by Judy Baer
“I can’t respond to the hopelessly infatuated part….”
“Norah,” he warned, “I’m serious.”
“And I’m much more than ‘mildly fond’ of you and you know it. I’m just not sure I’m…”
“…ready,” he finished for me. “I want to know what will get you ready?”
Bells.
But I could hardly say that. If I didn’t even know how to explain this feeling, there was no way I could expect Joe to understand it. Besides, it makes no sense. I’ve always believed that God will show me the “who” when the time is right but it’s not Biblical to think that He is going to do it through the handbell choir at church.
“If I knew, I’d tell you,” I said honestly. And I would. The thought of Joe not being in my life is devastating, but for right now it has to be as a friend rather than a fiancé.
He swung his long legs off the chaise longue and stared at me. “You’re worth the wait, Norah, but I don’t want to be sitting in my wheelchair on this patio with you in forty years asking when you’ll feel ready.”
“I can’t expect you to. I wouldn’t.”
“I know.” Then he repeated almost verbatim one of our previous conversations. “If God wants us together, we’ll be together.”
“Exactly.” This just kills me. Part of me wants to say, “Yes, Joe, let’s give it a whirl,” but another, more cautious part says, “A relationship is not about ‘giving it a whirl.’ People’s lives are at stake—one of them being yours.”
Of course I’ve never believed relationships are all about bells, either, but I’m certainly hung up on it anyway.
Bentley and I were curled up on the couch doing my Bible study when the doorbell rang.
“Again? Who could it be this time, Bent?”
For a dog, Bentley does a pretty good job of shrugging his shoulders. He didn’t look elated at the prospect of more company, either. He’d just gotten me all to himself. Even Hoppy was off somewhere, probably sitting in his litter box thinking about the good life he lives.
I almost didn’t answer, but the light through the small transom windows in my door was a giveaway that I was at home. I shlepped to the door and checked to make sure my hair, which I’d put up in a bun and fastened with a pair of unsharpened pencils, wasn’t making a prison break from its confines.
When I opened the door, it was déjà vu all over again! Now it was Connor at my door. Lilly, Joe, Connor, are all sweet roses as friends, but when the R word—relationship—starts to complicate things, it makes for a very thorny bush.
I put on my hostess smile and invited him in.
Chapter Nineteen
“Am I stopping by too late in the evening?”
“No, not at all. Come in.”
If this is how things are going to be, I’m going to install a revolving door in this place.
For once Connor wasn’t dressed in white. He still looked like a seafaring man, however, in a navy cotton sweater with a rolled neck, cream-colored trousers and good, sturdy shoes just right for standing at the wheel of the ship in a gale wind. All he needed was a beard, a pipe and a captain’s hat and to start yelling, “Batten down the hatches.”
“I was at the office doing some paperwork and I lost track of time. I meant to stop by an hour ago. I’m sorry to disturb you so late, Norah.”
I’m not. Just over an hour ago, Joe and I were knee-deep in conversation. Connor arriving on the stoop, hat in hand, hopeful look in his eye, but one hour earlier would not have been useful.
“It’s fine. What can I do for you?” Hoppy landed on my foot with a thud and I picked him up.
Connor looked disconcerted and his mouth worked a little, like a gasping goldfish vacuuming the top of the fish-bowl for oxygen. Maybe it’s disconcerting to have a conversation with a woman in bunny slippers who’s also holding a bunny in her arms. Or maybe it’s the SpongeBob Square-Pants motif on the sweatshirt I changed into after Joe left. Hard to know. All I can say is that if my fashion statement bothers him, he should march right down the road to Lilly’s.
I led him to the kitchen table and indicated that he should sit down. There were still a half-dozen pastries left. I put on the coffeepot—decaf—because I don’t even ask at this time of night and put out the pastry plate.
We made small talk about the weather and the folks on Pond Street for several minutes before Connor got to the reason for his trip.
“I want to invite you to dinner on the Lady of Lake Zachary.”
“The Lady? Really?” Everyone on Pond Street knows about the Lady even though not many have been on her. She’s the little jewel in the crown of Connor’s fleet. She’s the boat bigwigs request for the VVVIPS—very, very, very important people—they entertain. Ziga’s provides food for all the cruises, but the Lady has a chef on board until moments before she sails, putting the finishing touches on the gourmet meals to be served. I’d been itching for a ride on the Lady ever since I opened Norah’s Ark, but my VVVIP’s are usually just as happy with a dried pig’s ear or a bone as duck à l’orange.
“I’d love a ride on her!” I’d briefly wondered once why all seafaring vessels are referred to as “she” but it’s actually pretty clear to me—boats provide smooth sailing, keep you above water on rough seas, rock you to sleep at night to the lullaby-gentle waves and provide all kinds of fun and entertainment. What else could a boat be but a “she”?
“Are you free on Friday evening?”
“Yessss…” Then a frisson of alarm shimmered through me. “We won’t be alone, will we?”
“Of course not!” Connor laughed. “For one thing, I can’t sail the Lady all by myself!”
That was all I needed right now, to be out sailing with Connor while Lilly and Joe were watching me so carefully. I’m not all that keen to have Nick think there’s something romantic between Connor and me, either. A party suits me much better.
“You have such wonderful, old-fashioned charm, Norah.” He looked at me as though I’d just hatched a chick or grown a daisy out of my ear or something equally fascinating.
Not knowing what to say to that, I, for once, did the wise thing and said nothing.
Connor took that as a signal of satisfaction with the arrangement and stood up. “Friday then? You can board any time after seven.”
“Perfect. I’ll be at the dock at seven.”
After he’d gone, I fed the pets. Asia Mynah was itching to have a conversation.
“What’s shakin’, baby?”
“Just my head, Asia. My life’s getting way too complicated.”
“Overworked and underpaid,” he intoned.
“You’ve got that right.”
“Gimme a kiss, will you?”
“Sorry, I’m not in the kissing mood tonight, Asia.”
“Naughty girl.”
“You could say that.” Why, I wonder, do I enjoy talking to this bird more than with my friends lately? Maybe because when Asia Mynah talks, there are no surprises.
“I love you.”
Well, maybe a few.
By the time I got to bed, my dreams were a regular circus of activity—Bentley, wearing a sailor suit, was steering the Lady, Asia Mynah was screaming, “Avast ye matey!” and Connor was in my kitchen with Joe cooking a gourmet meal. Lilly stormed in and out of my dream as if she was modeling in a fashion show and Nick and Sarge were staring at me through a window, just outside the insanity of my life.
The door chime jingled, signaling that someone had entered.
“I’ll be right back,” I told the big German shepherd I was brushing. I pamper each of my “guests” during the day. Today is massage and brushing day. Tomorrow will be belly scratching and ball tossing. Saturdays are for a long walk around the lake.
“Can I help you…?” I hurried to the front brushing dog hair off my clothing—a fruitless task if there ever was one. “Oh, it’s you.”
It was him, all right, Nick, in jeans and a sweatshirt. No uniform—maybe he was tired of wearing it
all night in my dreams.
“What can I help you with?”
“Maybe the question should be ‘what can I help you with?’”
“Nothing, unless you do windows. There are hundreds of fingerprints on the outside windows. That would be from the day I put a basket full of kittens up there.”
“Actually, I do. Did you see me doing Auntie Lou’s?”
I glanced across the street. Auntie Lou’s windows were sparkling. “When did this happen?”
“Yesterday. I saw her struggling with a squeegee and a bucket of water so I offered to do the job for her. Took twenty minutes, tops. It could have taken her half the day.”
“That was very sweet of you.”
“So do you really want me to do yours?” He looked, if not hopeful, at least willing to take on the job.
“No. I just think it’s sweet. I need the exercise. I haven’t used my in-line skates much lately and I don’t want all this food I’ve been eating to head south.”
His expression was blank.
“Head south.” I patted my hips. “And land here.”
“I see.” He grinned. “Although I don’t think it would be a problem.”
I left that open for interpretation.
Just then, Lilly, in orange jeans, a sunshine-yellow top and lime-green accessories, burst out of The Fashion Diva like a bottle rocket. She came to me, threw her arm around my shoulder and said to Nick, in no other persona than her own, “Isn’t she a darling?”
“Wendy and her brothers were Darlings, Lilly. And since Peter Pan is not a close friend of mine you don’t need to call me one, either.”
Lilly looked over my head at Nick. “She’s modest, too.”
Then, as if her work here was done, Lilly turned on her three-and-one-half-inch stiletto heels and reentered her store.
“Matchmaker, Matchmaker” from Fiddler on the Roof played in my head.
“Ignore her,” I advised Nick. “Too many hair-spray fumes. Her brain is muddled. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
“She’s pretty astute for being under the influence of hair spray,” he commented. “I have to agree with her.”
Fortunately I didn’t have to respond because there was a terrific clatter coming from Auntie Lou’s. Saved by the bell. She was hammering on a big old dinner bell she had for sale in her store.
As we dashed across the street I admired Nick’s long, muscled legs. He took the trip in half as many steps as I and was already in the store with Auntie Lou when I trotted in.
Auntie Lou was seated in a platform rocker upholstered in garish orange-and-yellow-paisley velvet—some fabrics just should never have been born—holding a rubber mallet in her hand. Her complexion was pasty and her breathing short. Nick was interrogating her like the policeman he is.
“How long have you felt this way?”
“It started about forty-five minutes ago. I had some dizziness and trouble walking. I picked up the phone to call you, but my speech was garbled so I just sat down for a few minutes until the weakness passed.”
“What’s going on right now.”
“I’m still dizzy but it’s improving. I’m sure it wasn’t anything. I shouldn’t have rung on this big old bell, but for a moment there….” Her voice trailed away.
Nick glanced over his shoulder at me. “I’ve already called an ambulance, Norah.” He turned back to Auntie Lou. “Is there anything you want Norah to get from your apartment?”
“I’m not staying in any hospital, if that’s what you’re insinuating. You just call those ambulance people and tell them to go back where they came from if that’s how it’s going to be.”
Nick ignored her. “Norah will pull together a couple things for you just in case you need to stay.”
I immediately started for her apartment. Auntie Lou’s voice followed me up the stairs.
“But what about Silas? And the store? I can’t just leave it like this….”
I heard Nick promising that I would feed the cat and lock up the store as the wail of a siren could be heard coming down Pond Street.
“So what’s the scoop on Auntie Lou?” Lilly asked. She, Joe and I were sitting outside the Java Jockey as we often do, debriefing our day.
“Her blood pressure was ‘unacceptable’ according to her physician. They’re keeping her for observation and some tests.” Auntie Lou had listed me as her “next of kin” and given me permission to consult with her doctor, leaving me, I’m afraid, with a very large sense of responsibility where her case was concerned. “Frankly, I think she probably had a small stroke, but that remains to be seen. Nick believes the same thing.”
“I’m so glad you two heard her,” Lilly said. “I was in the back unpacking a new shipment of clothes. You know how I am when new styles come in, I lose track of everything else.”
“And I was at the bank making a deposit,” Joe added. “You and Nick were right there for her. If it weren’t for you, it might have been a customer who found her.”
“And Nick’s a cop. He’s used to acting in emergency situations.” Lilly put her chin in her hands and her lovely brow furrowed. “I hope she’s going to be all right.”
“She’s not young,” Joe said gently. “This may be the beginning of the end for her.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.
“You know perfectly well what it means. Lou may have to give up the shop and find someplace to live where she can be taken care of, that’s all.”
“Joe’s right,” Lilly concurred. “She’s been old forever, but now…”
“She felt dizzy and called for help. She didn’t keel over in her pudding at dinner. There’s nothing wrong with asking for help when you don’t feel well.”
“Of course not, Norah, but when you’re old…”
Though Lilly and Joe didn’t know it, they were pressing on one of my hot buttons. My hottest button, perhaps. When did we quit respecting age and begin making old people disposable, like tissue or paper cups? Why is it that when an elderly person has something happen to them, we immediately start talking nursing homes or care facilities?
Granted, the elderly don’t have the resilience that younger people do, but they should be given a chance to decide for themselves if they’re capable of carrying on with their own lives. Age and illness make us uncomfortable, I think, and many of us work on the premise “out of sight, out of mind” where the elderly are concerned. I want the elderly to be given the chance to make their own decisions as long as they can. Why? Because if I can’t do that when I get to be Auntie Lou’s age, I’m going to be fighting mad, that’s why. So I’d better start now to make sure that’s in place when I get as far over the hill as Auntie Lou is.
The elderly, animals, little kids, those are my passions. God made me a nurturer and gave me a couple extra doses of the nurturing serum. I can’t help myself. I’m the only person I know who started a Goldfish Rescue Program when she was nine years old. It’s my little secret, but I still have friends in the banquet industry who call me if a wedding party decorates their tables with bowls full of goldfish. Those fish rarely go home with the partygoers and rather than having a group flush, they call me and I dole them out to people who want them.
Granted, it cuts into my own goldfish selling business, but I don’t care. I just carry more guppies and neon tetras to make up for it. I’ve even thought of only handling rescued animals and just selling animal food and accessories….
Then I realized that both Joe and Lilly were staring at me, waiting for me to say something.
“Don’t get me started on this,” I muttered. “For now we just have to think about Auntie Lou and her best interests.”
As I watched Joe and Lilly’s expressions I realized that something I’d said didn’t fit for them. “We” have to think about Auntie Lou’s welfare. Was that the rub?
“What about her family?” Lilly wondered. “Shouldn’t they be notified?”
“She doesn’t have any.”
/> “No one?” Joe, he of the massive family tree, sounded surprised, too.
“We’re not all as lucky as you, Joe,” I reminded him gently.
He grinned. “True, but there’s a price to pay for a large extended family, you know.”
“Piano recitals,” I groaned.
“And don’t forget band concerts, boxcar derbys, 4-H demonstrations and junior high science fairs. And my youngest nephew,” Joe said with a shudder, “has just started violin lessons.”
“Whatever night his recital is, I’m busy. Far too busy to come. Give the family my regards and tell them how sorry I am not to be there.”
Joe regarded me fondly. “Coward.”
“I like to think of it as Auditory Safety, something that should be taught in every music class and lesson.”
And the conversation drifted on to more cheerful things than Auntie Lou’s next step.
Chapter Twenty
Auntie Lou and hospitals do not get along. She doesn’t like the bed, the food and the clothing, especially not the clothing.
Nick and I walked into her room to find her huddled in the bed in her floor-length nightgown with cotton ruffles that stand so high around her neck they obscure her chin. She held the sheet close to her face as if she might have the need to dive under the covers on a moment’s notice. A hospital nightie—the kind with air-conditioning in the back—lay discarded at the foot of her bed.
“Don’t these people have any sort of propriety?” was her greeting. “They wanted me to go for tests in that…that…bikini!”
Nick and I both stared at the offending garment. A bikini on an elephant, maybe, but we weren’t there to argue.
“How are you feeling, Lou?” he asked gently.
“Like going home. These doctors don’t know what to do with me. They say I’m a hopeless case.”
“Hopelessly stubborn,” said a warm voice with a chuckle and Dr. Chase Andrews walked through the door. “Hi, Norah, how’s the Ark?”
Dr. Andrews is daddy to Mr. Tibbles and Scram, two cats who, thanks to him and their mommy, Whitney, have more toys, collars and paraphernalia than a team of Clydesdales. All, I might add, purchased lovingly at my store.