Weaving the Strands

by Barbara Hinske

  A change of scenery might do them all good. God knows she wanted to get out of here. Running into anyone from her old neighborhood was almost a daily embarrassment. Their quizzical looks and phony expressions of sympathy didn’t fool her. They had always assumed that Paul was her sugar daddy; that she was beneath them; that she was now getting just what she deserved. How had her life taken this turn, anyway? When she met Paul, who seemed like such a nice, upstanding man, she thought that she had finally overcome her affinity for bad boys. You fool, she thought. You settled on a married man. You fell for the oldest line in the book.

  Maybe in a new job far away from here she could press the reset button on her life. Maybe she could be a mother that her children could look up to. Her résumé would be in the hands of this recruiter by the time he got to his office the next morning.

  Chapter 10

  Frank Haynes logged off his laptop and rubbed his eyes with both hands. He glanced at his Rolex and saw that it was almost midnight; he was knocking off early by recent standards. Ever since those idiot Delgado brothers had screwed up their creative investments with the pension fund assets—potentially exposing them all to criminal charges—Haynes had assiduously managed his financial affairs. There was no telling when Scanlon might subpoena his records. No trail would lead from his fast-food franchise businesses to the pension fund.

  But he couldn’t keep working like this forever, especially since he suddenly had to actually show up at his Town Hall office on a regular basis and do more work there. Now that he had things well covered up, maybe it was time to hire a bookkeeper. He leaned back in his deeply tufted leather chair and steepled his fingers as he considered the possibility. He’d need to have someone trained before the busy holiday season. He didn’t want to run an ad in the local paper. An employee connected with someone affected by the pension fund problems might be inclined to dig around in his books. An out-of-towner would be just the thing. He’d get someone with a restaurant/management degree. Haynes smiled his private Grinch Who Stole Christmas grin. He’d contact an employment agency the next day.

  ***

  By midmorning, Frank Haynes had engaged a recruiter to find him a bookkeeper and had placed orders for next week’s inventory. He needed to tackle the payroll, but for the first time in weeks was feeling ahead of schedule. He swiveled in his chair to look out the window at the lush Indian summer day. When was the last time he’d actually been outside in the sunshine? Haynes pushed himself back from his desk, tossed his jacket over his arm, and locked up Haynes Enterprises. He’d just take a short drive in the country—no more than an hour—and would be back in plenty of time to submit payroll.

  Haynes opened the moon roof on his Mercedes sedan and turned his car in the direction of Rosemont, just as he did every day. With Maggie Martin firmly ensconced there, his dream of owning the place was further away than ever, but old habits die hard.

  The trees surrounding the estate were in glorious color, deepening his sense of envy. He forced his eyes back to the road and took the turn toward the Shawnee River on the outskirts of town. Maybe he’d even stop in at The Mill for a bite to eat. He was accelerating into a curve when a stray dog lunged into his lane. Haynes braked sharply and swerved. The fine German engineering responded to his skilled hands, and he narrowly avoided the animal. Frightened, the dog skittered to the berm.

  Haynes pulled into a large grassy area just ahead and shut off the engine. He grabbed a Forever Friends Animal Shelter leash and a handful of treats from his glove box and went in search of the stray. Forever Friends received animals found along this stretch of road all the time. Probably some poor creature whose owner had brought him here and dumped him when he didn’t want him anymore. Damn those fools, he thought. Why didn’t they just bring the dog to Forever Friends? Isn’t that why he had started the shelter in the first place?

  He found the stray pacing along the berm a half-mile down the road. Hesitant at first, the hungry dog finally succumbed to the treats, and Haynes was able to loop the leash around his neck. He crouched down and ran his hands over the animal. His ribs showed and his hair was matted and dirty; he’d been on his own for quite a while.

  “No worries now, buddy,” Haynes spoke softly. “We’ll find you someone who will take care of you; you won’t have to live like this anymore.”

  Haynes and the dog trudged back to the car, where the backseat contained a kennel that Haynes regularly used for strays. It felt good to stretch his legs on such a sunny day. He allowed the dog to sniff and mark as many spots as it wanted along the way. They were no more than thirty feet from the Mercedes when a black sedan with darkly tinted windows pulled into the grassy area and blocked their progress.

  Haynes groaned inwardly as the portly form of Chuck Delgado emerged from the car.

  “Frankie boy,” Delgado called. “What you doin’ out here walking that piss-poor mutt?”

  Haynes ignored the question. “Why are you here, Charles? I thought we agreed it would be safest for everyone if we kept our distance except when we were both present for town council meetings.”

  “Somethin’s changed, Frankie.”

  Haynes raised an eyebrow.

  “Wheeler may be crackin’. Sources on the inside say he’s tryin’ to cut a deal with that pansy Scanlon.”

  “We always knew that was a risk. He doesn’t know anything that would link us to him.”

  “The boys don’t like it, Frankie. They think it may be time for Wheeler to have an accident. Maybe an assisted suicide.”

  “Damn it, Chuck. We can’t go around murdering people. For God’s sake, he’s got a wife and kids. I hear his thirteen-year-old son is having a terrible time. We should be helping his family, not trying to kill him.”

  “Don’t go gettin’ soft on me here, Frankie. You’re in this up to your ass, like the rest of us. When he talks, we all go down.”

  “If he has a suspicious death, that’ll put the spotlight on this whole mess even more. Are you guys clueless? That’s what happens with cover-ups. We were careful. Wheeler doesn’t have any information to trade for a plea deal. Did it ever occur to you that Scanlon might have started this rumor to get us to do something stupid?”

  Haynes could see this possibility hadn’t occurred to Delgado. God, what a moron the guy was. How in the hell had he ever let himself get mixed up with this bunch of goons?

  “Okay, Frankie, I’ll talk to the boys.”

  “I’m out, Charles. I’m done with all of you. This is our last meeting in private. Don’t contact me again.”

  Delgado lunged and grabbed Haynes by the lapel. “You’re out when—and if—we say you’re out. You got that Frankie?” He released Haynes with a shove that sent him stumbling to keep his balance.

  Haynes watched silently as Delgado swaggered back to his car and pulled away, the stray dog whimpering at his side.

  Chapter 11

  By the end of the week, Gloria hadn’t run into Glenn at the dining hall or received a call from him. Probably thinks I’m making a pass at him, the old fool, she thought with a trace of irritation. She knew that other women swarmed the widowers at Fairview Terraces. She had never chased after a man and was not about to do so now.

  Gloria picked up one of the volumes Glenn had dropped off and turned again to Walt Whitman. She read a poem each morning, right after her daily Bible study. Knitting and poetry—what an odd combination of things he’d brought into her life, she mused.

  Across the complex, Glenn again checked his watch. He had been up and out before six every morning this week helping to set up the new food pantry at his church—way too early to take Gloria up on her offer of breakfast. The whole idea was ridiculous, really. He didn’t even like biscuits and gravy. But he longed for someone interesting to talk to. Not that his children and grandchildren weren’t interesting. And God knows they had kept close tabs on him since Nancy died. But he wanted someone who shared the perspectives of his generation.

  The hour hand finally clicked to
seven o’clock, and Glenn reached for the phone and dialed. It took Gloria six rings to answer. He almost gave up, fearing she might still be asleep and he’d be waking her. When he heard her steady “Hello, this is Gloria,” he was suddenly speechless.

  “Hello,” she repeated.

  “Gloria,” he replied, before she could hang up. “It’s Glenn. I hope I’m not calling too early?”

  “Not at all. I’ve been up for hours. Was just reading Walt Whitman, as a matter of fact. Thanks to you.”

  “That’s great. Glad to hear it. Are you enjoying him?”

  “Enormously. I’m so grateful you shared your books with me.”

  “Those books are for you, Gloria. I wanted to thank you for finishing the blanket.”

  “That was my gift to Cindy—and Nancy. No need to thank me. And now I’ve found that I enjoy knitting. So the blessing was all mine.”

  Glenn found himself smiling.

  “I’d like to discuss some of these poems with you,” Gloria added. “Did you get my note about breakfast? Would you like to come over tomorrow morning?”

  “I did. And I’d love to. But please don’t fuss; I’m easy.”

  “I’ll see you at seven thirty. It’ll be fun to fuss for a change.” Gloria replaced the receiver, hoping that she still remembered how to make sausage gravy.

  ***

  Glenn’s windshield wipers were going full blast on the drive to church and the sky was gray in every direction. Blast! he thought. He loved to stretch his old Cadillac on the country roads and had suggested a drive in the county to Gloria during yesterday’s breakfast. She’d readily accepted, but it wouldn’t be worth doing in a pouring rain. He entered the sanctuary feeling downright forlorn.

  The sermon ran long and Glenn had tuned the pastor out before the midpoint. Anxious to see if the weather had cleared up, he shot out of his seat as the final chords of the closing hymn hung in the air and hurried to the front of the receiving line to greet his pastor. With an uncharacteristically curt “insightful message” comment, he shook his pastor’s hand and quickly strode out the large double doors of the narthex. A cloudless blue sky and receding puddles on the walkway greeted him, reflecting a brilliantly sunny afternoon.

  He fired up the Caddy and headed toward home.

  ***

  Gloria had anxiously watched the weather all morning, too. Pleased when the midmorning sun finally began to peek through the clouds, she turned positively tickled when the wind died down to a gentle breeze after eleven o’clock. What a perfect day for a drive. She put her sweater and a rain jacket (just in case) on the chair by her front door, turned to a chapter of Carl Sandburg’s poems in the anthology Glenn had given her, and read until she heard a knock at the door.

  She answered his knock and they set off for the lush countryside surrounding Westbury. Fields had been harvested, and the leaves were near their peak. Glenn turned the radio to the local classical station. They were content to remain silent, taking in the brilliant afternoon to the accompaniment of Haydn.

  Glenn pointed to the sky and recited, “The geese flying south, in a row long and V-shaped, pulling in winter. Sally Andersen.”

  Gloria smiled and nodded. “That they are. Well put.” She turned to him. “Have you heard anything about an ecumenical prayer breakfast on Thanksgiving morning? Some of the nursery staff were talking about it yesterday when I was at the daycare.”

  Glenn glanced at her briefly. “I didn’t know that you’d gone back to rocking babies. I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I just started again. It’s been hard since Nancy’s no longer there with me.”

  Glenn nodded.

  “I’m sorry, Glenn. You know that better than anyone.”

  Glenn cleared his throat. “I know about the breakfast; my church is one of the sponsors. They’re planning to make it an annual event. And I hope they do. It’ll return some of the emphasis of the holiday back to its origin and away from food and football.”

  “I’d like to attend, if I can get myself there.”

  “That won’t be hard,” he replied. “They’re going to have it on the lawn at Fairview Terraces.”

  “Really? I hadn’t heard that. What a wonderful idea.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. It’ll be good to host our Westbury neighbors on our campus.”

  Gloria leaned forward in her seat to read a small roadway marker. “If my memory serves and if it’s still in business, there should be a farm down the next lane that sells apples by the bushel and all sorts of lovely fall produce. If I can get my hands on good apples, I’ll bake you a pie. I’d like to make up for those dreadful biscuits yesterday.”

  “They weren’t dreadful,” he lied. “Best I’ve had in years.” At least the latter part of his statement was true—he hadn’t had biscuits in years. “We’ll find this place. I definitely want to send you home with apples for a pie. Nobody in my family knows how to bake. Everything comes out of the freezer these days.”

  “I know. And it’s so easy and so much better to make from scratch. Plus, it’s a lot of fun. We’ll find apples, don’t you worry.”

  Gloria’s memory was spot on. Before long they had piled a small wagon with varieties for applesauce, pies, and eating, along with acorn squash, Indian corn, and decorative gourds. Gloria was almost giddy. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed these fall delights.

  ***

  Gloria rummaged around in her kitchen for her apple peeler and rolling pin, wondering why in the world she had opened her big mouth and offered to bake a pie. Just like sausage gravy, it had been years since she’d last made a pie. Still, once she’d assembled the ingredients and tools, she found she had retained her touch. She rolled out a thin crust and filled it with sliced fruit, tossed in cinnamon, sugar, and nutmeg. Soon the aroma of the baking pie caressed every corner of her apartment.

  At four o’clock on Thursday afternoon, Gloria set her treasure in a wicker basket lined with a tea towel and left it in front of Glenn’s door. She attached a card on which she had penned:

  Earth’s increase, foison plenty,

  Barns and garners never empty,

  Vines with clust’ring bunches growing,

  Plants with goodly burthen bowing;

  Spring come to you at the farthest

  In the very end of harvest!

  ~The Tempest, Act 4, Sc. 1

  ***

  When Gloria arrived at the dining hall at her usual time for the second seating, she spotted Glenn parked in one of the chairs by the entrance.

  He beamed as he got to his feet and greeted her. “I almost stepped in the best-looking apple pie in the county when I left for dinner tonight! Will you come over for dessert to share a slice? Thought I’d wait here to see if we could sit together at dinner.”

  Neither realized at the time, but Glenn’s invitation would officially mark the start of their romance.

  Chapter 12

  Maggie rose from her seat at the conference table in the council chambers on the top floor of Town Hall.

  “Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” she said to the town council and Special Counsel Alex Scanlon.

  “It was a bitch gettin’ through those protestors,” Chuck Delgado said. “Dumbasses. Like that’s gonna do any good.”

  “They were very vocal and downright mean. Chanting ‘Get rid of Martin!’ I was uneasy walking past them,” Tonya Holmes said. “How long has this been going on, Maggie?”

  “They’ve been out there consistently for the past several weeks. Today’s crowd was larger than the usual handful.”

  “You need to request extra police presence if this continues,” Tonya replied. “Maybe you need a police escort.”

  “You might be right. I’ll think about it. I’ve been coming in early and leaving late to avoid them.”

  “One thing’s for sure, we won’t get re-elected if we don’t fix this mess,” Councilman Russell Isaac stated. “We may all get impeached from office.”


  “No point in speculating on all of this. Protestors or not, we’ve got a serious matter to address during this executive session and a short fuse to contend with before this thing blows up. As you know, Westbury’s pension fund subleases property to Fairview Terraces on a long-term lease. The fund is in year twenty of a ninety-nine-year ground lease of that property. And the pension fund is in default on that lease. The lessor started a foreclosure proceeding last week. We have a short window—maybe four months—to bring the lease current or reach a deal with the lessor.” Maggie paused to let this take root.

  Isaac was the first to speak up. “Are you sure about this? Maybe there’s something wrong with the lessor’s accounting records.”

  “We’ve looked at all that. We’re in arrears.”

  “Have we been collecting from Fairview?” Delgado asked. “Maybe those old fogies are behind.”

  Tonya spun on him. “Honestly, Councilman. Have some respect. We may be in executive session, but we’re still conducting official business.”

  “Relax,” Delgado returned. “It was just an expression.”

  “Tonya’s right, Chuck,” Frank Haynes spoke up. Delgado glared at the reprimand. “I’d like to know the answer to his question, though,” Haynes continued. “Is Fairview current?”

  “Yes, they are,” Maggie answered. “We’ve recently been hit with a fee under the ground lease that hasn’t been passed through to Fairview. That’s why we’re short.”

  Alex broke in. “Has anyone reviewed the ground lease? Maybe we can dispute the increase. We should be able to go back to Fairview to collect the shortage under the sublease.”

  “Won’t that amount to raising rents with no notice on all of those senior citizens? We won’t get re-elected doing that,” Isaac remarked.

  “Not to mention it’s the wrong thing to spring on people with fixed incomes,” Tonya noted dryly.