by Ann B. Ross
“Well, then, I may drop by and visit with Mr. Wheeler, see if he minds my passing his name along to the doctor. Maybe if he can’t do it or doesn’t want to, he’ll know someone who will.” Sam smiled. “I’ll mention that we might be interested, too.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” I said, smiling back at him.
Learning that Don Crawford invested in real estate, as did I, served to elevate him a degree or two more in my estimation. I would be interested in seeing what and where he had bought property for rental purposes. Location is so important, you know, so I wondered if he’d been in town long enough to know where to buy and where not to. And I couldn’t help but wonder if his wife shared his interest. Wouldn’t it be a marvel if she turned out to be a flip-or-flop partner like those couples on television? Maybe there was a lot more to her than she’d revealed over a dinner table. I hoped to goodness there was.
But she was no longer my problem—not that she’d ever actually been—but I’d been awfully close to making her my problem. I firmly put all thought of Lauren Crawford out of my mind and focused on how to find out where Don Crawford’s new property was. Purely as a matter of personal interest, of course, but if he’d chosen well, there just might be another house for sale in the same area.
* * *
—
Sam came in, back from his trip to the bookstore in Asheville and, smiling, pulled a book from his sack. “Got you the new J. A. Jance.”
“Oh, good. I didn’t know she had a new one out. What did you get?”
“John Sandford,” he said, looking pleased with himself.
“Virgil Flowers? Or Lucas Davenport?”
“It’s a Davenport, and I’m reading it first.”
I laughed. “Well, hurry up with it. You know I have a crush on Lucas, although Virgil runs a close second. But come on,” I said, getting up and taking his arm, “let’s go to the kitchen where it’s warmer. Lillian is making hot chocolate.”
We’d just settled in at the table when Lloyd, looking tired and somewhat woeful, dropped by on his way home from school. He spoke to us as he let his backpack fall to the floor, then he flopped down in a chair at the kitchen table, where Sam and I were enjoying mugs of hot chocolate. It was a perfect afternoon for a hot drink—overcast, damp, and chilly.
Lillian set a steaming mug in front of Lloyd. “You look like you need something to perk you up. That school’s wearing you out.”
“No’m, it’s not school. I guess it’s just me. Anyway,” he said, looking up at Sam and me, “I just came by to tell you that J.D. bought me a car.”
“When?” I said, turning to look out the window. “Where is it?”
“It’s getting washed and cleaned up at the dealer’s. We’ll get it tomorrow after school, and I’m real happy about it.”
In spite of that claim, he didn’t look at all happy. In fact, he looked as droopy as a basset hound.
“Well, tell us, Lloyd,” Sam said. “What kind did you get? We want to be able to recognize you and wave as you drive by.”
“Well, see,” the boy said, “it’s kinda like this. J.D. asked me what kind I wanted, and I had in mind a little two-seater with bucket seats and four on the floor, maybe in a bright color, like red, but not anything fancy or expensive like Mr. Horace Allen’s. I was just thinking about something sleek looking that looks like it’s moving when it’s setting still. I didn’t care what make it was, but I made a big mistake.”
“Oh?” Sam said, as his eyebrows went up.
“Yessir, I was so excited about getting a car and not wanting to be too picky about it, I just said I’d be happy with whatever he picked out.”
Uh-oh, I thought.
“So what did he pick out?” Sam asked.
“It’s a, well, a . . .” Lloyd paid special attention to his mug of hot chocolate, carefully stirring the melted marshmallows. “It’s a Pontiac Bonneville.”
“A Bonneville?” Sam said, his eyebrows going up. “I thought they’d stopped making that model.”
Lloyd nodded. “Yessir, they have, but they made this one in 1998, which means it’s older than I am. J.D. says that just proves how reliable it is ’cause it’s still running. But I’m worried it might be on its last legs. I mean, it’s already got four hundred and ten thousand miles on it.”
Sam reared back in his chair. “Four hundred and ten thousand?”
“Yessir.” Lloyd’s shoulders sagged.
“Bucket seats?” Sam asked.
“No, sir. Bench.”
“No console with gear shift?”
Lloyd shook his head. “Uh-uh, on the steering column.”
“But,” Sam said, trying for an encouraging word, “that’s a big, heavy car that’ll give you a comfortable ride.”
“Yessir, it’s big all right. They use the same wheelbase to make hearses, so I guess it’s comfortable, too.”
Before any of us could laugh, Lillian leaned over to refill Lloyd’s mug. “What color is it? I bet it’s something real pretty.”
“It’s gray.”
“Oh, I like gray,” she said, dropping in more marshmallows. “That’s my favorite car color.”
“Well,” Sam said, joining Lillian’s efforts to help Lloyd see the bright side, “it’ll keep you safe, that’s for sure. And I think we can say that somebody else has gotten all the kinks out of it by now.”
“Yessir,” Lloyd said, clearly still seeing only the dark side. “And I really don’t mind that it’s not a little sports car. It’s just that I didn’t exactly expect a Sherman tank instead.”
Sam made a valiant effort not to laugh, but I could tell how close he was to it. As for me, the more I heard about the car in which Lloyd’s life would be put at risk, the better I felt. In fact, I was feeling quite lighthearted at the thought of Lloyd in a car built like an army vehicle.
Lillian came over to the table and put her hand on Lloyd’s shoulder. “You wanta eat supper with us, honey?”
“No’m,” he said in as mournful a tone as I’d ever heard. “I better not.” With a despondent look on his face, he got to his feet and picked up his backpack. “I better go on home and let J.D. know how happy I am.”
Well, that did it, for we could hold it in no longer. Sam burst out laughing, then Lillian had to hold on to the counter, she was laughing so hard. And by that time, I was weak from trying to hold it back. And to his credit, Lloyd managed a sheepish grin as Sam jumped up and hugged him.
“Don’t worry, Lloyd,” he said. “I clearly see a little red coupe in your future. Anybody who has to drive a Sherman tank to school deserves one.”
Chapter 12
*
After supper, an hour or so later when the house was still and quiet, Sam and I were in the library where Sam was yawning over the seascape puzzle. Every once in a while he would try a puzzle piece, then discard it for another one. I had just finished the easier of the two crossword puzzles that the Abbotsville Times published every day, leaving the more difficult one for my brilliant husband.
“Sam?”
“Hm-m?”
“Do you realize that you promised Lloyd a little red car?”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’ll count on that, you know.”
“That’s all right,” Sam said, getting up from the card table. “I hope he will. It’ll make driving that ancient Bonneville a lot easier.”
“Well, I hope you’ll discuss it with Mr. Pickens and Hazel Marie first—him, especially, since he seems to be the car dealer in the family. I’d hate for a little red car to suddenly show up in their driveway and they not know a thing about it. It could undermine their parental authority.”
Sitting down beside me, Sam laughed. “What’ve you been reading?”
“I didn’t have to read anything,” I said, slightly on the defensive since, as a matter of fact, I had recently re
ad an article on family dynamics. “It’s just common sense not to interfere between children and parents. And Hazel Marie told me that Mr. Pickens intends to make Lloyd an experienced driver before turning him loose to drive alone. That big car he’s bought will protect him while he’s learning, and it won’t matter if he dings it up while he learns. So, see? The man knows what he’s doing—at least, in this case.”
“Honey, I’m not going to go out tomorrow and buy a red sports car for a boy with a beginner’s license. You will notice that I did not promise when he’d get it. It could be when he graduates from high school, or maybe after he completes his first year of college, or even on his wedding day. Whenever it is, I will most assuredly talk to his parents first.”
“Oh, well, good. I just don’t want the boy to be disappointed.”
“He won’t be. In fact, knowing what’s in the future will make him a better driver—he has something to look forward to and work toward. Besides, he may change his mind about what he wants when the time comes.”
I smiled and took his hand. “I apologize. I should’ve known that you’d thought it through. This will teach me not to get between a man and his car.”
Sam laughed. “Yeah, we like to think it’s the only field that’s ours alone. By the way,” he said as if he’d just remembered it, “has Lillian said anything to you about that house?”
“What house?”
“It’s on Rosewood Lane, two blocks over from hers, but down a little—apparently it’s been sold. She asked me about it before you came down for breakfast this morning. I drove by it later, but nothing was going on.”
“Is she concerned about it?”
“Oh, no, just the opposite. I think the neighbors are hoping for some upgrading—some improvement of the area, you know. They’ve seen some people going in and out, that sort of thing.”
“Are you thinking it’s the house that Don Crawford bought?”
“Just wondering is all. But if it is, I’m also wondering if he’s jumped in before knowing the town well enough. Location, location, and so forth, you know.”
“Hm-m, yes, I do know. And I’m not sure I’d buy in that area unless I had plans to improve the surrounding houses. Which I doubt that he has, since you said he wants to do the improvements while he’s in town so it’ll be ready to rent out when he leaves. He’ll have time to fix up only one house—even if that much—before the Hargroves get back.
“And,” I went on, sitting up straight with a sudden thought, “if he has bought it, don’t you wonder if he knew what he was doing? He’s hardly been in town a full week.”
“More than that,” Sam said. “He mentioned to me that he’d been here a few times before Bob left—getting familiar with the practice, you know. He could’ve been looking around on those visits.”
“Considering that house’s less than desirable location,” I said, speaking from my superior position as an experienced purchaser of real estate, “it seems a snap decision to me, and I hope he doesn’t get hurt for making it.”
“Well,” Sam said, yawning again, “if he has bought it, maybe he sees something that we don’t. It is a fact, though, that low-income housing is at a premium in this town. He may just be getting in on the ground floor.” He yawned again. “Something to think about anyway.”
And I certainly did think about it. Maybe that area was ripe for a farsighted developer, one who lived in town and could oversee improvements on a daily basis, and one who could possibly make a pretty penny by filling the need for rental housing in town.
* * *
—
The more I thought about it, which was for a good hour after going to bed, the better I liked the idea. First, I’d need to research the block on which the key house was located—who were the owners, would they sell, and how much would it cost not only to purchase, but also to refurbish the surrounding houses. And, most important, would the return be worth the expenditure?
I tried to visualize the block in question, but couldn’t be sure of the number of houses on it. Either six or eight, minus the one that Dr. Crawford had bought—if, indeed, he had—and possibly, if my memory served, minus another one that had caved in under the weight of a fallen tree and a blanket of ivy.
Of course, there would always be at least one holdout who wouldn’t want to sell, but a rent-back offer might change a recalcitrant mind. And would it really matter if one house was left derelict in the middle of a row of new-looking houses? Probably not, though it might spur the owner to want to fit in.
If, therefore, after diligent research and a discussion with Sam, the project seemed worthwhile, I might broach the subject of combining forces with Dr. Crawford and forming a development company. With his good eye in seeing profit where no one else had seen it and my financial backing, there was no telling how far we could go. And, even better, we would be improving an area filled with one eyesore after another, as well as providing decent housing for those in need.
I turned over carefully so as not to disturb Sam, settled into my favorite sleeping position, and smiled to myself. What a way to cure boredom! What a way to fulfill my need to fix something!
Chapter 13
*
“Miss Julia?” It was Hazel Marie calling fairly early the next morning. “Would it be all right for me to come by after I drop the girls at preschool? I know it’s early and you might be busy, but there’s something I’d like to talk over with you.”
“Of course,” I said, as I immediately began to worry that something was wrong. “Come right on. It’ll be nice to see you.”
I had gotten up that morning renewed and energized by the possibility of a project that I could get my teeth into and cure the winter blues while I did it. But Hazel Marie’s call was a downer, as my thoughts went at once to a possible problem between Mr. Pickens and Lloyd over an outdated and overweight Bonneville. Newer and smaller things than that have created great rifts in families many times before this.
So it was with great relief that I listened to what was exercising Hazel Marie because it had nothing to do with Lloyd’s means of transportation. She’d come in the back door, as most of us did, and as she had done when she’d lived with me. It showed that she still felt at home in my house, a fact that pleased me more than I could say.
After she’d greeted both Lillian and me, I took her coat, then asked, “Would you like to sit in the library? There’s a fire there, and you’re probably freezing.”
“Oh, no,” Hazel Marie said, “let’s stay in the kitchen. It’ll be like old times, and I’d like Lillian to hear this, too. She may have some ideas I could use.” Turning to her, she asked, “How’s Latisha, Lillian? I miss seeing her.”
“Rambunctious, as ever,” Lillian said, on her way to the freezer for cinnamon rolls to go in the oven. “She’s likin’ school, but she says it sure cuts down on her playin’ time.”
Soon, with fresh coffee before the three of us and the kitchen warm and aromatic, we sat at the table and waited to discuss whatever was on Hazel Marie’s mind.
“So it’s like this,” she started, then stopped to pass the cream pitcher to me, handle toward me as it should’ve been. “LuAnne Conover called yesterday morning, and I’ve been worrying about it ever since.”
“Oh-h, LuAnne,” I said with a sigh. “What did she want you to do?” As if I couldn’t have guessed.
Hazel Marie smiled because LuAnne was forever on the telephone rounding up volunteers for some project or another, usually for the benefit of something that nobody had ever heard of and wouldn’t be interested in if they had. She had recently become entranced with the idea of raising awareness of any need that anyone could possibly have. Her calls all boiled down, however, not to raising awareness, but to raising funds.
“She wants me to help her restyle herself,” Hazel Marie said. “From the ground up, she said, so that she’s,” Hazel Marie stopped and made quo
tation marks with her fingers, “‘suited to interface with the public in a position of grave responsibility.’”
“She didn’t!” I said, not knowing whether to laugh or bewail LuAnne’s choice of words.
“Yes,” Hazel Marie said, smiling even as she frowned, “that’s exactly what she said.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Lillian asked, having gotten up to bring a plate of hot cinnamon rolls to the table.
“What’s wrong with it is her new job,” I said. “She’s the new receptionist at the Good Shepherd Funeral Home—you know, a grave responsibility.”
“Oh, my land,” Lillian said, her eyes rolling back in her head. “Even I know better’n that. But,” she went on, always ready to give anybody the benefit of the doubt, “she’s a nice lady, an’ I ’spect she jus’ didn’t think.”
“Well, of course,” I said, smiling even as I shook my head, “that’s always LuAnne’s problem. So, Hazel Marie, what did you tell her?”
“Oh, I’ll do what I can, if she thinks it’ll help. She wants me to come over and look through her closet. She wants to know what she needs in the way of basic pieces. But listen to this,” Hazel Marie stopped as if changing gears. Then she said, “Yesterday afternoon I asked Lauren Crawford to come over with her children, and she did. I’d decided to try one more time, and if she’d turned me down, that was going to be it. But she agreed right away—didn’t even have to ask her husband. The children played well together, although it was too cold to let them go outside. But Granny Wiggins was there, so she kept them entertained upstairs while Lauren and I visited downstairs. I think she really enjoyed the free time.” Hazel Marie picked up a napkin and wiped melted icing from her fingers.
“Anyway,” she went on, “her children—Jason and Olivia—were entranced with Granny. Of course she’s great fun with children, anyway, but all Olivia wanted was for Granny to hold her the whole time.” Hazel Marie pushed back her hair, then she said, “But I’m off the subject. At one point, I think—notice that I said I only think—that Lauren expressed some interest in doing something about herself, or maybe for herself.”