interests. I wanted to let you know that Herb Morgan and I are both on the lookout for any and all land opportunities.” There, she’d dropped Herb’s name as though she’d known him forever.

  “As you know, Gladys,” she said, leaning forward, luring Gladys into what felt like a circle of intimacy, “with your able backing, I’m readying plans for the mini mall. But I’m also,” she said, leaning in just the slightest bit further, causing Gladys to do the same, “considering several other possibilities I’d like to talk to you about. Maybe you and I could arrange a meeting with Herb to strategize on how to keep Partonville in the hands of Partonvillers.”

  Katie was no fool. Although she could have done her own behind-the-scenes canvassing for available property, she did not wish to alienate one of Partonville’s own by cutting him out of his livelihood. No, that would assuredly be a fatal tactical move. Plus, she earnestly desired for the locals to succeed since they all needed to be in this together. So she had partnered with Herb Morgan at Morgan’s Realty, a nearby independent she’d learned most Partonvillers had done business with the last many years. Although his office was located two small towns west of Partonville, in the opposite direction of Hethrow (which is another reason why she’d chosen him since all land west of Partonville was in her radar), Herb himself lived in Partonville, which made him a known and therefore trusted individual—and one privy to insider town talk.

  Of course, from a financial standpoint, she’d obviously rather have people come straight to her, but there were those who still considered her an outsider who would be more apt to do business with Herb. She’d contracted with him to act as her buyer’s broker, sweetening his incentive by offering to pay him a percentage more than his regular fees. Her hope was that Herb would be motivated enough to tap into buyers before they’d even decided to list. “Nothing wrong with that,” Herb had said upon their handshake, especially since she was a guaranteed buyer. From the sellers’ standpoints, she’d already gained a reputation as one who must have money to burn. The trick was to get to the farmers before Colton Craig’s scouts came knocking on their doors. Near-the-square homeowners would be easier to target since talk flew around town as quickly as mouths could fly open.

  Katie checked her watch again. Even though the architect was now five minutes late (she abhorred tardiness), she smiled as she recalled her conversation with Gladys. It was clear from their enthusiastic responses that both Gladys and Herb were in her pocket, two more notches in her property-acquiring gun belt against the Craig & Craig empire. Enough with the mega everything-is-the-same stuff, she thought, reviewing her goals. Right under “Partonville Cares,” she scribbled a few more notes on her PR page, most of which would probably one day end up in her full-page ad in BackRoads Illinois, a startup publication in which she’d invested. “Not your ‘same old’ but your ‘NEW old!’ ”

  9

  Thursday was always a busy day at Your Store since it began the new sale week, but today seemed extra busy for only a week after Thanksgiving. Then again, people were probably either sick of turkey or finally and thankfully out of it. Ground beef and pork chops were on sale and they seemed to be in everyone’s carts, including May Belle’s hand basket which she picked up inside the store door and set like an infant seat in the top of her folding metal pull cart she always chugged to and from the store, even when Earl came with her to carry the bags, as he had today. Every once in a while Earl would get the notion that he needed to check with Lester about deliveries or stop by the church and realign the pew Bibles for Pastor. Although it didn’t happen often, when it did, it was easier to let him go than to keep him with her since all he would do is fret. Yes, May Belle always needed to be prepared to handle the groceries herself, which fueled her concerns about Earl’s ability to carry on after her death.

  Even though a community member had died, the Christmas season was now officially under way and Wilbur was playing Christmas carols over the loudspeaker. In the wake of Rick’s death, it felt good to be reminded that life went on, in Partonville and the rest of the world. May Belle did love the Christmas season, especially because Earl brightened so when the decorations went up. “Earl,” she said pointing overhead, “look at the sparkly holiday bells Wilbur has strung up there.” Earl looked and sure enough smiled. “Time to get our tree up. Let’s do it Sunday after church, okay?” He nodded his enthusiastic agreement. She knew he would start asking tomorrow, Friday, if it was Sunday yet. And once again, May Belle would patiently show him the calendar and count off the days.

  Since all turkeys for the community dinner had been roasted sans stuffing, which Lester had graciously provided in his large banquet pans, May Belle still had a bag of stuffing mix in her cabinet. Had she been choosing the chops for her and Earl, she would have picked the thinner pre-packaged ones since they were always a few cents cheaper per pound. But because, as a member of the Care Committee, she was cooking this evening’s dish for Sadie and her family, she’d gladly pay the extra for the six best hand-selected butterfly chops in the case. Her stuffing would do nicely in these, she speculated. She decided to pick out a good green apple, dice that up real fine and fold it in just to add a little extra juice and flavor. She would also send along a custard pie, which would be cheap and fun. Besides, people might not recognize her if she showed up without sweets! The chops would all but wipe out her meager food budget for the next several days, but a grieving family needed quality food to help their tired bodies heal. Praying and
preparing them a good pork chop dinner were the best ways she knew to express her love.

  Earl close on her heels, she pulled her cart to the fruit section of the produce aisle and studied the beautiful, shiny pile of green apples. She selected the one with just the right color, set it in her cart, then picked up a tangerine and gave it a careful squeeze. She held the end of it to her nose and deeply inhaled. She loved tangerines; they always reminded her of her childhood Christmases when her parents would put one tangerine in the toe of her stocking, along with a shiny nickel and a few walnuts. Oh, it smelled so good; but the price was still a little high so she gently set it back down. Nellie Ruth, assistant manager of the store and one who wandered the produce aisle whenever she could, just because she loved the diversity of color and selection, noticed May Belle returning the tangerine to the display.

  “Something wrong with the tangerines today, May Belle?” she asked, picking one up herself, hoping her new stock boy had finally caught on to the fact that he should not put out bruised or inferior fruit unless he set it on the “bruised and reduced” shelf.

  “Oh! Nellie Ruth! You startled me!” she said, raising her hand to her chest.