Dearest Dorothy, If Not Now, When?

by Charlene Baumbich

  “No need to apologize, Nellie Ruth,” she said, writing as quickly as possible. “It’s just my hormones. I’ll see you Saturday night at the concert, unless we get any late check-ins. As much as I want to see the concert, I’m hoping for a flurry of surprise business this weekend. But I’ll for sure see you next week at your house for bunco. I can’t wait to see your new decorating!”

  “Hey, how’s Paul’s leg doing?” Nellie Ruth asked, already ringing up the next person’s groceries.

  “Dr. Nielson said he can go back to work part-time if he continues to use his crutches and doesn’t put his full weight on it. Not too handy when you’re a coal miner. But Paul’s boss said he’ll see if he can find him something to do. We could really use the money so we’re hopeful,” she said over her shoulder. Sarah Sue started whining. “I gotta run!” she added on her way out the door.

  It was a band practice to be remembered, or forgotten as quickly as possible, depending on your point of view. It became clear before people even sat down with their instruments that Sam was wearing his campaign hat. He was intrusive, disruptive and in their faces, saying the mall wasn’t what it appeared to be and neither was Katie Durbin.

  When Sam arrived home after the “debate,” he felt good since, according to him, Gladys’s disappearance proved she was not up to his challenge. “She obviously turned tail,” he told his wife, who neither agreed nor disagreed with him. But in the morning, after several people stopped by Swappin’ Sam’s to ask him how he was feeling after his “whoopin’,” as Arthur put it, he had to rethink things. It seemed Katie Durbin had single-handedly crushed much of the election momentum in his favor. An early morning call from Colton Craig didn’t help his frame of mind either. Colton asked him how he planned to challenge “Kathryn’s compelling rally” last night, which, Colton said, he’d heard about this morning. Plus Colton asked him, in a tone of voice none too kindly, why he hadn’t taken better advantage of his opportunity to deliver a thoughtful speech on the future of Partonville and touch on Katie’s land-buying attempts to lock them in, rather than just delivering a few rude comments about the current mayor and calling it quits. It was a tongue-lashing Sam neither expected nor, in his opinion, deserved. It briefly caused Sam to wonder how Colton knew all of this; he hadn’t seen him in the building last night. Did the man have spies watching him or something?

  By the time Sam arrived at band practice, he was determined to make up for lost ground. Whether members wanted one or not he handed everyone a VOTE FOR VITNER button and rambled on about how slick-tongued “that Durbin woman” was. He all but pulled Sharon’s flute out of her mouth and handed her a pen so she could quote him. Gertrude Hands, the keyboard player for the band and organist at United Methodist, drowned out one of his rants by playing a C-chord and holding it at nearly full volume until he stopped talking. Of course she claimed she was just warming up, but they all knew better. Since when had she ever warmed up her electronic keyboard? Loretta Forester threatened to bean him with her drumsticks if he didn’t pipe down. But when Sam called Dorothy—and right to her face—a “turncoat” for becoming Gladys’s campaign manager, Wilbur had had it. Nobody had the right to attack Dorothy! He’d heard enough of Sam Vitner and he banged his cymbals together so hard it made everyone’s head hurt. Wilbur told Sam if he didn’t hush, he’d bang his head between them.

  “If ya think yer winnin’ votes by pickin’ on our Dearest Dorothy,” Arthur said, “well ya ain’t!” Several in the room clapped at Arthur’s statement and Raymond told them that was enough, that it was time to get down to practicing. In the brief moment of silence between his comment and the first downbeat, Dorothy stood and bowed her head.

  “Lord God,” she said, “we are all your children and you want what is best for all of us. We play music because it’s fun. We perform because it blesses people—and oh, Lord, make it so! Despite our differences in this room, help us come together and practice as one band. One band playing music together that sounds like music. Amen.”

  “Thank you, Dorothy,” Raymond said. Then he quietly blew a G on his trumpet to find his pitch. With his right hand he lifted his trumpet in the air, his left hand simultaneously rising with it. He waved the trumpet in a cloverleaf to set the 4/4 time, then he gave the downbeat with his left hand and began to sing, a capella, at the top of his lungs, “Oooooooooooooooooooooooh, my name is MacNamara, I’m the leader of the band.” Then he drew his trumpet to his lips and played the melody while the rest of the band chimed in.

  Raymond wasn’t known for his singing. But every time the band opened their St. Patrick’s Day concert with this song, it drew a standing ovation since everyone loved and treasured the Partonville Community Band.

  Lord , Dorothy prayed while she played, help us be better by tomorrow night!

  Alex,

  How are things in Chicago? I have no control over my life here in Pardon-Me-Ville. My mom is a jailer, which means I still haven’t checked out the Fire Pit. (Not that I’ve even asked Shelby if she wants to go yet. PLUS, she accidentally let everyone in town know I was grounded!) Gasoline is so expensive I can’t afford to take the truck many places anyway. School sucks. The weather’s still too cold for crawdads and it’s been way too long since you’ve been here.

  Your pathetic friend,

  Joshmeister

  Joshmeister,

  You’re pathetic but not as pathetic as I am. I don’t know what to say other than whether you get to the Fire Pit or not, at least you *have* a girlfriend to take. Yesterday Jennifer told me she—no “*we* need to take a break from each other.” Why don’t girls just say go take a flying leap rather than making up dumb stuff like that. Gheesh!

  Your bachelor friend,

  Alex

  P.S. Keep your eyes open since if I ever DO get to come visit again (Mom’s holding my grades over my head), I think a blind date is in order. A double date to the Fire Pit sounds good to me!

  Dear Bachelor Number One,

  Man, I’m sorry about Jennifer. I know you dug her. But my eyes are already open for brunettes, your preference, as I recall. You work on the grades and I’ll work on the possibilities.

  Joshmeister

  Dear Outtamyway,

  Jennifer broke up with Alex. I’m busy being grounded, going to school and working. Mom tells me you’re a campaign manager now! Can’t wait to hear *that* story!

  Ain’t life grand? (Well, at least for one of us.)

  Joshmeister

  Dear Joshmeister,

  Glad to find your e-mail bright and early this morning! It’s been too long since we’ve chatted.

  Yes, I’m a campaign manager, which caused quite the stir at band practice last night, during which we sounded terrible. (I’ll tell you all about it another time.) If your mom lets you come to the concert Saturday night (or maybe you’re done with your grounding by then?—and wait, Saturday night is TOMORROW night! Where is time going?!) you might want to stuff some cotton balls in your ears. I think I will!

  Sleep tight and stay positive. Your mom loves you and you’ve got the hottest wheels in town. Even my old Tank (can you still remember what my ’76 Lincoln Continental looked like before she blew herself up?) would have been jealous!

  See you when I can,

  Outtmyway, AKA Campaign Manager Extraordinaire (read going plumb nuts!)

  Jacob climbed the squeaky wooden stairwell steps to his office. He was glad it was Friday. For a guy who had moved from the big city to a small town and a law practice not even one-tenth the size of what he was used to, he felt extraordinarily battle worn, especially since he’d only been in town a little over a week. Is that true? He counted it up, and yes, it was true. Funny, feels more like a year. I wonder what it’ll feel like in an actual year? A lifetime? I hope not!

  About five steps from the top landing he heard Helen’s keyboard clacking away. Try as he might to talk her into an ergonomic
keyboard, she told him to save his money for other things. “You’ve already spent enough on the new door and coffee machine!” she said. (She was as careful with money as his old firm was lavish.) Besides, she thought she was too old to learn to work on a “curvy looking thing like that!”

  Sometimes the whole town smacked of Hicksville and it made him feel small each time that thought crossed his mind. He’d been born and educated here. He’d learned family values and hard work ethics from his salt-of-the-earth parents and the good citizens of this town. But he’d been away for so many decades. He wondered if Katie still—or ever—battled these types of feelings, or had he, pure and simple, become an arrogant snob?

  Katie , he thought after he said good morning to Helen, hung up his jacket, laid his briefcase on his desk, rifled through the mail Helen set there and went to his office window overlooking the square and therefore the Taninger building. Partonville Pleasantries, he thought, correcting himself. The building lights were on throughout, but then the work crew arrived every morning at 7 A.M. Before the interior had been subdivided and framed in, he’d been able to see her sitting at her makeshift desk or notice her SUV parked out front on the square. But now she parked in the rear of the building and her office was on the second floor back in a corner.

  Katie . That was some stunt she pulled the other night.

  Or was he being ridiculous? May Belle and his mom thought it was nice of her to give his business a plug, and maybe it was. Why did the gesture strike him as so self-serving? Of course his whole housing issue complicated matters. But after all, wasn’t she helping the community by adding new business residents and securing real estate for future commercial development? Wasn’t he glad to add the mall to his growing client roster?

  Maybe he hadn’t been aggressive enough in his house search by letting Herb know he was anxious to get out on his own. Maybe he should find a different Realtor, one with broader reach and no conflict of interest with Katie.

  “You’ll find the perfect house in God’s perfect timing,” his mom said to him after Earl and May Belle had left the other evening. He was probably just crabby because he wasn’t getting enough exercise. Yes, that was it. He’d spend time tomorrow in the Yellow Pages looking for health clubs in Hethrow, then he’d take a ride and explore a few of them, get himself signed up, get some sweat time in. Then Monday he would stop by Herb’s and make his intentions clear: he needed a house. And he’d let Katie know that too. After all, she wasn’t a mind reader. Isn’t that what countless women had told him over the years— told every man throughout the ages? “I am not a mind reader. You need to tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Yes, he needed to tell her what he was thinking, which he realized, even though he was trying to fight it, and even though it was easier to be perturbed than attracted, and even though it would open the potential for a whole barrel of complications if not outright trouble (professional relationship, Josh, gossips) and even though his mother saw it coming before he did (which really got his goat), was this: Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?

  “I’ll be back shortly,” he told Helen as he slung on his coat and headed down the stairs.

  26

  Challie Carter worked his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other with such deft speed it was all Katie could do to concentrate on the numbers spilling from his lips. They were sitting across from each other in her office, door closed. Challie had phoned her a day earlier and asked if they could meet again. Katie said he’d need to come to her office—she was just testing the waters, hoping for a new kind of home-turf advantage—and was surprised when he consented. He must really want to talk to me!

  As it turned out, the man was indeed there to do business, but he drove a hard bargain, one she wasn’t sure she could match. He hadn’t settled with Colton yet, but whether or not she could come to terms with Challie remained to be seen. At least they were talking business again, which was progress. However, the longer they talked, the more she realized he had her over a barrel: it would either be his way (although he hadn’t named a do-or-die price) or she’d lose her whole investment in securing Partonville’s borders, so to speak, from the Craig brothers.

  She pulled her mind off his wagging toothpick to take note of his posture, his arm position, his knees. His body was completely relaxed. He was enjoying this! “Tell me, Mr. Carter, aside from trying to bilk me out of more money,” she said, leaning back and smiling but making her point, “what is it you think I can bring to the table that Colton Craig can’t?”

  “What makes you think there’s anything? As far as I can tell, you’re both in it for the same reason, which is makin’ yourselves rich. Two peas in a pod.”

  “But you’re back, and I believe you’re aware you could probably name your price with either of us. In fact, I’d be willing to bet Colton Craig would and could perhaps up any price I name since his development firm has already raised Hethrow out of the cornfields.”

  “And you? Wouldn’t you best him just to ace him out? Seems to me there’s some bad blood there and—too bad, so sad—I’m the lucky one with the chance to take advantage of it.”

  She steeled herself, put her elbows on her desk, laced her fingers and leaned toward him. She and Challie shared a brief but amicable working relationship. He leased her land, something he’d been doing when Dorothy still owned Crooked Creek and a deal she’d kept intact when she bought the place. When she purchased Challie’s pickup truck for Josh, they settled on a “fair-and-square” handshake, he’d called it.

  “Challie . . . you don’t mind if I call you Challie, do you, since you’ve seen my money before and we’re getting so personal here?” He shook his head and chomped down on his toothpick stopping it dead in its tracks. “Challie, this conversation is not about bad blood or bilking or besting. It is strictly business on the up and up. I like you, Challie Carter. We’ve accumulated a business history on a couple matters, now, and I like your hard-nosed style. But that’s beside the point too. We don’t have to like each other. We just have to come to terms if we’re to do business together on this deal. We each have to end up feeling like we’ve made a fair-and-square deal . . . or there will be no deal, at least not with me.”

  Pure and simple, they both knew it was the showdown moment. They stared at each other. From Katie’s standpoint, there was nothing left to do now but to make her best offer, no looking back. She announced her final offer—“This deal is only good for the next two minutes”— nothing about her body moved but her lips.

  Challie’s toothpick remained frozen in place and the air seemed to crackle with anticipation. He blinked, looked from one of her eyes to the other, then removed the toothpick from his mouth. “For a woman who wants something as badly as you do, Ms. Durbin, you drive an inflexible bargain, which is why . . .”

  Knock-knock. Katie threw her hands up in front of her to signal Challie to hold his thought. “Who is it?” she asked, assuming it was Edward Showalter coming to report on something.

  The door opened and in walked a smiling Jacob, catching Katie Durbin and Challie Carter looking as uncomfortable and unhappy to see him as if they’d just been caught with their fists in the money jar. “I’m sorry to interrupt you,” he said, backing out of the room and slowly starting to close the door behind him, giving Katie time to stop him, which she didn’t.

  Jacob spent the rest of Friday morning wondering who he was more frustrated with: Katie for brushing him off or himself for barging into a closed-door meeting without waiting for a “Come in.” He knew better than to do that in the world of business. But then, what were those two up to? Maybe she wasn’t a woman to be trusted after all. It was time to get to work. He walked over and pulled the window shade down. Enough of Partonville Pleasantries, he thought.

  His phone rang at 11:30. He’d never heard such a lilt in Katie’s voice. She wanted to know if he was available, and if so,
she’d like to take him to lunch, not only to apologize for her earlier behavior, but to celebrate a grand victory. Reluctantly he said yes.

  Katie told Edward Showalter she was taking the rest of the day off and that he should hold down the fort. She figured she and Jacob would grab a bite of lunch at a nice restaurant in Hethrow, after which she’d ask him if he would officially please step in to handle all the land agreements as she exercised the option clauses.

  Jacob told Helen he’d be back in an hour or two, but he didn’t return.

  “Here’s to the advantage of being your own boss,” Katie said, raising her celebratory glass of midday sherry.

  “Here’s to my largest client,” Jacob said, raising his empty beer glass, “not only the owner and manager of Partonville Pleasantries, but the town’s largest landholder in the area and . . . mother to a great kid.” They gently clinked glasses.

  Katie took her last sip of sherry, and leaned back in her chair and swallowed. “Thank you,” she said, a sudden and gentle quietness in her voice. “Thank you for saying that about Josh. The two of us definitely have our moments, but you know, he is a great kid, and it’s clear he enjoys your company too. I think he was as excited as anyone when you said you were moving here to Partonville.”

  Enjoys my company too? “What about you?”

  “What about me, what?”

  “Were you happy to hear I was moving back?”

  “Everyone was,” she said, feeling a hot flash bubbling up.

  Jacob took note of her sudden flushed cheeks and smiled. “Thanks for inviting me to celebrate with you. I have to confess something, though. I came to your office this morning to invite you to dinner tonight—but how about next weekend instead?”