by Ann B. Ross
“What you doin’ over on Rosewood Lane?” Lillian asked. “You don’t know anybody over there ’cept me, an’ I’m right here.”
Hanging my coat in the pantry, I said, “I know, and that’s why I need your advice. Do you know the houses at numbers sixteen and eighteen over there? Dr. Crawford has bought one, and I’m thinking of buying the other one, fixing it up, and renting it, as he plans to do. What do you think of that?”
She took a minute to consider the question. “I don’t think I think too much of it,” she finally said. “If they the ones I’m thinking about, they about to fall in.”
“That’s what Lloyd said.”
“He’s right, then. Though it’d be a blessin’ for somebody to do something to that block. Ole Mr. Clabe Hammond pro’bly who owns ’em, since he owns ’bout everything else on that street.”
“Hm-m,” I said. “That’s good to know. He’s a regular slum landlord from what I hear.”
“Me, too. Though I hear he got in big an’ heavy with that fancy hotel they wanted to build next door to Miss Hazel Marie. He could be hurtin’ for money.”
“That’s even better to know,” I said, perking up at the thought of doing business with someone with a cash-flow problem. “Listen out for me, Lillian, and let me know if you hear anything else. And let me know what your neighbors think.”
“I already know what they think. They be real happy to see somebody do something to that block, ’cause we all work hard to keep up our places. An’,” she went on, bearing down on her words, “’specially ’cause ole Mr. Hammond always comin’ ’round lettin’ us know he wants to buy if we want to sell.”
“Really? That doesn’t sound as if he needs to sell anything. Although he’s apparently already sold one to Dr. Crawford.”
“Well, but,” she said, knowingly, “he’s not been around lookin’ to buy anything here lately, either.”
Chapter 21
*
I had about decided against buying—or offering to buy—the little house on Rosewood Lane until I settled on the sofa in the library and began to mull it over. Strangely, my mulling centered only on the pluses, even though the many minuses were looming in the background. Also looming in the background was Nell’s hint that Dr. Don might be buying property out in the county—why would he be doing that? But undeveloped property was beyond my range of interest, so I stuck firmly to considering the little house on Rosewood, realizing that I might just be looking for the good and ignoring the bad.
The first good thing to come to mind was the fact that the interior walls were composed of shiplap—the poor man’s alternative to plaster, but now wildly popular due to a certain television designer. Only a few years ago, I would’ve consigned those walls to the trash heap. Now, though, they were a valuable asset.
And another good thing was the suggestion of hardwood floors under the peeling linoleum. And the third was that with Lloyd’s sudden interest in dating who knew who and driving who knew where, he needed something else to occupy his mind and fill his time.
“Sam,” I said as he came into the library and headed for the fireplace to warm his hands, “what do project managers do?”
His eyebrows went up at the question. “Well, they manage the various projects on a job—making sure the right workmen show up on schedule, overseeing whatever they’re working on, checking that the jobs are done right—that sort of thing. They’re overseers essentially, ensuring that everything is to code and correctly done. Why?”
“I was just thinking,” I said, deciding that project manager wasn’t the right slot for Lloyd. I would have to think of something else. Maybe he could be the project manager trainee on the Rosewood Lane job, which meant I’d need a project manager in chief. Perhaps Nate Wheeler? If, of course, he could combine that with being the contractor. He had, after all, proposed to contract all the projects on both houses, which to me meant that he could manage them as well.
“Well,” Sam said, “tell me more. What’re you just thinking about?”
“Oh,” I said, as if it were of little concern, “that little house. Lloyd likes it, especially because it’s close to Lillian and could affect the value of her house. I was thinking it wouldn’t hurt for him to learn some of the basic manly skills of construction and so forth.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” he said, then, sitting beside me, he cocked one eye in my direction. “But when do you think he’ll have time to learn such manly skills? He’s in school most of the day, and the afternoons are full of meetings, practices, and I don’t know what all. He’s rarely home before dark, and tennis starts in a few weeks. Maybe he’d have some free time this summer—if he doesn’t volunteer to work at the tennis courts again.”
“Oh, well. Of course you’re right. To be honest, Sam, I was trying to think of ways to keep him occupied, now that he’ll soon have the freedom of the road. And to get him interested in something more than a gaggle of young girls fussing over who’s going to dance with him.”
“Honey,” Sam said, laughing as he put his arm along the back of the sofa, “you’re fighting a losing battle. And you’re jumping the gun as well. It’ll be almost a year before he’s sixteen and can get a real driver’s license. In the meantime, I don’t think you need worry about that gaggle of girls with Pickens or Hazel Marie along for the ride.
“Still,” he went on, “it’s not a bad idea for him to do some sweaty work—as soon as it gets warm enough to sweat, that is. He could work on Saturdays now, doing the demolition on your little house—clearing it out and getting it down to studs. I expect Nate Wheeler will soon start on Dr. Don’s house, so Lloyd can see how it’s done.”
“Yes, that could work,” I said, then on further thought, subsided. “Of course, Lloyd may not even be interested. I declare, Sam, I am getting bad about thinking up things for other people to do. But I don’t want him growing up with a sense of privilege, and having a car handed to him and having a bunch of girls running after him could warp his character. He needs to know what it means to have to work for something—work hard, I mean.”
“I don’t disagree with you,” Sam said. “But here’s a thought—why don’t you let Lloyd buy the house and you be the project manager until he can take over when school is out?”
I sat straight up, my eyes wide. “What a wonderful idea! I never thought of that. But that way, he could make the decision of whether or not to buy it, and he could make the purchase offer, and he would be the owner of record. If all that wouldn’t occupy his mind, I don’t know what would. I’ll talk to Binkie tomorrow to see if he can afford it.”
“Oh, he can afford it, but it should be Lloyd who talks to Binkie.”
“Oh, of course. Yes, you’re right. But I should run it by Mr. Pickens and Hazel Marie before saying a word to Lloyd, shouldn’t I?”
“Yes, I would. And also be prepared for Lloyd himself not being interested. He has a lot of new things to contend with as it is.”
“That’s exactly why I want to fill his mind with something different. But, Sam,” I said, frowning, “tell me again what a project manager does. I may not be up to that.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, smiling, “I’ll help you. And if I know Pickens, he will, too.”
“Oh, me,” I said, moaning because I could see it already, “I don’t know that I can work with him. In spite of my best efforts, we always seem to cross swords and disagree with each other.”
Sam laughed. “He just likes to tease you.”
* * *
—
A few days later, Hazel Marie called, saying that she only had a minute because she had to drive Lloyd’s car to school so he could drive home.
“Thank goodness Granny Wiggins is here,” she said, “so I can leave the girls at home. It’s too cold for them to be out, and it’s about to rain, or maybe sleet. But listen, something’s worrying me and I want to ask you about
it.”
“My goodness, Hazel Marie, what is it?” And even as I asked it, all sorts of dreadful visions began to pop up in my mind.
“Well, it’s Lauren Crawford,” she said, relieving me of my immediate concern over dire problems closer to home. “I may be reading too much into it,” Hazel Marie went on worriedly, “but it feels like she’s just dropped me. I’ve tried to tempt her to come for lunch or to go out for lunch, and she’s been busy—doing what, I don’t know. And just now, I called to ask her children over for playtime tomorrow, and she gave me another weak excuse.
“And when I mentioned it to Granny, she told me that the little Crawford girl, Olivia, doesn’t play much anyway. All she wants to do is sit in Granny’s lap—I’ve already told you about that, but it doesn’t sound right for a five-year-old.”
“What about the little boy?”
“Jason’s only three, so he’s entranced with the girls’ toys—they’re all new to him. But I don’t know, Miss Julia. I wonder if I’ve offended Lauren in some way. She sounded so distant when I called, and I had the feeling that she’d rather I just left her alone.”
“Well, that’s interesting,” I said, then proceeded to tell her of my seeing Lauren on Rosewood Lane. “I had the same feeling. She would’ve walked right past me if I hadn’t called to her, and even then she barely stopped to speak. Maybe she was embarrassed because she wasn’t wearing any makeup, but it was still strange. I don’t know about you, Hazel Marie, but when somebody acts as if they don’t want to have anything to do with me, I let them have their way. I can’t imagine you’ve done anything to offend her. In fact, just the opposite—you’ve welcomed her to town, offered to introduce her around, invited her to church, and had her over with her children several times. And you had Granny Wiggins babysit for her when we all went to LuAnne’s. I don’t know what else you could’ve done to befriend her.”
“Well, wait a minute,” Hazel Marie said, “I’ve just realized something. She wasn’t all that warm and friendly before we went to LuAnne’s, but since then, she’s been downright frigid. The very next morning I called to ask if she’d like to go with me to my book club. It’s a lot of fun because we don’t read anything real serious, and we were meeting that night. Well, let me tell you, she couldn’t get off the phone quickly enough. She was barely polite, so I thought maybe I’d just called at a bad time. But now, I don’t know. It’s obvious that I’ve done something, but I don’t know what it could be. Unless I was too friendly, and it put her off.”
“No, you haven’t done anything—it’s her, Hazel Marie. Some people just don’t want anybody close to them. She may have emotional problems, who knows? Maybe it’s all that moving around that her husband does, so she’s afraid of having a real friendship because she knows it won’t last. That’s her loss, and you shouldn’t let it worry you. You tried, and that’s all anybody can do.
“But here’s another thing,” I went on, recalling that strange meeting on Rosewood Lane, “she told me that her husband wanted her to look at that little house, and Nell Hudson told me that he’s also looking at some county property. It may be that he has her doing what he should be doing, but is too busy in the office to do it. Doctors are bad about that—their work always comes first, and everybody else has to take up the slack for them.”
“Why in the world would he be interested in county property?” Hazel Marie asked.
“I have no idea, and it may not even be true. Now, tell me what those sweet babies of yours are up to.”
We talked about the twins for a few minutes, then hung up, but I wasn’t sure that I’d eased her concern about Lauren Crawford. Hazel Marie always thought, if anything went wrong or anybody was unhappy, that it must be her fault in some way. It never was, of course, but she took the world’s problems on her own shoulders.
I, on the other hand, never felt I was to blame for anybody else’s strange ways and quickly struck them off my dance card. So to speak. It was, however, interesting that Lauren Crawford’s sudden U-turn occurred right after our makeover session at LuAnne’s when several of us were together.
Now, there was a thought. Hazel Marie hadn’t been the only one there, so maybe it’d been somebody else who’d turned Lauren off. LuAnne, for instance, had been known to mortally offend someone without any intention of doing so.
But, oh, my word—what if it had been me?
Chapter 22
*
Well, if it had been me, and if Lauren was that sensitive, then so be it, because I couldn’t dredge up any memory of having said or done anything to offend her. In fact, I recalled thinking, as we left, how compatible we’d all been. It had been a delightful morning, one that I hadn’t especially wanted to attend, but was glad, when it was over, that I had.
Looking back now, though, that seemingly pleasant morning had produced a couple of decidedly unpleasant consequences. First, there was LuAnne, who, discounting all of Hazel Marie’s advice, was wanting to publicly flaunt her shoulders, chest, and bosom—thighs, too, probably—in the most unlikely workplace you could imagine. And now I’d learned that, dating from that same morning, Lauren was exhibiting a markedly cooling-off of friendliness toward Hazel Marie. And for the life of me, I could think of no reason for either abrupt change.
There certainly had been none as we’d left LuAnne’s condo. In fact, both LuAnne and Lauren had hugged Hazel Marie and thanked her over and over for her help. But something had to have happened—people don’t just turn from one extreme to the other without a reason.
On second thought, though, LuAnne certainly did. She darted from one enthusiasm to the other like a hummingbird sampling every flower in the garden. She jumped around for no apparent rhyme or reason—in fact, most people described her as good-hearted but flighty. So I fully expected her to get cold feet before showing up for work at the Good Shepherd Funeral Home in a partially exposed state. She’d think twice and change her mind again, especially since it was still February.
Lauren, however, was another matter. I didn’t know her well enough to account in any reasonable way for her sudden about-face. But how anyone could cold-shoulder Hazel Marie was beyond my understanding. If anyone had had reason to do so, it would have been me. After all, if a strange woman showed up at your door with a child bearing your own husband’s name and likeness, would you want to befriend her? I didn’t, and at the time it had galled me to no end that I had kept being thrown into her company.
But that’s how we live and learn and change our attitudes. There was now a special place in my heart for Hazel Marie, all because of the basic sweetness of her nature. She would never knowingly hurt anyone, and besides the estate and the child he’d left, she was the only other good thing that had come from Wesley Lloyd Springer. The old goat.
Well, maybe, I mused as my thoughts flitted here and there, learning what made Lauren Crawford tick the way she did was another reason to buy the little house next to the one her husband had bought. That would be a minor reason, granted, so the next question to myself was this: Was I interested in her enough to want to know more? And the answer was no.
Still, if I could be of help to her, I would certainly do so, regardless of any personal interest in her welfare. Even more important was putting Hazel Marie’s mind at rest, fearing as she did that she herself had done or said something that had turned Lauren against her.
For my own part, if people liked me, then well and good. But if they didn’t, I didn’t much care. There were a lot of people I could do without quite easily. I think that as we grow older, we stop worrying over what people think of us. We don’t have the time to waste on what can’t be helped.
Hazel Marie, though, would suffer over what she might have done to offend Lauren. And all my telling her that she’d done nothing wouldn’t ease her mind. So with Hazel Marie’s welfare my main concern, I decided to keep my eye on Lauren Crawford and find out just what that young woman’s problem w
as.
* * *
—
For the time being, however, I had more pressing matters to handle. I needed to talk with Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens about the house on Rosewood Lane. Even though I felt a strong responsibility for Lloyd—not only because he and I shared Wesley Lloyd’s considerable estate, but also because I cared so much for the boy—I knew better than to overstep and impinge on the rights of his parents.
With that in mind, I called Hazel Marie and asked when Mr. Pickens would be home. A little surprised that I was interested in his whereabouts, Hazel Marie told me he’d be home that evening for a few days.
“Well,” I said, “I’d like all of us to have a little talk. Could you both come over in the morning, or would you prefer I come over there?”
“Oh, my goodness,” she said, “that sounds serious, Miss Julia. What’s going on? Is anything wrong?”
“Not one thing is wrong. I’d just like your permission to do something with Lloyd.”
“Do something with him? Why? What’s happened that he needs something done to him?”
That was Hazel Marie to a T, always thinking the worst, jumping to conclusions, and worrying over the least little thing.
“It’s something good, Hazel Marie,” I assured her. “It’s just too complicated to talk about over the phone. Besides, I want Mr. Pickens to hear it, too. Actually, I want your approval for something I have in mind for Lloyd.”
“He’s too young and inexperienced for a sports car, Miss Julia. J.D. doesn’t want him to have one yet.”
I laughed. “I’m not in the market for a car, don’t worry about that. I think the one he has is perfect for him. I want to ask about something entirely different.”
“Well, okay, why don’t we come over about ten tomorrow, if that’s all right? But I’m going to worry about it all night.”