Suburban Renewal (That Business Between Us Book 3)

by Pamela Morsi

  Sales of his work had become a very discouraging obstacle. Nate sat his finished pieces out in the yard with price tags on them. Lots of people stopped to look, lots of people admired his work, but nobody would buy.

  "The people here in Lumkee just don't want quality furniture," he complained one night at supper. "They treat my stuff like it's some kind of garage sale find and they ought to be able to load it up in their pickup for five bucks!"

  "That's because they're not used to buying their new furniture out on somebody's lawn," Sam told him. "You're going to have to get a furniture store to carry your stuff."

  Nate shook his head. "I've tried, Dad," he said. "All the dealers contract with big factory suppliers. They don't want to use their floor space for handmade stuff. It's too expensive and the profit margin is too low."

  Sam nodded.

  "In Maine, we just set the stuff out on the grounds and people came to buy it," Nate said. "I know there are people somewhere who'll want this furniture. I just don't know where to find them and they don't know where to find me."

  "What about the Internet?" I asked him.

  He looked at me strangely.

  Sam's expression I recognized. It was skepticism.

  "People might buy a book over the Internet or contract for a service," he said. "But for something like this, something like furniture, people will want to look it over, touch it. I can't imagine that people would buy furniture sight unseen.”

  "I could upload digital photos,” Nate said.

  "More than that," I said. "You can have reference letters from your teachers in Maine and the people who've bought your pieces. You can even talk about your philosophy of woodworking, the designs, how they are put together. You can educate your customers, teach them why they should buy your furniture."

  Nate was grinning ear to ear. "Rocks!" he said, in a tone that was unmistakably positive.

  With Nate's computer savvy and my recent business experience on the Web, we brainstormed some great ideas for Nate's new business, Lumkee Woodcraft Industries.

  "It's sounds big and stodgy and respectable," he said.

  I agreed.

  "If they only knew the truth," he teased, pretending to wax a nonexistent mustache.

  The next few days were some of the best I'd spent with Nate since he was a little boy. I let my own work wait, so that we could get his project up and running. Nate's computer skills had helped me learn the Internet. He'd made it possible for me to start up my business. Now I was getting the opportunity to return the favor.

  The webpage had to be designed—that was the creative part. Helping him come up with the kind of content he wanted and displaying the photos in a way that was both appealing and informative was a challenge. Especially when we didn't want any long waits for the page to load. We did the whole inventory in thumbnails with clicks to a set of more comprehensive pictures.

  The purchasing segment had to be secure and flexible. We signed the company up for online payment systems and I loaned him money to pay for the privilege of accepting credit cards.

  We worked together so closely those few weeks that we began to finish each other's sentences. And we laughed. Oh, how we laughed. I couldn't remember a time when my son and I had ever had so much fun together before. I felt so close to him. This was how it was supposed to be. This was what I felt I'd been cheated out of. I was grateful to have that opportunity back.

  For his part, Nate was excited, happy and carefree. For once he treated me as if I were just another person, not some resident bad news inflicted upon him. Our relationship was different than it ever had been. But the simple fact that we could manage to have a positive relationship seemed like an incredible breakthrough to me.

  And I suppose I treated him differently, too. I was able to quit thinking of him as a younger version of Floyd Braydon and recognize him as the young man that he'd turned out to be.

  I also noticed how much he was like Sam. He had that unflagging enthusiasm and commitment, just like his father.

  Working with Nate started me thinking more about my husband and the anger and resentment I'd held against him for months now. Sam was just a regular hardworking guy, as transparent as glass. I couldn't believe that I'd accused him of trying to sabotage my business. If he'd wanted me to quit, he'd simply have asked me to. And if he were jealous of my success, he'd confront me to my face, not work against me behind my back.

  One afternoon when I left work, instead of hurrying home, I drove by Okie Tamales. The production room was already cleaned and, in the alley, Chano and his father were washing down the inside of the delivery van.

  I found Sam where I expected, in his little nook of an office on the second floor.

  His surprise when I walked in was evident. "What are you doing here?" he asked me. "What's happened?"

  "Everything's fine," I assured him. "I just wanted to talk to you."

  "Okay," he said.

  He offered me the worn wooden chair with the cracked vinyl upholstery and carefully shut the door. He walked back around the desk and sat in his own chair, the scarred, paper-strewn desk between us.

  "I've decided not to take the venture capital money," I began.

  He nodded. "Okay," he said.

  "I'm not convinced that it would be a mistake, but I trust you, and if it worries you, then it should worry me.

  His brow furrowed.

  "Corrie, I don't want you to give it up to please me," he said. "You're right, I don't understand anything about this dot.com stuff. I mean, I can see how Nate can make money, he's got a product to sell and he just needs to connect up with customers. But for the rest of it, the information brokering and providing free services, I'm not sure how money is actually going to be made. Advertising for an industry can't carry the whole industry."

  "I'm not sure I understand it all, either," I admitted. "But these people with the money must know something that we don't or they wouldn't be investing the kind of dollars that they are."

  He nodded. "Corrie, please do whatever you think is best for you to do," he said. "And we'll all just go forward and live with the consequences."

  "I am doing what I think is best to do," I told him. "I'm following your advice, because it is your advice. And it's like you said, you are the one person I can trust to always have my best interests at heart."

  We looked at each other across the desk. He nodded.

  "And this is a part-time business," I continued. "I don't need a half million dollars of seed money to do something part-time."

  "We're doing well here," Sam said. "If you need seed money, we can take it out of tamales."

  "I wonder what you can grow with tamale seeds?" I asked him, teasing. "Little baby tacos?"

  He laughed.

  "I also wanted to tell you how sorry I am about... about the man I met at TU."

  Sam's expression immediately sobered.

  "You said you didn't have an affair with him," he pointed out, looking at me closely as if attempting to discern deceit.

  "I didn't," I assured him. "But I spent time with him, I went to the movies with him. I did have a crush on him. I'm sorry. I was never technically unfaithful. But I think that fidelity should be based on more than technicalities. I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry that it happened.

  I'm sorry that you found out about it. I'm sorry that I used it as a weapon to hurt you."

  "I forgive you," he said. "I think we should just move on like it never happened."

  I nodded. Then after a moment, I asked a question.

  "Is that what we're doing about your father's death?" I asked. "We're just pretending that it never happened?"

  Sam thought about that and shrugged.

  "I don't know what to do about it," he admitted. "He was my father. And despite everything that I know to be true about him I still...well, I guess I still love him and I'm sorry he's dead. But I can hardly fault Cherry Dale for trying to defend herself. I know that he killed my mother, but I still believe it was an accident. All t
he same, it was an accident that would never have happened if he hadn't been a brutal, vicious abuser. I'm sure Mike must have felt the same way. Otherwise why would he have given her those drugs?"

  "I still don't believe he did that."

  "How else would Cherry Dale have had them?"

  "I don't know, but I really don't believe that Mike could help murder anybody," I told him. "Even Floyd Braydon."

  We agreed to disagree on that subject.

  Two days after Christmas that year, the subject came up unexpectedly.

  Early on the morning of December 30, we received the call. Cherry Dale's younger son, Rusty, was found dead in Tulsa of a crack overdose.

  28

  Sam

  1998

  Rusty's funeral was on New Year's Day. It was a sad and sobering occasion. To lose a twenty-year-old is always going to be tragic, but somehow being killed by cocaine seemed such a terrible waste of human life.

  I had no idea that Rusty used drugs. That fact was frightening to me. I saw the kid on a fairly regular basis. I knew that he had some problems. Both Cherry Dale's boys had their issues and I figured my father had had plenty to do with that. I just never thought things were as bad as they were.

  The morning of the funeral I was determined to become more informed. I could hear Nate in his workshop and I went down there. He was making a complicated cherry armoire to be used as an instant office. There was a place for a computer, shelves, files and a pullout desk. The whole thing could be closed up, hiding the entire working space.

  "It's my own design," he told me proudly.

  "It's neat."

  "The first one is for Mom," Nate said. "You know, as like a 'thank you' for helping me get the business part of the Lumkee Woodcraft off the ground."

  "That's nice, Nate," I said. "I'm sure your mom will be thrilled."

  He smiled and nodded.

  "There's something that I need to know," I said.

  "What?"

  "Do you do drugs?"

  "No," he answered. It was a quick response that didn't completely satisfy me.

  "I want the truth, Nate," I said. "With what happened to Rusty, I just...I just didn't have a clue. But Rusty's not my son, you are. I need to have a clue with you."

  "Rusty's been doping heavily since high school," Nate answered. "He drank too much and did pills on top of snort on top of smoke. I'm sorry the guy's dead. But I'm not surprised."

  "What about you?"

  "I've smoked some weed, but I had to quit," he said. "You can't do that kind of shit and work with power tools. It's a safety issue, but more than that. You can't compromise your concentration. Musicians and artists, they think they do better after smoking some dope. Sort of takes the edge off and helps them create. In woodworking, if you take the edge off you'll make some really stupid mistake and you'll be lucky just to cut your finger off."

  I was tremendously relieved. His words sounded like the truth.

  After the funeral, we stopped by Cherry Dale's double-wide. The poor woman was inconsolable. I understood that. I couldn't imagine how I would feel if something happened to Lauren or Nate. No matter how careful you were, no matter how closely you watched, life was full of pain and danger. As a parent all you could do was hope that neither would find your child.

  Corrie sat down on the couch next to Cherry Dale. The distraught woman grabbed her hand and did not let it go. The evening wore on. People came, people left. Cherry Dale held on to Corrie and we stayed.

  Lauren and Nate finally left without us. Cherry Dale's mother went back to her own house. Even Harlan gave his mom a kiss and told her he'd call her the next day.

  We were alone with Cherry Dale.

  "I can't forgive myself," she said. "If I had done things differently, if I had made better choices, none of this would have happened."

  "You can't blame yourself," Corrie told her. "Rusty was the one who made the bad choices. And he was so young, he really didn't know any better."

  "No, it was me," Cherry Dale insisted. "I brought that man into this house. If it hadn't been for that, Rusty would have never been like he was. He blamed himself."

  Corrie glanced over at me, puzzled. I shrugged slightly, equally at a loss.

  "Rusty blamed himself," Cherry Dale repeated. "He loved that son of a bitch and he blamed himself for what happened."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Floyd," Cherry Dale answered. "Rusty was like your Nate. When Floyd treated him special, he felt like he was on top of the world. Rusty would do anything to please that man."

  Corrie looked concerned.

  "He was a charming man," she admitted.

  "That night," Cherry Dale continued. "That last night when he was beating me...he would have killed me. I think he was going to kill me. If Rusty and Nate hadn't pulled him off me, I'd be dead now."

  "Nate?"

  Corrie and I spoke the name in unison.

  "Nate was here?" Corrie asked.

  Cherry Dale nodded. "He was over with Rusty, they were playing some game on the computer. He left after the fight...or in the morning. I'm not sure. I was pretty groggy. I had a concussion."

  "Yes, I remember," Corrie said.

  "They pulled him off me," Cherry Dale continued. "And Rusty hit Floyd. He hit him really hard. He'd never fought the man, never defended me. But that night he hit him really hard."

  "He deserved it," Corrie said.

  Cherry Dale nodded. "But Rusty wasn't able to forget that. He thinks that he killed Floyd. He thinks that one blow to the side of that old bastard's head was what killed him. I told him it wasn't. I must have told him a hundred times, but he never believed me. I know what killed Floyd. It wasn't Rusty."

  Cherry Dale dissolved into tears and over the top of her head, I caught Corrie's glance.

  Later that night as we drove home in the quiet darkness inside the car, Corrie spoke.

  "I hope you are wrong about Cherry Dale killing Floyd," she said. "If she did, how will she live knowing her son destroyed his life because of it?"

  "I hope I'm wrong, too," I told her. "But that pill bottle. How could it have gotten there if Mike didn't give it to her? Cherry Dale fed him dinner just before he went to sleep on the couch. She must have ground them up into the food. That's how it had to happen."

  Beside me, Corrie sighed. It was such a sad sound.

  “Did you know that Nate was there that evening?" I asked her.

  "No," she told him. "He never said a word about it. I knew that sometimes he was over there when he was supposed to be someplace else, but I didn't know he was there."

  "Can you imagine what he felt when he saw his beloved paw-paw beating the crap out of Cherry Dale?" I said.

  "It must have been such a wrenching disillusionment," Corrie said. "I suppose it's no wonder that he never spoke about it."

  "Poor kids," I whispered. "All of them. Floyd Braydon was just bad. In one way or another, he hurt everyone he touched, including me."

  The week after Rusty's death was a busy one for our family. Lauren decided to return to school for the spring semester, but she wanted to transfer to Baylor. She had never mentioned Baylor to us and we had no idea that she was even thinking about attending there. She'd gone through all the motions of getting a permanent job in Tulsa, but college was what we'd always wanted for her. We jumped at the chance. And unlike Living Waters Bible College, we'd actually heard of Baylor.

  Most students don't try to do a school transfer in three days. But Lauren hardly blinked an eye at all that was required to get her accepted, enrolled and moved in.

  Corrie drove her down to Waco, the car packed to overflowing with her clothes and books and furniture.

  I volunteered to go as well, but Corrie urged me to stay at home. I think she wanted to try to find out what was going on in Lauren's head.

  She stayed overnight, getting Lauren settled in, and then called me from the road on her cell phone just a little before noon.

  "You'll never gue
ss what prompted Baylor."

  From her near giggling tone I assumed it wasn't something scary, like they'd agreed to send her to a leper colony for spring break.

  "I can't guess," I admitted. "Just tell me."

  “It's a guy."

  Lauren, easily being the prettiest girl in her high school, had never shown any interest in the opposite sex. She rarely dated in college and, by her own unwelcome admission, was "saving herself for marriage."

  "A guy?"

  "Yeah, you know," Corrie teased. "One of those tall, muscular, good-looking humans."

  "I hope you don't mean the ones with a penis."

  "I think this guy's got one," Corrie said. "But I don't think he's shown it to Lauren yet. He's just cute as a button."

  "As a button," I repeated. "Sounds macho to me."

  "She apparently met him when she was in Mexico," Corrie said. "He seems very taken with her."

  "Is he planning to be a missionary?"

  "Oh, this is the best news, the very best news," Corrie said as a buildup.

  "What already?"

  "He's in premed."

  "Okay."

  "My son-in-law, the doctor!" Corrie announced. "Our little Lauren could be set up for life."

  "Doctors don't make as much as they used to," I told her. "And be careful what you wish for, he might be dreaming of opening a hospital in Botswana."

  Corrie laughed. "You're probably right," she agreed. "I'm just happy she's back in school, dating and having a regular twenty-something kind of life again."

  "Me, too."

  I was still smiling when I got off the phone. When I got back to the line, the workers were just finishing up the last of the tamales and getting them ready for delivery. Mr. Chai had everything under control. I told him I was headed out for lunch.