by Beth Solheim
"Because he specializes in life insurance, investments, and endowment policies,” Nan said.
"That's right. And why does he cater to them? Because they're old and vulnerable.” Sadie joined Nan at the sink. “Paul came to the cabin last year and tried to sweet talk Jane and me into a policy. Jane was ready to write him a check right there on the spot, but I told her it would be over my dead body."
"What he had to offer seemed like a good deal,” Jane said. “And besides, there's nothing wrong with life insurance."
"It's not a good idea if we can't afford the payments. Paul's sales pitch consisted mostly of sweet talk and compliments. You were ready to spread your legs for the man."
"I was not,” Jane gasped. “You're jealous because he spent most of his time talking to me rather than you."
"My point exactly. You were literally drooling and he knew he had you wrapped around the axle."
"I was not drooling. I was interested in what he had to say."
"Stop it,” Nan said. “Neither of you know the real Paul. At least we've got the option of staying in Pinecone Landing if I accept his proposal."
Nan's hand flew to her mouth. “Oh please forgive me. I was so worried about my own future I forgot about the two of you. Have you figured out what you'll do if you lose the lawsuit?"
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11
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Sadie eyed the clock as she pulled the final plate from the dish drainer. The previous evening's confrontation with Nan had drained her energy. The relentless humidity didn't help, either. She dabbed the towel across the floral design before placing the plate in the cabinet.
Mr. Bakke sat spread-eagled on the davenport attempting to benefit from a cross breeze filtering through the screen door. He had pushed his black socks down around his ankles so his white legs protruded like Popsicle sticks from below his Bermuda shorts. “I sure hope this storm brings relief. I don't have the gumption to get off the sofa.” He fanned the newspaper in front of his face.
"I hear you,” Sadie said. “I thought I'd feel cooler wearing a thong, but it doesn't seem to help."
"You mean a thong as in underwear?” Jane said.
"Do you see any thongs on my feet?"
Jane glanced at Sadie's feet before contorting her face in disgust. “Since when did you start wearing a thong?"
"Since I ordered one from the catalog. It came a few days ago."
"That's repulsive. A woman your age wearing a thong?” The furrows in Jane's forehead deepened. She lifted Sadie's purple miniskirt and took a peek. “Don't those sequins irritate your skin?"
"No. They match the pink in my shirt. It's called Pink Passion. Color coordination is all the rage. It also matches Belly's neckerchief.” Sadie patted her heavily-gelled, pink-spiked hairdo and said, “Big Leon created this color to coordinate with my outfit."
"You look like a wad of bubblegum.” Jane took three steps back toward the kitchen sink. “That's a waste of money. Who'd want to see your old butt in one of those things?"
"I'm sure they'd rather look at my butt than at your flabby ass in those panties you pull all the way up to your boobs. Humongous panties, by the way."
Mr. Bakke quietly raised the newspaper to shield his face.
Sadie reached for her keys. “I'm late picking up the crossers. When I get back, we'll look at my Victoria Secret catalog."
"No we won't,” Jane said. “And let's hope you come back minus a crosser. Maybe one will have found someone on the brink."
"I hope so, too. Preferably Rodney. He frightens the others to the point where they can't concentrate on their declarations.” Sadie bent and tugged at the rug, sliding Belly away from the door. He raised his head in acknowledgement as his stomach rose and fell with each pant. Patting Belly's head, Sadie said, “Rodney's as lazy as Belly. I wouldn't put it past him to crawl into one of the beds at the nursing home. He probably sleeps until it's time for me to pick him up."
Belly laid his head back on the rug, took a deep breath, and burped.
"I wish I could do that. I'd sure feel better.” Sadie rubbed her stomach and looked at Mr. Bakke. “I think Jane's trying to kill us with her cooking.” Sadie signaled she was heading out to pick up the crossers and let the screen door slam behind her
Mr. Bakke frowned at Jane over the top of the newspaper. “What exactly was it you served tonight for supper?"
"That recipe I showed you from the Taste of Home magazine."
"I don't remember the photo looking like that,” he said. “What was all that blue stuff in it?"
"I added a few of my own ideas,” Jane said.
"I'm glad to hear that. I'd hate to think there was a misprint."
"Nobody's forcing you to eat here, you know. If you don't like my cooking, you can eat at the lodge. Or better yet, if you're so darn fussy you can do you own cooking.” Jane hung the kitchen towel inside the cabinet door before slamming it sharply.
Mr. Bakke patted the cushion. “Come and sit by me. You know I love your cooking."
Belly moved from the comfort of the rug and resituated himself in front of the screen door. His left rear paw scratched haphazardly at the pink neckerchief. As footsteps drew closer to the cabin, his tail thumped against the screen.
Aanders rapped his knuckles against the wood frame and looked through the screen door. “Sadie?” Seeing Jane approach, he asked, “Is Sadie here?"
She'll be back in about twenty minutes. Come in. I baked some cookies this afternoon.” Before Mr. Bakke could comment, Jane held up a finger in warning. “I followed the recipe exactly the way it was written."
"How are you doing, son?” Mr. Bakke folded the newspaper and looked up at Aanders.
Aanders stared at a peanut he pulled from the peanut butter cookie before breaking it in half with his front teeth. “I'm okay."
"You sure?"
"Yah.” He drained the glass of milk Jane set in front of him and sought permission to take a second cookie.
The pair sat on the sofa and watched the last fifteen minutes of Wheel of Fortune. As each new letter was exposed, they shouted out their guesses. When the final commercial played across the screen, Mr. Bakke said, “If you need to talk, you know where to find me."
Nodding to acknowledge Mr. Bakke, Aanders crouched and let Belly lick the traces of cookie from his fingers. “I need to talk to Sadie."
"Here I am,” Sadie sang out as she crossed the porch and opened the door. “I just got back from giving our guests a ride."
"I know,” Aanders said with a smile.
"Want a cookie, Aanders?” Sadie handed the cookie platter to Aanders.
"No thanks. I already had a couple."
The van's occupants filed in behind Sadie and sat on the remaining vacant chairs. Belly placed his large head on Theo's leg and snorted a welcome.
"Keep your worthless canine on the other side of the room,” Theo grumbled. “He's got drool hanging out of his mouth again. Can't you put that creature outside?"
"He's not my dog,” Sadie said.
"Belly doesn't like to be outside when Sadie's in the cabin,” Aanders said.
"I know that, dear,” Jane said. “I didn't ask you to put him out."
"Theo wants me to put him out,” Sadie explained. She turned and stared at Aanders.
Biting back at her sister, Jane said, “Well how am I supposed to know that? You didn't tell me they were back."
"What do you think I went to the nursing home for?” Sadie said. “To pick out a room for you?"
"To pick up the crossers,” Aanders said.
Nodding sharply at Aanders’ reply, Sadie's breath caught in her throat. She whispered, “What did you say?"
"I said you went to the nursing home to pick up the crossers."
Sadie's knees buckled before she moved toward Aanders. She grabbed at the back of a chair. “How do you know that?"
"Tim told me."
Theo looked at Sadie and pointed at Aanders. “Is he dead, too?
"
"I'm not dead. I'm alive just like Sadie and Jane and Mr. Bakke,” Aanders said, gesturing as he recited their names.
"Then why can he see us if he's not dead? I thought you said only death coaches can see the dead."
Sinking into the chair, Sadie grabbed Aanders’ hand and pointed toward Tim. “Who's that?"
"My best friend, Tim.” Aanders added, “I can see the other crossers in here, too."
"Oh my dear Lord,” Sadie gasped.
"Would you please clarify this so I can better understand,” Theo said. “You mean this child is a death coach? And he's challenged with the same responsibility you've been given?"
"Oh my Lord,” Sadie said again. “This can't be. It simply can't be."
"What can't be, Sister?"
Moaning in dismay, Sadie said, “I refuse to accept it."
"Accept what?” Jane's voice rose with concern.
"This has got to be a mistake. Aanders can't possibly be the next death coach. Something's wrong."
"I tend to agree. I'm experiencing the same level of skepticism,” Theo said. “A child assisting with decisions of such import? That's ludicrous."
"Aanders is a death coach? What are you talking about?” Jane said.
Music blared from the inner room, causing all heads to turn toward the door. Sadie shouted at Rodney to turn down the volume. When he failed to honor her request, she marched into the inner room, yanked the cord from the wall, and returned with the clock radio. She wrapped the cord around the red plastic before placing it in a drawer.
Rodney shouted from behind the door. “I'll get even with you, witch."
"Not if I get even with you first, you big toad.” Sadie slammed the drawer and reopened it to stuff in the end of the cord.
Mr. Bakke said to Jane, “Let's go out on the porch. I'm confused.” After folding his newspaper, he took Jane by the hand and led her through the door. He looked back over his shoulder before whispering, “Did I hear Sadie say Aanders is a death coach?"
Looking toward the inner room where Rodney's rantings continued to build, Sadie warned Aanders, “You stay away from Rodney. He's one mean crosser and I don't want you anywhere near him. Do you understand?"
"I won't. Not after what Tim told me,” Aanders said. He looked around the room. “I don't want to be anywhere near these people.” His gaze lingered on Theo and the briefcase. “I didn't ask to be a death coach. I'm just a kid."
"You're a loser, too,” emanated from the inner room. “I've seen you moping around like a girl since your buddy died. Get a life, kid. Your friend's dead. Too bad."
Tim rose and walked to the inner room door. “Leave Aanders alone. Leave us all alone. I hate you.” Tim leaned against the wall, sobbing.
Laughter came from behind the door. “You big baby. Now why did you go and hurt my feelings? You ruined my day."
Aanders joined Tim near the door and put his arm around him. “It's ok. I'll stay away from him."
Theo sat erect and pulled his briefcase close to his chest. “Just what we need. Additional conflict. It's hard enough recalling Sadie's instructions without worrying about Rodney."
Sadie joined the boys. “You're not exactly my choice for a death coach, Aanders. I would have preferred someone more mature."
"I'm not going to do it.” Looking at the crossers sitting around the table, Aanders said, “I'm going to pretend I never saw you. Nobody asked if I wanted to be a death coach so I'm not going to do it.” Setting his jaw, he declared, “You're going to have to find someone else."
Sadie shook her head slowly. “You don't have a choice. You've been selected. That's all there is to it."
"You can do it, Aanders. You can learn from Sadie. She knows everything,” Tim said. “She's been doing it a long time and will be a good teacher."
Lora leaned forward. “Tim's right. I trust Sadie. She taught me how to make a death decision. I know what I want, but I have to wait to find someone on the brink before I can complete my journey."
Michael looked up at his mother and then at Sadie before scuffing his shoe against the wooden floor. He hid behind his mother and peeked out at Sadie with concern.
"I've got more years of experience than I care to remember,” Sadie said. “You've got a big job ahead of you, Aanders, but I'll be here to guide you as you learn."
Sadie winked at Michael. It was time to get Michael to admit his true feelings. Every time Lora talked about rejoining her husband, Michael appeared agitated. If she could get him to draw on his inner strength and admit his true feelings, it would give the child a chance to have a say in his death decision. Sadie knew it would be the opposite of his mother's. She also knew she needed to force the subject at the next round table session.
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12
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Paul Brink's secretary ushered Carl into Paul's office. She placed two folders on the hand-carved mahogany desk before asking Carl if he wanted a fresh cup of coffee.
"How'd you manage to train her to do that? Most secretaries won't offer coffee anymore. That equal rights thing is way overrated,” Carl said.
"No training involved. I hinted at what I liked during the interview and she listened."
"What else did you hint at?” Carl didn't need to ask because he often saw Paul's secretary leave the building after hours. Paul's previous secretary suddenly left his employ after an irate husband stopped by the office and found a locked door.
Paul's penchant for finding voluptuous secretaries chewed at Carl as envy crept back into his thoughts. When they were younger, every time Carl zeroed in on a new conquest, he was bombarded with questions about Paul. Without even trying, Paul fascinated women with his dark, brooding looks and penetrating green eyes, and Carl had to struggle to keep his jealousy at bay. Waiting for the opportunity to provide comfort to Paul's rejects seemed the best way to score.
"None of your damn business, Carl. What happens in this office stays in this office."
"Just like Vegas,” Carl said. He sat on the leather sofa and put one foot up on the coffee table.
Carl knew Paul had dropped a bundle of moola on the furniture in his office. The room contained leather items purchased from a showroom in New York. The furniture was grouped around an ornate area rug, imported from Italy, sitting under a heavy iron and glass coffee table. A mahogany desk finished out the room's grand design.
"Get your foot off the table. You'll scratch the glass.” Paul batted at Carl's boot.
Carl stretched his leg further over the table, placing his foot on a magazine. He pulled it over with the weight of his heel. “Satisfied?"
"I said put your foot on the floor."
"You're not threatening the future sheriff, are you?"
"Believe me Carl, your manners won't improve when you win the election. If it takes a threat to keep your feet on the floor, then that's what I'll do."
Carl slapped his thigh. “Now that's what I like to hear. You said when I'm elected, not if I'm elected."
"I don't know why you want the headache of being elected. It's a lot more responsibility."
"It's double the salary, too. I'm not like you,” Carl said. “I didn't come into a lot of money over the past five years."
Paul tapped his temple. “I used my brain. I picked the right deal.” He cast an accusing glance toward Carl. “Kind of like the way you're taking advantage of Judge Kimmer's passion. I had coffee with Kimmer this morning. He droned on and on and on about fishing. The worst part was I couldn't talk that cheapskate into a new investment.” Paul lifted a letter opener and ran his index finger over the sharp tip. “A whole half-hour listening to that crap. He talked about this piece of tackle and that piece of tackle. Like I care. Every time I tried to change the subject, he'd butt in and start all over again."
"I knew it. I knew it.” Carl cast a line over the coffee table and feigned battling a big catch. “He fell for it. I knew he would."
Shaking his head in amazement, Paul said
, “I like your idea of timing it right and having your name splashed all over the front page. Getting that resort away from the Witt sisters will be a major coup. A reporter will be all over it."
"You know me. I always get what I want. Why are you so surprised?"
"I'm not surprised, I'm skeptical.” Running his hands over his hair and patting down the back, Paul said, “Just what exactly does the lawsuit say?"
Carl plopped his foot on the table again and put his hands behind his head. “It's called a Constructive Trust. In other words, a judge has to determine if a constructive trust can be imposed. He can impose one if he believes it morally wrong for the current owner to retain ownership of the property."
"Morally? Like if the current owner is committing a crime?"
Carl had the same misgivings when his attorney explained it so he understood Paul's skepticism. “It's a lot of legal stuff, but it made sense when he put it in terms I could understand.” He leaned back trying to remember how the attorney cut through the legal terminology.
Lifting his cap and scratching his scalp with his little finger, Carl said, “When a person tells a family member he wants his property disposed of in a particular manner and that family member doesn't act upon those wishes, that family member is guilty of unjust enrichment."
"But the judge who handled your grandfather's estate acted on his final wishes."
"That's true. But my attorney said because my aunt has a different version and because she wasn't present during the hearing, it caused the Witt sisters to benefit from an unjust enrichment."
"What kind of money did you promise your aunt to make that claim?” Paul said.
Leaning forward Carl said, “Wipe that smirk off your face. Do I question your business ethics? Besides, anything can happen. My attorney said I had about a seventy-percent chance of winning. I figured I upped that percent by reminding Judge Kimmer about the fun he'll have if I win the lawsuit."
"You wouldn't stand a chance if a different judge heard the case."
"I lucked out when the Witt sisters moved the date up,” Carl said. “The court assigned Kimmer to the hearing when the other judge decided to retire."