Miss Julia Takes the Wheel

by Ann B. Ross

  She hopped up and, putting her mug on the tray, said, “You are so far out of the mainstream, Julia, you don’t even know that Playboy Bunnies are a thing of the past. I’ve got to go home.”

  And she went, mad at me for not agreeing with another of her wild fancies. Which, to tell the truth, wasn’t all that unusual, so I went back in to have another mug of hot spiced tea by myself.

  Chapter 19

  *

  I declare, LuAnne was the hardest woman I knew to get along with—something that I should’ve been used to by this time. And I guess I was, for it didn’t bother me half as much as it once had when she’d leave in a huff. It made no sense that she kept asking my opinion about anything. I always told her what I thought, but if it didn’t agree with her take on the subject, she’d get mad, leaving me to feel that I’d let down a friend.

  But as I’ve said, it didn’t worry me so much anymore. She always came back around acting as if we were always in full agreement. She’d taught me that you have to take your friends as they are and that all of them have their quirks. As I do myself, although not as many strange ones as some people I know.

  With the house quiet and the room warming nicely, I put my head back and dropped off for a few minutes. I heard the telephone ring, but it wasn’t until Lillian touched me on the shoulder that I came fully awake.

  “Telephone, Miss Julia,” she said in a low, but urgent voice. “I wouldna woke you, but it’s a man.”

  With the conversation with LuAnne still on my mind, I couldn’t help but laugh. We all—and I’m talking about us women—hopped to when a man wanted us.

  “Well, my gracious, Lillian. I’d better answer it, hadn’t I?”

  “Mrs. Murdoch?” the man said when I answered the phone. “This is Nate Wheeler. You remember me?”

  “Indeed I do, Mr. Wheeler. We met at Miss Mattie Freeman’s apartment the day she passed. How are you these days?”

  “Doing well, thank you. I hope you don’t mind my calling out of the blue, but I happened to run into your husband at Lowe’s, and he mentioned that you might be interested in buying a house on Rosewood Lane.”

  “Just thinking about it because, as far as I know, none are for sale.”

  “Well, that’s why I’m calling,” Mr. Wheeler said. “Dr. Don Crawford has closed on number eighteen Rosewood, but he was also looking at number sixteen next door—from the same owner. Neither has been on the market yet, but Dr. Crawford asked about them at just the right time. I thought that you might like to know that number sixteen may be available. If you’re interested, that is.”

  “I just may be,” I said, running numbers and questions through my mind. “Do you know what kind of condition it’s in? I mean, did you inspect both for Dr. Crawford?”

  With a low chuckle, Mr. Wheeler said, “They’re both in pretty bad shape—I won’t mislead you on that. But if you’re prepared for some extensive remodeling, you’d have a nice, in-town rental property.”

  “Hm-m,” I said, still thinking over the possibilities. “I expect that Dr. Crawford chose the one in better condition. I would’ve if it’d been me.”

  He laughed again. “It’d be a toss-up. I’m sure you’ve noticed that they’re essentially the same house—just with opposite floor plans. But you should know that we’re talking new wiring, plumbing, roof, and heating and cooling systems before we even get to redoing kitchen and bathroom. The good thing is that they’re quite small—two bedrooms, one bath—so we’re not talking a huge outlay.”

  “Then tell me this, Mr. Wheeler,” I said, “will you be doing that work for Dr. Crawford and, if so, would you take on the other house for me?”

  “Actually, that’s the reason I’m calling. I don’t mean to be pushy, but you and the doctor could get some savings if, say, when I contract with a roofer, it could be for both houses at the same time. Same way with the electrician, the plumber, and so on.”

  “I certainly don’t think you’re being pushy. I think you’re making good sense. So,” I went on, “you’ll be Dr. Crawford’s contractor, is that right?”

  “Yes, I’ve agreed to oversee the subcontractors, then do the carpentry work myself. I can do the same for you, especially by negotiating with subcontractors for two side-by-side houses instead of one at a time. Then if you want to bring in a different carpentry team, that’d be fine, too.”

  “That is thoughtful of you, Mr. Wheeler, and quite tempting. Would you give me a couple of days to talk to a real estate agent and to make an offer on the house? If I decide to, that is.”

  “Yes, ma’am, on one condition—you call me Nate. If we’re to do business together, it should be on a less formal basis.”

  I smiled, though not entirely agreeing with him. I’ve found that doing business with someone quite often called for more formality rather than less. But I said, “Then we’ll also dispense with Mrs. Murdoch. I shall be in touch with you in a day or so, as soon as I decide if purchasing number sixteen is feasible. Thank you so much for calling, Nate.”

  I put down the phone and began considering Mr. Wheeler’s, I mean, Nate’s, offer. It could be a sound business opportunity, or it could be an out-of-work man’s way of drumming up business for himself. Yes, I was being my normal skeptical self and looking a gift horse in the mouth. However, even if lining up a job for himself was Nate’s real purpose, it didn’t lessen the benefit to me of what he had proposed.

  I immediately called Nell Hudson, the real estate agent with whom I’d lately done business, and asked about number sixteen Rosewood Lane.

  “Well,” she said, surprise evident in her voice, “that’s suddenly become a popular area. Our office just sold a house on Rosewood. Is there anything going on that I need to know about?”

  “Not that I know of,” I assured her, wanting to put any rumors of a land grab to rest. “I’m just looking for a small rental possibility. And something to keep me occupied while I wait for spring to get here. If you have any suggestions of something in another area, I’m not averse to considering them.”

  “Well,” she said again, “since we just handled the sale of number eighteen, I happen to know that the owner might listen to an offer on number sixteen. Would you like to make one?”

  “Not,” I said firmly, “before even looking at it, Nell. Are you free this afternoon? Can you meet me there about two o’clock? No, wait,” I said, a wonderful idea just occurring to me, “what about four—is that too late for you?”

  “Uh, no, I guess not. And we still have a key, having just shown it a couple of weeks ago. Although I must caution you, Miss Julia, the house isn’t officially on the market.”

  Which meant, I took her to be saying, that it would take an attractive offer to tempt the owner.

  “I understand,” I shot back at her, “that number eighteen wasn’t, either. Nonetheless, it was sold. How much did it sell for?”

  “Oh, well,” she said, hedging, “I’m not sure I can find that out at this time.”

  “Nell,” I said, about tired of a Realtor’s sleight-of-hand, “let’s not play around. The sale price is a matter of public record, or will be when it’s recorded. You can let me know when we meet at four.”

  I declare, I thought as we hung up, as much business as I’d given Nell Hudson, you would think that she wouldn’t play around with me. I had heard good things about another broker, a Mr. Blair, who was open and aboveboard with his clients, often telling them what they didn’t want to hear but what they needed to hear. Nell Hudson would have to come to understand that she wasn’t the only Realtor in town.

  Hoping, though, that I had not outsmarted myself by making such a late appointment—darkness came so early this time of year—I picked up the phone and punched in Hazel Marie’s number.

  “Hazel Marie,” I said when she answered, “I want to show my support and encouragement to Lloyd, although I want to be sure that it’s all r
ight with you and Mr. Pickens before doing so. When will he be home from school?”

  “J.D. or Lloyd?”

  “Oh, Lloyd, of course. He’s the one who needs practice driving. I’m meeting Nell Hudson over near where Lillian lives about four, and I thought it would be a good time to let Lloyd drive me there. Unless, of course, he can only drive with a parent with him.”

  “Oh, no, any licensed driver who’s over eighteen is okay with parental consent. Which, of course, you have. And he’d be thrilled that you trust him to drive you. I’m picking him up about three-thirty and letting him drive home, so come on by if you don’t mind riding with two empty baby seats in the back.”

  I laughed. “Not at all. Just happy that they’ll be empty. I don’t think I could watch Lloyd’s driving and the twins, too.”

  Chapter 20

  *

  A little before four that afternoon, I drove to Hazel Marie’s house and parked at the curb. Feeling slightly foolish for driving four blocks only to park and transfer to another car, I reminded myself that Lloyd could not drive the four blocks to my house to pick me up. Or if he did, his mother and sisters would have had to come with him, then they’d have to be driven back to their house after I got in. Musical chairs, indeed.

  Seeing Lloyd sitting behind the wheel of the gray Bonneville with the motor running, I walked across the yard toward him. He smiled proudly and waved as I approached.

  “Hey, Miss Julia,” he said as I opened the passenger door and slid in beside him. “I heated up the car for you.”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” I said, wondering how long he’d been running the motor—probably since the moment he’d gotten home from school. But I well recalled the thrill of being able to drive and smiled to myself. “Do you know where we’re going?”

  “Yes’m, Mama told me. I’m pretty sure I know how to get there. It’s over by Miss Lillian’s house, and I’ve been there on my bicycle.”

  “That’s right. I’ll show you which one when we get there, but, Lloyd, there’s another reason I wanted you to go with me. Besides just wanting to ride with you, I mean. I’m thinking of buying a small house as an investment, and I’d like your opinion on the merits of this one.” I often took opportunities as they occurred to include Lloyd in investment decisions, knowing that he would eventually be responsible for the inheritance from his father—his biological one, that is, the one who had ignored marital vows and rested now in the Good Shepherd cemetery. It’s never too early to instruct children in the art of financial management.

  Lloyd drove down the driveway, stopped and looked both ways—twice—then pulled out onto the street. Proceeding slowly and deliberately toward Rosewood Lane, he glanced at me, noticing my grip on the door beside me.

  “Uh, Miss Julia,” he said, grinning, “if you feel safer holding on to something, use the armrest, not the door handle.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” I said, quickly unhanding the handle. “I didn’t realize what I was doing.” And felt some shame for so obviously revealing my discomfort at riding with an inexperienced driver.

  “That’s all right,” he said. “I’d be nervous, too, but I don’t want to lose you if the door comes open.”

  After pointing out the house at number sixteen Rosewood, I withheld any comment as Lloyd pulled to the curb, scraping the tires against it as he did so. Having done the same on several occasions myself, I pretended not to have noticed.

  “This is it?” he asked, looking skeptically at the little house with its peeling paint, its swaybacked roof, and its tilted porch.

  “Doesn’t look like much, does it? But it’s in a good location, so I want your honest opinion. I’m really not convinced myself.” Then as a car pulled in behind us, I said, “Here’s Nell Hudson now. Let’s go in and have a look.”

  And so we did and, to tell the truth, I was not overly impressed. The interior was in no better shape than the outside, and I wondered about tearing it down and starting from scratch. The lot itself was a nice size, though not extensive, but there was a lovely magnolia tree in the backyard and a few crepe myrtles in the front. The number of lard cans with withered plants left in the kitchen meant that someone had once loved the place.

  After listening to Nell extol the virtues of the decrepit house, I headed outside, having seen enough. As we stepped out onto the porch and waited for Nell to lock the door behind us, I saw a woman, bundled up in a heavy coat with a woolen scarf over her head, leave a car and scurry across the yard next door. Hesitating, I took a minute to be sure who it was, then called to her.

  “Lauren,” I called, waving to her. “How are you?”

  Lauren Crawford hesitated at the steps to number eighteen, then waved back, barely looking my way. I took a few steps toward her, but had no intention of lingering in the cold, wanting only to be friendly to a possible next-door home owner.

  “Oh, Miss Julia,” she said as I approached, almost cowering in the upturned collar of her coat. “What . . . ? I mean, I, well, I guess I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  “That’s no wonder. I’m rarely in this part of town, but I’m giving Lloyd some driving time and also looking at the house next door. Has Dr. Don started on this one yet?”

  “Uh, no, I’m not sure when. . . . He just asked me to come look at it, so I better do it and get on home.” She’d climbed the two steps to the porch by then, and, her face hunched down into the folds of her coat collar and scarf, she began to inch toward the door.

  Feeling as uncomfortable as she was behaving, I quickly said, “And I, too. So nice to see you, Lauren.” And I took myself back across the yard and got into the Bonneville. But not before telling Nell Hudson that I would let her know if I decided to proceed.

  She, however, with a Realtor’s instinct of knowing when someone is in a buying mood, pointed to the house next door and said, “I didn’t handle the sale of that one, but an agent in our office did. So if you’re interested, the buyer is also looking at some county property.”

  What she meant was that if I was following in the footsteps of someone more knowledgeable of property values than I, she could keep me abreast of what he was doing and where he was doing it.

  “Interesting,” I said, “but I’m not interested in county properties. I know nothing about them.”

  “Neither does he,” Nell said, laughing a little. “He’s that new doctor in town.”

  Wondering what she would pass along about me, I quickly thanked her again and slid into the car.

  “Sorry, Lloyd,” I said as he cranked the engine and turned up the heater. “I should’ve called you over and introduced you to the new doctor’s wife. But, I declare, she obviously had something other than the social graces on her mind.”

  It was not a habit of mine to judge people, but that uncomfortable meeting with Lauren Crawford proved to me that she was, indeed, a strange one. Then it struck me that the face I had glimpsed inside a thick scarf had not revealed one tinge of color on it. Obviously, she was not following Hazel Marie’s instructions for bringing out her eyes or anything else. Perhaps as she’d mentioned, her husband had not approved and, if so, it meant to me that he, too, was a strange one.

  “You want to go anywhere else?” Lloyd asked. “This is a free taxi service.”

  I laughed, knowing that he wanted to keep driving. So dismissing both Lauren and Nell from my thoughts, I came up with another reason to keep driving. “Let’s go to that little drive-through coffee shack right off Main Street. I think they have hot chocolate, too.”

  However, as we approached the narrow drive that led to the serving window, I had some sudden second thoughts. What if Lloyd pulled in as close as he had to the curb and scraped the side of the building? We could have hot coffee all over us, as well as a sizable bill for repair and restoration of a local business. I closed my eyes and clamped down onto something on the door—handle or armrest, it didn’t m
atter.

  “Hot chocolate or coffee?” Lloyd asked, and I opened my eyes to see us parked quite decorously beside the serving window and a young woman waiting patiently for our order.

  Lloyd passed a cup of hot chocolate to me, then placed his in a cupholder. “I’ll drink mine when we get home,” he said, relieving me of the additional worry of his handling the wheel while sipping from a cup. “I guess we’d better go on back anyway. Mama worries. But, Miss Julia, about that house. I think it could be fixed up to look real nice. And it sure needs it, because if somebody doesn’t do something soon, it’s going to fall down. And that’ll make a blight on a street that’s close to Miss Lillian’s house. So I’m kinda inclined to go for it. Besides, it’d be fun to see what we could make of it. If,” he went on, making me proud of his acuity, “you can get it at a good price.”

  “I’ll think about it and let you know,” I said, preparing to change cars as we neared his house, “but thank you for going with me. I value your advice, and I commend you on your driving skills. You didn’t frighten me once.”

  He laughed. “But you’re probably glad to be back in one piece, right?”

  Silently agreeing, I laughed with him.

  * * *

  —

  “I declare,” I said to Lillian as I disencumbered myself of coat, gloves, and scarf at home, “I simply do not understand some people.”

  “Who you talkin’ about?”

  “That new doctor’s wife—the one filling in for Dr. Hargrove,” I said. Then, not wanting to be misunderstood, I went on. “It’s the doctor who’s doing the filling in, not his wife, except she’s the one I’m talking about. Lauren Crawford. I just saw her over on Rosewood Lane, and I do believe she would’ve walked right past me if I hadn’t spoken to her.”