by Rod Helmers
Although his life had once been turned upside down, it was a subject Sam had largely kept to himself. He wasn’t bitter, but he wasn’t an open book either. In fact, many of the residents of the valley considered Sam’s past to be somewhat of a mystery. He’d dated a few times, but nothing had really worked out. There had been gossip that his relationship with Sandi was more than purely professional. The rumors were unfounded. He loved her son, Dustin, and was in many ways his surrogate father. But Sandi was his best friend and ran his business. The last thing he wanted to do was screw that up.
He awoke with a start and his beer tumbled onto the wooden deck. As Sam watched the foam seep through the spaces between the boards, he thought about the first time Ellen Hughes had come to this valley in the high mountains of northern New Mexico.
Sitting on the edge of Sandi’s desk that sunny morning in August, he’d realized in mid-sentence that he no longer held her attention. He’d heard and felt a throaty growl, and turned away from Sandi just in time to see a red Porsche Carrera come to a gravel-slinging stop inches from the large plate glass front window of his office. A slim but well-endowed blond in a snug low-cut sundress swung her toned and tanned legs out of the vehicle. Sam had the front door open before she could reach for the handle. Her brilliantly green eyes were one of the first things he noticed.
He spent the rest of the morning showing Ellen mountain properties. Mostly small ranches with just enough property for real privacy. Despite his best efforts, she seemed disinterested. To his great surprise, however, she asked if he was free for dinner that evening. Sam stammered but quickly agreed to meet at the only real restaurant in the tiny village.
The High Valley Saloon and Steakhouse was nothing if not authentic. The structure had been built over one hundred years earlier. The front of the building was constructed in the traditional Western storefront style. The rough-cut cedar plank siding had weathered to a rusty brown hue. An inviting dim golden light poured out of the paned front windows, which were framed by two heavy wooden doors.
One door opened into an alcove off the dining room and the second into the bar. The plastered interior walls were the color of parchment, and the pine floor planks of varying widths were polished to a deep chocolate brown by years of boot traffic, spilled beer and peanut shells. Dusty antlered deer and elk heads and worn horse tack hung haphazardly wherever space allowed. A long well worn bar lined one side of the interior and was separated from the dining tables by a chest-high wall. On the bar side, a few high-top tables were pushed up against the partial wall.
Sam arrived a half-hour early for his dinner appointment. Or date. He wasn’t sure. As he entered the door he was met by the mingled smells of smoke, beer, freshly baked rolls and garlic. After greeting several locals, he took his regular place at the bar where a cold beer was waiting for him.
Few outsiders stayed at the bar. The tourists and fall hunters that lingered there too long were ignored and gently pushed aside by the cowboys taking their regular positions. Eventually they almost all moved to the tall tables a few feet away. Their money was welcomed, but their presence was only tolerated. Although Sam would always be an outsider, he was welcome at the bar.
Change had come to the valley, and Sam did his best to smooth its rough edges. The skyrocketing value of ranch properties meant they were no longer economically viable businesses. The ranches of San Luis Valley had become expensive toys for rich oilmen from Texas and lawyers from California. When a cowboy grew too old or tired to scratch out a living from cows, Sam made sure he received the best price for his land.
Sam also became the absentee landowners’ local contact. Even though the new owner invariably wanted to return the land to nature and watch the wildlife, Sam explained how thousands of dollars in property taxes could be saved by letting a few cows graze during the summer months, thereby qualifying for an agricultural exemption. Everybody wanted to beat the taxman. Sandi meted out the grazing rights to those ranchers who needed the grass the most - in dry years the ungrazed pastures could make the difference between keeping a herd and selling it off at bargain basement prices. Sam had been accepted - at least as much as an outsider could be.
Ellen was fifteen minutes late and arrived as Sam was finishing his second beer. She entered through the dining room door. Sam hadn’t noticed her in the mirror behind the bar, but became aware of her presence as several cowboy hats rotated 180 degrees. He laid a five-dollar bill on the bar and waved. Ellen gave him a million dollar smile, and he felt the envious eyes of the other men on the back of his head. She had taken his advice and worn jeans and boots, but these jeans and boots appeared to have been manufactured in Turin not Tulsa. Sam suspected they cost more than many of the pickup trucks lined up on the gravel parking lot in front of the bar.
“You look great. Did you get a chance to take a rest?” Sam asked.
“No. I had several calls to make, but I feel great.” She gave him another dazzling smile.
Sam gulped. He had met this woman less than eight hours earlier and knew virtually nothing about her, but felt slightly out of control as he led her to a table.
”Would you like a drink?”
“A dry California cab would be nice. Do you want to get a bottle?
“Sounds great.” Sam turned to their waitress as she rushed by. “Susie, can you bring us a bottle - a nice dry California cab, please.”
The middle-aged Hispanic waitress did her best to contain an involuntary snort and laugh rolled into one. “Don’t you want to see our wine list, Sam?”
She and Sam both knew that the High Valley Saloon and Steakhouse did not have a wine list, and that he would be lucky if there was a halfway drinkable bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in the whole village.
“No, I’ll trust you on this one, Susie.”
“I’ll try not to let you down, Sam.”
Ellen and Sam exchanged more small talk, and Susie soon returned with an open bottle of wine and quickly filled two glasses. There would be no cork-smelling wine-twirling snobbery here, even if Sam was smitten by this blond with the expensive jeans and boots.
“What would you like, miss?”
“The filet - rare. Bloody. And a garden salad. Oil and vinegar on the side please.”
“You get another side.”
“No, thank you.”
“A filet mooing and a salad. Sam, you want the ribeye, medium, baked potato, butter and sour cream, and the Caesar salad.”
“Yeah, thanks Susie.”
“Coming right up.”
Ellen studied Sam for a moment. “You seem to be a fairly predictable man, Sam.”
Good god, Sam thought, she just told me that I’m boring. “Well, I guess I know what I like and I tend to stick with it.”
“Aren’t you afraid you might be missing something? You know - something you never tried or didn’t even know about?”
“You might have a point. But tell me about yourself. You’re along way from Miami. Miami, right? That’s home?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Well, you’re a long way from home all by yourself.” Sam knew he screwed up as the words were coming out of his mouth.
Ellen threw her head back with a hearty laugh. “Do you think I can’t take care of myself, Sam?”
“No, no. That’s not what I meant. I mean I was just curious. I hope I didn’t offend you.”
Ellen chuckled. “No, you didn’t offend me Sam. But why don’t you tell me about yourself. And about San Luis.”
The meal came. The steak was good and, surprisingly, the wine was okay. And Sam did tell Ellen about San Luis and his life there. All about it. Sam looked down at his watch and realized he had been doing most of the talking for nearly two hours. He was feeling a buzz from the wine. Ellen kept filling his glass and he kept emptying it.
“I can’t believe it’s almost ten. I’ve been talking your ear off for two hours. I guess that’s what I do when I’m nervous.” Sam couldn’t believe he had just said he was nervous. He felt like he was in high sc
hool. What the hell was his problem?
“Sam, you don’t have to be nervous around me.” Ellen smiled. Sam looked like a puppy having its belly rubbed.
“So Sam, you’re not married and have no children. What about family? Family is important, Sam.”
Sam’s demeanor soured. “I’m an only child. My parents are both deceased.”
“I’m so sorry. Was it an accident?”
He looked up at Ellen. Her tone had startled him. It was so - so matter of fact. Somehow he sensed she already knew the answer. He began to rearrange the crumbs on the tablecloth.
“No. Natural causes. My father died of a heart attack. My mother had breast cancer. It was only a few years ago.”
“I’m so sorry, Sam. Look, why don’t you borrow that dusty bottle of cognac from your friend behind the bar while I use the restroom. I’ll meet you outside in my car for a nightcap.”
Ellen laid a one hundred dollar bill on the table and headed toward the rear of the dining room.
“Ellen, I intended to pay the bill tonight.”
“Not tonight, Sam.”
Sam wedged himself into the seat of the Porsche while holding the bottle of cognac in one hand and two plastic cups in the other. Before he had made himself comfortable, Ellen had unzipped his fly. Even if he had the willpower to resist, he probably couldn’t have reacted quickly enough. While his body had fully responded, his brain was still trying to wrap itself around what was happening. Every muscle in his body was tensed and he hadn’t taken a breath since he sat down. Ellen lifted her head up even with his, and brushed the hair away from her face.
“Relax, Sam.”
He leaned back in the seat and exhaled. The whole episode was over in an embarrassingly short amount of time.
“I’m going to have to take a rain check on that nightcap, Sam. I have to get back to Albuquerque tonight.”
Ellen’s voice was low and sounded husky and a little raw. Sam was worried his would crack like it did when he was thirteen and going through puberty. He cleared his throat.
“You do?”
“I’m sorry, I do.” She kissed him long and hard. “I have to go, Sam.”
He transferred the plastic cups to the same hand as the bottle of cognac, opened the door, and climbed out of the low-slung vehicle. His movements were mechanical as he bent down and wordlessly waited.
Ellen leaned over toward the open passenger window and nodded in the direction of the restaurant. “I want to put a trophy on my wall, Sam. I’ll call you.”
“Well, I guess...”
“I need to go, Sam.”
He felt the sting of gravel hitting his shins and jumped back. The rear tires of the Porsche chirped as they made contact with the pavement. As the taillights disappeared in the distance, Sam wiped his lips and mouth on his shirtsleeve and looked down at the bottle of cognac and his open fly. He turned and noticed an old cowboy sitting at the bar next to the grease-smeared window. The weathered man raised his shot glass of whiskey and nodded.
Sam nodded back.
CHAPTER 2
Dora Hufstedtler held her head in her hands as she stared down at the Formica top of her kitchen table. The imitation walnut surface was worn and dull. Dora was 81 years old. She was slightly overweight or worse, depending on whether you used the old chart or the new one, and had high blood pressure. Otherwise, she was healthy. And she was lonely. Even worse than the loneliness was the worry.
She finally stood up and carried her teacup to the sink, and then shuffled into the living room to turn on the big fan in the window. It was only 9 a.m. and already 87 degrees outside. August in Florida was penance for January in Florida. She and Frank had quit using the air conditioner the summer before. The monthly utility bill was just too high. So was the homeowner’s insurance premium, so they dropped the coverage. The agent told them they were crazy, but Frank said they didn’t have a mortgage and no one could make them keep the insurance. And now Frank was gone and things were even worse.
Frank Hufstedtler was a WWII veteran who had kept the trucks, jeeps, and tanks of Patton’s army in good running order as it made its way across France and Germany in 1944 and 1945. He’d worked for an auto parts manufacturer in Detroit for 33 years and retired with a pension and money in the bank. He and Dora moved to Florida and bought a two-bedroom one-bath house in Venice that was only three blocks from the beach. They joined a country club and Frank learned to golf. Every Saturday night they ate dinner and danced at the club. Frank and Dora Hufstedtler were living the middle-class American dream.
The dream had ended five years earlier. The letter said Prime Motor Parts was “sinking under an unbearable load of legacy costs and needed to become leaner in order to meet the challenges of a new and more competitive environment”. The pension was unfunded; in other words, their monthly check was paid out of the company’s current operating revenues. With the wave of a magic legal wand, the company’s obligations were discharged in bankruptcy and the checks stopped.
The memorial service had taken place three weeks earlier at the Lutheran Church on the same road as their old club. Dora had Frank cremated because those were his wishes. Frank Jr., their son, had been dead for more than thirty years - killed in Vietnam. Their daughter and only surviving child attended the service but could only stay for a couple of days. She scheduled the appointments at her husband’s busy chiropractic practice in California, and he was going crazy without her. The grandkids were in high school and college and had such busy lives. Dora understood why they couldn’t get away.
Dora sat back down at the kitchen table and pulled the letter from the Social Security Administration out of her apron pocket. Frank’s benefits would terminate, of course, because he was deceased, but her benefits would increase as his surviving widow. The net result was three hundred dollars less to pay the bills each month. The groceries would cost a little less and she could deduct the costs of Frank’s medication from the budget she kept in her head. Still, one really couldn’t live on that much less than two. She had told her daughter everything was fine, and she would only call her as a last resort. Frank always said that they raised their daughter to be independent and stand on her own two feet, and she could expect her parents to do the same.
Dora was still deep in thought when the ringing doorbell startled her. Not very many people came to see her, and when they did they usually knocked. She slowly got up from the table, fixed her hair and brushed the wrinkles out of her apron. Only then did she begin to slowly walk toward the front door.
As she peered between the frosted bamboo stalks that covered the narrow window next to the door, Dora saw a trim young man in his mid to late twenties. He wore a suit and tie and his blond hair was closely cropped with a part on the left. None of that spiky stuff Dora had seen on TV.
“Oh shit,” Dora said out loud. “One of those god-damned Mormon boys.” She opened the door and scanned the yard for the young man’s partner and the bicycles.
“Good morning, ma’am, my name is Brent Smith. I represent American Senior Security.”
“You mean Social Security?”
“No, ma’am,” Brent smiled. “American Senior Security is a private company. Mrs. Brody on the next street over gave me your name, ma’am.”
“Oh! How is the dear doing? I know she has had a terribly rough time of it since Joe passed. He just did everything for her.”
“Oh yes, I know, ma’am. I’ve been checking in on her every week. She has been having a rough time, but she’s made some decisions recently and is feeling much better.”
Dora gave the young man a quizzical look. “Are you her grandson?”
“Oh no, ma’am,” Brent smiled. “Mrs. Brody is my client.”
The young man readjusted his facial features into a more serious pose and continued speaking. “Ma’am, I just wanted to say how sorry I am for your loss and to give you these.” Brent then produced a small bouquet of flowers that looked a few days past their prime.
Dora cou
ld feel the tears beginning to well. She reached for the old-fashioned lock on the screen door and worked it loose.
“Oh, my. I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Where are my manners? Please come in and have a seat while I put these in some water.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Are you sure you’re not too busy?”
“Oh, heavens no. Do you like tea?”
“So I can stay in my house as long as I want to?”
“Absolutely! You have the right to stay here for as long as you want. You do have to continue paying the property taxes and insurance until you relocate to one of our elder resorts, at which time American Senior Security takes title to your home. You see, we wrap the reverse mortgage payments around a pre-paid long-term care policy. It’s the most innovative product on the market today.”
“Frank and I had a long-term care policy for a while, but it was too expensive. Anyway, I don’t want to live in a nursing home. I like my house.”
Brent laughed. “Trust me; our elder resorts aren’t nursing homes. Not in any sense of the word. American Senior Security has contracted with the finest and most luxurious assisted living facilities in the State of Florida. In fact, we have just finished negotiating a relationship with a facility only a few miles from here. You may have heard of it - The Palms Gracious Living Retreat.”
“Heavens sake. I can’t afford to live there.”
“Excuse me, ma’am, but you can. I hope you don’t mind, but we’ve researched the public records. You and your husband purchased your home for only $47,000, and it’s worth several times that now. Since you don’t have a mortgage, you’ve accumulated a substantial amount of equity. So much so that you will be entitled to a monthly stipend even after deducting the cost of the long term care policy from your monthly reverse mortgage payment.”
“What does that mean?”
“You get to live at The Palms and we send you money each month. For the rest of your life.”
“Well, I just don’t know.”
Brent smiled. “We don’t want you to make a decision today, Mrs. Hufstedtler. We think it’s important that you tour one of our elder resorts first. And we would like you to bring someone with you whose opinion you value. Would you like to visit The Palms with me next week?”