Ours for a Season

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Anthony had suggested the same thing, which made Marty wonder if God was nudging them in that direction. “Are you sure you want the expense of another trailer? You’ve already bought four of them.”

  Brooke waved her hand as if shooing away Marty’s concerns. “After four, one more isn’t a big deal. The manufacturer gave me a package price on these. I suspect he’ll offer the same discount on a fifth. Even if he doesn’t, they’ll get plenty of use after the resort opens. I always intended to leave them here and rent them out to vacationers, so I’ll get a return on my investment.”

  Her forehead pinched, and she drummed her fingers on the table. “If I use the trailer as an office, it’ll be a tax write-off. Of course, I’d need to get someone out here pretty quickly to lay the foundation and secure tie-downs, add another water line, and get power hooked up. But since I’ve already got a team coming to pour a patio behind the trailers, it wouldn’t be a stretch to have them ready the ground for another mobile home. Especially if it’s one of the smaller models, maybe fourteen-by-forty-five feet.”

  Marty got the impression Brooke had forgotten anyone else was in the room. She gazed at her friend, awed by the ease with which she planned her next moves, as if she didn’t need to consciously think but only let the ideas emerge.

  “Being on-site would allow me to oversee the project…answer questions as they come up and so forth.” Brooke turned a speculative look on Marty. “Plus, it would make things easier for you to get me to and from appointments if you didn’t have to come all the way into the city and pick me up at the town house. So having a base here on the property makes sense from both a business and personal viewpoint.”

  Marty shook her head.

  “Are you saying it doesn’t make sense?”

  “No, I’m trying to figure out…How did you do that?”

  Brooke frowned. “Do what?”

  “Think that all out. Put all the details in place.”

  Brooke laughed. “Well, I hope you wrote it all down, because if chemo makes my brain as foggy as the articles I’ve been reading warn it will, I might not remember the plans when they’re needed.”

  Marty put her hand over Brooke’s. “I’ll help you remember if it’s necessary. But I’m glad we found a compromise. I feel a lot better knowing I’ll be able to give you whatever help you need.”

  Brooke pointed at Marty. “As long as you don’t get so focused on helping me that you forget to help yourself. This is supposed to be a bonding time for you and Anthony. So I’m not going to put up with you hanging out at my place all the time. I’ll accept your help, but not your hovering.” She stuck out her hand. “Deal?”

  Marty chewed the inside of her cheek. If she gave her word, she’d want to keep it.

  “C’mon, Marty.” Brooke bobbed her hand.

  “Define hovering.”

  Brooke rolled her eyes. “You aren’t stupid. You know what I mean.”

  Yes, she did. Marty sighed. “All right. No hovering.” She gave Brooke a solid handshake.

  Brooke rose. “Good. It’s settled. Now, let’s get my trunk emptied. We’ll put the grills together and—”

  “We?” Marty raised her eyebrows and pointed at herself and then Brooke. “You mean…us?”

  Brooke gave her a puzzled look. “Yes. What’s the problem?”

  Marty held her hands outward. “Anthony always puts everything together.” To her surprise, Brooke burst out laughing. Marty scowled. “What’s so funny?”

  Brooke’s laughter died, but her eyes continued to sparkle. “I wish you could’ve seen the look on your face. It was the same face you made when I asked you to go skinny-dipping in the Arkansas River. The summer between fifth and sixth grades, remember?”

  Heat filled Marty’s cheeks. Brooke had dog-paddled in the shallow river, her white rump shining in the sun, while Marty sat on the bank and dipped her feet, the only thing she’d bare in front of someone else.

  Marty carried their glasses to the sink. “I remember you getting sunburned in places most people don’t. But that doesn’t explain why you laughed.”

  Brooke crossed to the sink and touched Marty’s arm. “Half the things we buy these days come unassembled. Have you really never put a desk or a table or a bicycle or…or anything together?”

  “No, because Anthony takes care of it. He has the tools and the know-how and…and…and it’s something the man does.” Defensiveness sharpened her tone. Defensiveness brought on by embarrassment. But why did it embarrass her to acknowledge she left such tasks to her husband? She’d never been ashamed of it before.

  Brooke shook her head slowly, and all humor faded from her expression. “Well, I’ve never had a husband, so I’ve become self-sufficient. There’ve been a few times over the years when I wanted someone’s help with something, but I can’t honestly say I ever needed it.” She sighed. “Until now.” She put her hand on Marty’s shoulder. “I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be the easiest person in the world to take care of. If you want to back out, now’s your chance. I won’t hold it against you.”

  Marty wrapped Brooke in an impulsive hug. “I won’t back out. I want to help you. Even if you get ornery.” An odd thought swooped through her mind. Would she be available to care for Brooke if she had the responsibility of children?

  Brooke laughed again and stepped from Marty’s embrace. “Betcha before this is over I’ll get you to say ‘leapin’ lizards’ in aggravation at least once.”

  Marty forced a weak laugh, still a little rattled by where her mind had drifted.

  Brooke headed for the back door and aimed an impish grin over her shoulder. “Help me with the grills, huh? Let’s surprise your husband with our ability to take care of something on our own.”

  Brooke

  By utilizing the hex keys and ridiculously tiny wrench that came with the grills, Brooke and Marty managed to put both of them together in a little more than an hour. Brooke probably could have done it in half the time if Marty hadn’t kept getting her fingers in the way, but the proud expression of accomplishment on her friend’s face made it worth the sweat-matted hair and the throb in her lower back from kneeling so long out under the summer sun.

  Brooke decided to set the grills side by side close to Marty’s back door, where the grass had been flattened somewhat by the couple’s coming and going. The grills wobbled a bit on their trio of flimsy legs, but they’d last for a few uses. At least until the outdoor fireplaces were built.

  She gestured to indicate the stretch of ground behind the three shorter mobile homes. “By the end of the month, there’ll be a stamped concrete patio out here with stone fireplaces at both ends, a fire pit in the middle, and a pair of pergolas with lattice tops to provide a little bit of shade.” She grinned. “It’ll mean less mowing, because this patio is going to eat up a good section of the yard here.”

  The acidic taste she’d come to abhor flooded her mouth again, and queasiness rolled through her stomach. She guided Marty to the back steps and continued talking, using her own voice to distract her from the nausea. “Next summer I’ll have the same company come out and build a second one on the other side of the business district. Then the people staying in the resort buildings will have a patio for their use, too.”

  Marty opened the door, and cool air eased out. Glad she’d insisted Marty turn on the AC, Brooke hurried inside and stood over the closest floor vent. She breathed a sigh of relief as the air dried her sweat-damp skin. “If you have any lemonade left, I wouldn’t mind another glass.”

  “I’ll make a fresh pitcher. We’ll need it when the men come back to the house for lunch in half an hour.”

  Brooke settled at one end of the love seat and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. She waved the smartphone like a fan. “Do you need my help with lunch, or can I conduct a little business?”

  Marty shrugged. “Charlotte
will be over in a few minutes to help, so I don’t really need you, but will anybody be open? Don’t businesses usually close for the Fourth?”

  Brooke groaned. She’d completely forgotten about the holiday. She probably wouldn’t be able to reach the electrician, the plumber, or the concrete contractor until tomorrow. Her heart seemed to flutter, and more acid stung her throat—what she’d come to think of as an anxiety attack. Something she’d never experienced before the word cancer came into her life. Which was pretty ironic when she considered the turmoil of her childhood.

  “I might as well give you a hand, then. What can I do?” She pushed off the sofa with a bounce, grimacing when pain shot through her lower back and a new wave of nausea attacked.

  Marty skewered her in place with a serious look. “Nothing. As I said, Charlotte helps me prepare the meals, and this kitchen isn’t big enough for more than two of us. Why don’t you stretch out there on the sofa and rest?”

  Brooke affected a scowl. “What do you think I am, some old lady who needs naps?”

  “No, I think you’re a young woman with a disease that’s stealing her energy and causing her pain.”

  Brooke swallowed again. She wished she could dispute Marty’s words, but she couldn’t. Not unless she lied. Marty didn’t fib to her, so she shouldn’t fib to Marty. But there was no way she’d stretch out in the living room, where Marty’s husband and his entire crew would see her when they came in for lunch.

  Hating herself for conceding defeat, she poked her thumb in the direction of the front bedroom. The one Marty had offered to her. “Is the bed the mobile-home company provided still…in there?”

  Sympathy flooded Marty’s features. She nodded. “It’s all made up, too. I wanted it to be ready for you, just in case. So get settled. I’ll bring you a glass of lemonade. And you can rest.”

  If someone had told her a year ago she’d willingly lie down in the middle of the day, she would have laughed him out of the room. But now? Stupid cancer. Wasn’t it enough that it took, as Marty said, her energy? Why did it also have to steal her pride?

  She sighed. “Thanks, Marty.” And she turned her back before she glimpsed pity in her friend’s eyes.

  19

  Brooke

  Brooke awakened and cracked her eyes open. She found herself in an unfamiliar room. Confusion struck, making her pulse leap, and then realization dawned. The bedroom in Marty and Anthony’s trailer. She yawned and rolled over, grimacing as familiar pain stabbed her lower spine. She swallowed the ever-present taste of acid and lifted her cell phone to check the time. She gasped and sat up, causing another, fiercer stab. She gritted her teeth and stood, sliding her feet into the sequined flip-flops she’d left next to the bed when she lay down three hours ago. Three hours! Why had she slept so long?

  She plodded up the short hallway and across the living room, pulled by the sound of women’s chatter and soft laughter. When she entered the kitchen, Marty and Charlotte turned from whatever they were doing at the sink and smiled at her.

  “Did you have a good nap?” Charlotte’s perky tone matched her bright smile.

  “Apparently so.” Brooke shook her head, still shocked and more than a little embarrassed about sleeping so long. “I didn’t intend to spend the whole day in bed.”

  Marty shrugged, her grin intact. “You must’ve needed it. You slept through lunch, but I saved a sandwich for you. It’s in the fridge.”

  Brooke wasn’t hungry. She couldn’t honestly say she’d been hungry for weeks. But if Marty saved the sandwich for her, she’d at least make an effort to eat it. She crossed the linoleum floor, her flip-flops slapping against her heels. She opened the refrigerator and glanced at the women’s backs. “What are you two doing over there? Can I help?”

  Charlotte giggled. “I’d let you cut up the onions.” She blinked rapidly and used her wrist to rub her nose. “They’re making me cry.”

  Brooke carried the plate containing a sandwich under plastic wrap to the table. “Um, I think I’ll pass on that.”

  Both of the Mennonite women laughed. Marty gave Charlotte a teasing grin. “Why do you think I assigned you the onions? Of course, you’re standing so close, the fumes are getting to me, too.” She sniffled, wrinkling her nose, and aimed her grin at Brooke. “When the men came in for lunch, I told them about the cookout. Anthony said to thank you for treating us.”

  Brooke lifted the top piece of bread and peeked at the sandwich filling. Chicken salad with walnuts, grapes, and chopped apples. Obviously homemade. “You all deserve to be treated, traveling so far to help me out. But the cookout’s only half the reason I came. I hope I don’t sleep through supper, because I need to discuss a few things with him.”

  She took a small bite. According to her research, chemotherapy could affect the taste of food. She hadn’t even started chemo and already her taste buds seemed to be in mutiny. The frequent acid in the back of her throat probably didn’t help.

  Marty arranged sliced tomatoes on a plate already holding a pile of lettuce leaves in the center. “Then we’ll call it a business cookout. Charlotte and I can get everything ready for supper. I found a notepad and pencil while you were sleeping. Why don’t you write down all the things you talked about this morning so you don’t forget them?”

  Brooke usually put reminders in her digital notebook, which was in the hobo bag she’d brought with her, but if Marty had been kind enough to dig up a notepad from one of the boxes lining the wall in front of the electric fireplace, Brooke would use it. “Thanks.”

  While Marty and Charlotte chopped boiled eggs and potatoes for a big batch of potato salad, Brooke ate the entire sandwich—she didn’t want to hurt her friend’s feelings, and she didn’t want to lose any more weight—and recorded everything she needed to accomplish in order to set up a temporary home out here. The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. Being around the noise and activity would provide a great diversion from the cancer treatments, and witnessing the buildings’ improvements would enable her to keep an eye on things and chart the progress against her calendar.

  She hadn’t mentioned it to Anthony yet, not wanting to put undue pressure on him even before he started, but her investors expected the project to proceed on a strict schedule and with excellence. If they weren’t satisfied with the pace or the quality of the workmanship, they had the option to pull their money at any time during the reconstruction process. She needed things to stay on schedule, too, to allow ample time to apply for licenses. The estimated—no, the obligatory—completion dates marched through her brain. Much depended on Anthony and the other contractors honoring their responsibilities.

  By the time she finished writing down all it would take to ready her town house for a lengthy absence, set up another trailer, and have all her mail forwarded to this location, she’d filled three pages of the six-by-eight-inch notepad and she had a headache. Such a long list, and all leaning toward the personal, so she couldn’t delegate any of it to a contractor or accountant, her usual hired assistants. Handling things on her own was the bane of being a one-woman show. She flipped through the pages, grimacing at the acid still burning in her throat. Was she taking on too much? She could throw away the entire list if she stayed in her town house. Already she felt, as her mother used to say after a night of drinking, like a wrung-out mop. Why push herself, especially knowing she’d probably feel worse after surgery and when she started chemo?

  She nibbled the pencil eraser and examined the list again, searching for any task that wasn’t absolutely necessary. She didn’t find a thing. Sighing, she closed her eyes. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t pack up and move out here even if it would be convenient. She didn’t have the energy, she didn’t have the time, and—in complete opposition to her normal behavior—she didn’t have the motivation. Stupid cancer was stealing all the important parts of her. And there wasn’t anything she could do to stop it
.

  * * *

  Brooke gaped at the platter that only forty-five minutes ago had held fifteen charred patties and a dozen scorched hot dogs. Now only grease, charcoal smudges, and two patties remained. Good thing she’d bought five pounds of ground chuck instead of three, as she’d originally planned. In addition to the burgers and hot dogs, they’d eaten every bit of the potato salad, devoured two family-sized bags of chips, and nearly emptied the platter of lettuce leaves, sliced tomatoes, and raw onion rings.

  She shook her head in wonder. “Leapin’ lizards, you all must’ve been starving.”

  Lucas, the only one of the men still young enough to suffer from acne, tipped his chair back on two legs and patted his stomach. “We worked real hard today, Miss Spalding. I coulda ate more except my pants are too tight.”

  Todd clapped Lucas on the back of the head with his open palm, sending the youth’s baseball cap sliding over his face and down his chest. Everyone laughed, including Lucas. He righted the chair, settled the cap back in place over his sandy-blond hair, and grinned at Todd.

  Todd pushed up the bill of his cap, scratched his head, and sent a shy smile across the table to Brooke. “It was real nice of you to bring out the picnic foods. Thank you.” Everyone around the table added their thank-yous.

  Brooke waved both hands, the way speakers quieted a crowd. “You’re welcome, but before we do this again, I need to get some real picnic tables out here. I doubt Marty will want us dragging her dining room table and chairs outside every time we want to eat under the sky’s canopy.”

  She crunched her brows together. Had she already ordered picnic tables? She recalled choosing a pergola design and contracting for two of them, but she couldn’t recall if she’d added tables to the work order. This forgetfulness was shredding her already frayed nerves.