“I must tell you, Jacob Wetstra, that I am dumbfounded.”
“Is that good?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“It just is,” she replied, not knowing what else to say.
“Should I accept that as a yes then?”
Her face turned serious and she momentarily tucked her lips together. “We’re business partners. Your mom is a dear friend of mine and you live with her. Partonville is a small, gossiping town. There’s Josh to think about . . .,” she said, her voice trailing off.
“Good! Then what time should I pick you up?”
“Jacob, I’m serious!”
“Believe me, you haven’t mentioned anything I haven’t already thought about. But let’s don’t make more of this than it is.”
She picked up her napkin and dabbed at her lips. Forty-eight, she thought, was too old for this, this . . . fluttery feeling in her stomach. The man, okay, the handsome man, only invited you to dinner. It’s not like your social calendar is booked up! “Yes,” she said.
“Yes, we’re on for next weekend then?”
“Yes, barring any Partonville Pleasantries disasters.”
“Great. We’ll set a time later. Now,” he said, switching to his strictly business tone of voice, “let’s talk about the paperwork for your land acquisitions.” He retrieved a small notebook and pen from his pocket, acting as though his casual change of topic hadn’t just left them both with emotional whiplash.
The date was never mentioned again. For the rest of the afternoon and early evening they talked business. They discussed the legal issues surrounding the completion of all her acquisitions, including informing people who were waiting to find out about the exercise of her options. Jacob was surprised to find the Landerses on her list and asked if his mom knew about it. “Nobody aside from the participants knows,” she said, “and even they don’t know who all is involved, either. Confidentiality was key. Confidentiality is still key,” she said, giving him a look.
“Of course.”
“Nonetheless, Challie confided to me on Friday that Colton Craig somehow found out about my bid for his properties, but he didn’t tell me how or who made the breach. I guess it doesn’t really matter now.”
Katie asked for the check. Jacob didn’t try to intervene. He’d dated enough savvy women to know that when they did the inviting, not to mention the driving, you didn’t insult them by treating them like . . . women, he thought, smiling to himself.
“What’s that smile for?” Katie asked as she closed the leather folder containing the signed credit card receipt.
“Nothing. Thanks. And since I didn’t offer to pay,” he said, letting her in on his joke anyway, “I have a favor to ask. Would you mind briefly stopping at a health club I spotted on the way here?”
“Not The Build Back?”
“Yes!”
“I’ve wanted to check that out for myself but I’ve never found the time.”
Although Katie liked the atmosphere and looks of the place, if Jacob joined, she sure wasn’t going to. Even though she needed to whip herself back into shape and burn off some of her nervous energy, there was no way she’d have Jacob watch her doing it! She’d wait until after he made his choice before making her commitment. There were other gyms. However, when Jacob removed his sports jacket and tie and unbuttoned his top two buttons in order to try out one of The Build Back’s new weight machines, she couldn’t help but notice his biceps bulging against his shirt—at which point she couldn’t be sure if menopause was the cause of her momentary spike in temperature or not.
27
While a few folks were still arriving, the band members, including Sam Vitner, took their seats. It was then that Acting Mayor Gladys McKern made a grander than grand entrance. It was all Sam could do not to stand up and protest, but he feared he might be clubbed to death by saxophones, tambourines and possibly an entire drum set.
Gladys, holding up the concert by a few minutes to finish her grand promenade, first circled the entire perimeter of the room before making her way, front to rear, down the center aisle, occasionally blowing what looked to be an old ram’s horn, one she’d purchased for a song from Swappin’ Sam’s just today, which made Sam want to kick his own self in the head! She stopped every few feet to hand out fistfuls of her new buttons (“Just pass them down!”) while loudly proclaiming her new slogan, then blowing the horn yet again. “Gladys the Gladiator, Gladiating FOR THE PEOPLE!” Booowaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
“Talk about momentum,” Lester leaned over and quipped to Harold. “I’d say Gladys is back, and by golly if that doesn’t sound like a good campaign button, huh?” The two of them laughed out loud. Even though Gladys occasionally drove just about everyone nuts, the thought of her not being mayor had become oddly unnerving.
Although the band’s playing wasn’t the best, a good time was had by all and everyone picked up their free engraved GLADYS THE GLADIATOR, GLADIATING FOR THE PEOPLE pens and pencils on the way out. (Dorothy informed Gladys that a skywriter wasn’t in her campaign budget. “What campaign budget?” Gladys wanted to know.)
Katie, who clapped longer and louder than anyone else at the concert, was still riding an emotional high from her land deal with Challie Carter and lunch with Jacob. When she and Challie had regrouped after Jacob’s untimely interruption, Challie had said he liked doing business with somebody gutsy enough to lay down fair-and-square limits, then live or die by them. If that alone wasn’t enough reason to celebrate, Gladys phoned Katie to say she better get to the concert early Saturday and hang on to her hat because “I’m launching a very bold campaign strategy, one you’re sure to like!” Katie was so caught up in these victories she even granted Josh a one-night early dismissal from his grounding so he could take Shelby to the concert. “I have a feeling Gladys is going to put on a show nobody should miss.” Wasn’t that the truth!
Josh, riding high on his freedom, mustered the courage on the way home from the concert to ask Shelby if she’d ever heard of the Fire Pit. “Who hasn’t?” she said.
“And?” he asked hopefully, his cheeks reddening.
“And?” she responded, her own cheeks now flaming.
“And, I was hoping we could maybe check it out tonight.”
She stared at him as he drove. He felt her eyes boring into him, imagined their lusty longing, in fact had to let up on the accelerator realizing he was suddenly driving over the speed limit. He smiled and glanced over at her, saw her sweet face, wrinkled brow . . . reared-back palm just before it landed with fury on his cheek.
“So much for the Fire Pit,” he told Alex in an e-mail that night.
Thank You, Lord. Thank you, Carl Jimson. Dorothy sat in her prayer chair, Sheba nestled on her lap between Dorothy’s Bible and the newspaper folded open to the opinion page, which these days never lacked for political attitude, judgment and general tongue lashings. A mean spirit pervaded the town, and she’d almost quit reading the section, deciding no good could come of it.
But this Sunday morning the entire space was taken up by a man from outside their community. She needed to get ready for church soon, but clearly a Sunday morning blessing had already been delivered and she wanted to give it just one more read.
Thank You
Good citizens of Partonville, I was raised by hard-working parents on a dairy farm in a small scenic town in central Wisconsin, a town not unlike Partonville in size and character—a town that no longer exists in the way I remember it from my childhood. Gone are the fields, the mom-and-pop stores, the remnants of big barns, neighbors who’ve known each other since their youth. Gone are the intimate gathering spots like your Harry’s Grill and the homespun respite offered by the Lamp Post motel. Rolling vistas are now camouflaged by townhouses, shopping centers and towering office buildings. Modest farm homes have been demolished to make way for spacious tudor dwellings.
Am I implying that my old home
town is worse off, that today’s citizens aren’t decent or that “progress” is wicked? Of course not! As an architect trying to make a living in change, certainly not! People everywhere are striving to find their way. I am simply saying that although something new has grown and flourished on my family’s farmland, bringing with it opportunity and excitement, something dear and precious was also lost.
Partonville’s gift is that its mere presence reminds us that some things—the most important elements of life—should not change. Who we are matters. What we decide to do, or not to do, makes an impact. What we stand for—especially when we choose to stand alongside each other—can, one person, one block, one town at a time, surely and ultimately impact all of humankind. Since my encounters with Partonville, I have considered anew many important things, such as who are my neighbors? How might I get to know them better, learn to care about their well-being? How might we stand together to discover—or rediscover—what is dear to us, to lift it to the light, polish off the dust left behind by racing past each other, and together knit something strong, lasting and meaningful, as you are doing with the revitalization of your town square?
Thank you, Partonville, for reminding me where I came from, who I am because of it and what means the most to me. May God bestow his grace upon your endeavors to stand strong in a changing world. As for the rest of us, whether we live in the heart of New York City, the suburbs of Cincinnati or on the coast of Oregon, may we live with a sense of small-town purpose such as I witnessed in Partonville.
Sincerely, respectfully and with gratefulness,
Carl Jimson
Dorothy petted Sheba’s head. What, she wondered, would Carl think of Partonville if he stopped by today and walked into the midst of their squabbling selves? She prayed God would anoint Carl’s words to help breathe gratefulness and a sense of oneness back into her beloved townspeople. Come on, Big Guy! That’s simply not too much to ask!
Edward Showalter read the editorial to Kornflake. The first time he read it to himself, but this go-around he wanted to hear the words out loud. Kornflake, striking a pose much like the old RCA dog, cocked his head from one side to the other while his master spoke.
“Now listen to this part, Kornflake, and see if you don’t start thinking what I’m thinking. ‘How might we stand together to discover—or rediscover—what is dear to us, to lift it to the light, knit something strong, lasting and meaningful? ’ Now I ask you,” he said, lowering the paper enough to make eye contact, “doesn’t that just beg for a marriage proposal? And if not now, when? We’re sure not getting any younger!”
28
Turns out Sunday was The Day of The Editorial That Changed The Election for good. After Colton heard about Katie’s land lock (because Challie called and told him their pending deal was off the table), he no longer answered Sam Vitner’s phone calls. “After all,” Sam said into the receiver, “you agreed to back me. I figured that added up to more than button funding, especially after I told you about Challie Carter!” But his pleas fell on deaf ears. The momentum had shifted. By Monday, it was clear that pretty much the only ones for sure remaining in his corner were George Gustafson and Tom Hornsby, and even Tom seemed to be waffling since his wife made it public she’d never agreed with her husband’s choice for mayor—which is what she’d been trying to tell Katie.
Also by Monday, Carl Jimson’s editorial had most people all but hugging in the streets. Of course nothing would last forever, but for now, citizens were proud of their town and grateful for each other. Dorothy, Sadie Lawson, Harold, Paul Joy, Katie and Pastor Delbert each made calls to Carl Jimson, who thanked them for their feedback and promised them he would try to make it down for the private grand opening of Partonville Pleasantries, which he was begged to attend. He told Paul he’d be there only if the Lamp Post had a room available, which Paul guaranteed him it would, “as our treat.”
Gladys, back at Harry’s usual morning lineup for the first time since her ousting, was so puffed up on her own Gladiator Glee (and that button was ordered, against the advice of her campaign manager) she would have been airborne if the weight of her Gladiator buttons wasn’t holding her down. By Tuesday afternoon, the day Partonville Pleasantries’ new sign went up over the front door of the old Taninger building causing quite the stir, Sam Vitner officially withdrew from the race saying he realized he didn’t have time to run a business and a town. Due to the fact the town was still wallowing in the afterglow of their newfound love fest, nobody rubbed his failure in his face, for which he was grateful.
By Wednesday, the Hookers could barely wait to come together just to roll the dice at bunco.
Morning and Midnight were scampering from here to there faster than Nellie Ruth could keep up with shooing them from there to here. Her face was flushed, her heart raced and the clock indicated her doorbell would likely be ringing in five minutes. What was a perfectionist to do with unruly critters?
She’d phoned all the Happy Hookers to make sure nobody was allergic to cats, although over the years many of them had had pets. Well, other than from Gladys, of course, bless her Gladiating heart (Nellie Ruth prayed for everyone) who said she had no official allergies to cats. Nellie Ruth was torn as to what to do with the kitties: leave them out so everyone could meet them and trust they’d behave? Leave them out so everyone could meet them, then hope she could corral them before bunco began? Just put them away now (as if that was humanly possible!), sequestering them to her bedroom, which seemed cruel and unusual punishment.
“Can I trust you two?” she said to Midnight who switched her tail, licked her armpit and looked at a paw as if to say, “You are so boring I’d rather do anything than listen to you.”
Nellie Ruth decided to give her manic fretting about the cats a rest and get back to her manic fretting about her readiness for the Hookers. She took a look about. Dice at both tables, score pads ready, bowls of bridge mix set on the corners. . . . “OH! Cocktail napkins!” She went to the kitchen, ripped open a new package of spring floral cocktail napkins purchased just for the occasion and placed them precisely at each setting, then tossed the packaging and perused the kitchen. Prizes wrapped and waiting on the counter. Coffee perking, tea pot and tea bags readied. Chocolate cake passable but not to her standards. She should have stuck with the simple white frosting and skipped trying to create the pink flowerettes she saw in a magazine, which ended up looking more like frosting puddles than pedals. “Oh, well,” ES told her earlier on the phone. “You did your best, sweetheart. Everything you’ve ever served me has been wonderful. The Hookers won’t remember the flowers, they’ll remember the flavor.”
Sweetheart . She tingled again at the memory of his charming term of endearment. She fussed with the coffee tray on the table again, switching the positions of the creamer and sugar bowl.
Ding-dong.
The bell startled Morning, who leaped off the counter and ran down the hall—leaving cake crumbs and frosting footprints in his blazing wake. How could this be? She’d only turned her back for a moment!
“NO!” Nellie Ruth wailed, not sure whether to answer the door or bolt it.
She stood horrified, staring at the terrible mess. But she couldn’t let any of the Hookers stand outside on her raised porch on such a cool, windy evening, could she? What if it was Dorothy or May Belle out there? She put her hand on the doorknob, then turned and took one more look at her smashed cake (had Morning leapt into it or simply batted it to pieces?) and the trail of chocolate crumbs and bits of frosting smears that disappeared into her bedroom hall.
The bell rang a second time. She had to open the door. When she saw Dorothy and May Belle, who walked over together, Gladys, Jessie, Maggie and Katie, who all happened to arrive at the same time, huddled together, her bottom lip quivered. She squeaked out “Come in” and then burst out crying. By the time they all made it through the door, they discovered what her tears were about. Nellie Ruth was as neat a
nd tidy as a pinhead. It was surprising she hadn’t fainted dead away.
Maggie was the first to break the ice by exploding with laughter. “Oh, honey! What a clever and thematic design scheme!” she said, bowing, lowering her hand and pointing to the messy path as though she were one of Bob Barker’s beauties showcasing a gorgeous watch. “Did you learn this technique in Martha Stewart’s latest article on pawprint patterns? You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble just for us! ”
“Yes,” Dorothy chimed in, picking right up on Maggie’s brilliant tactic while throwing her arm around Nellie Ruth and drawing her close up to her side, “and how clever of you, honey, to come up with the perfect brown, white and pink compliment to your new Splendid Pink paint!” Maggie laughed so hard her new blue mascara began to run.
May Belle walked around the messy pawprints to rip two paper towels from the dispenser. Katie did the same. Jessie gathered coats while Dorothy continued to hold the now crying and laughing Nellie Ruth. Gladys, who decided there was no point in telling Nellie Ruth what she was really thinking about this mess, feigned a “Here kitty-kitty” battle cry and Gladiated herself down the hall. “Who else but a Gladiator,” she said over her shoulder, “to seize the heinous runaway!” Maggie nearly peed her pants and said so. Everyone was just howling!
Ding-dong!
Nellie Ruth recuperated enough to stagger to the door and open it. “Jessica! Come on in! Welcome to Nellie Ruth’s house of . . . . bwaaaaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” Nellie Ruth doubled over with laughter. She simply could not speak. Maggie, appearing as if blue veins ran down her face and under her chin, came over and said, “She’s trying to say welcome to our . . . bwaaaaaa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Oh, NO!” she said, looking startled. “Your bathroom’s down the hall, right Nellie Ruth?”
Dearest Dorothy, If Not Now, When? Page 23