Renovating the Richardsons

by Virginia Smith

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Published in association with the Books & Such Management, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.com.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota

  Cover illustration © Chris Garborg

  RENOVATING THE RICHARDSONS

  Copyright © 2016 Virginia Smith

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Smith, Virginia, 1960-

  Renovating the Richardsons / Virginia Smith.

  pages; cm.—(Tales from the Goose Creek B&B; Book 2)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-6479-1 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-6480-7 (eBook)

  I. Title.

  PS3619.M5956R46 2016

  813'.6—dc23

  2015021177

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Stripping Wallpaper–the DIY Method

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Millie’s Lemonade Cookies

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Goose Creek Softball Team

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Millie’s Healthy Egg Salad

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Don’t miss the rest of the story!

  Bonus!

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Of course he’ll do it. When’s the first practice?”

  Al Richardson gaped at the woman before him. She looked like Millie, but his beloved wife would never agree to such an outrageous suggestion. The woman seated at Millie’s dressing table with half the curlers still in her hair and a phone pressed to her ear must be an impostor.

  From his perch on the corner of the mattress he ventured an interruption. “Excuse me.”

  She held up a finger to shush him and then used it to plug her free ear, attention focused on the conversation on the other side of the cell signal. “Thursdays and Saturdays are good.” Pause. “Uh huh.”

  During the next pause he interjected with more volume. “You’re wasting your breath.”

  She shot an irritated glance at his reflection in the mirror and then said in a sweet voice, “No, but I’ll make sure he does by Thursday.”

  He got to his feet and stiffened his spine. Time for a show of the steely resolve for which he was renowned. “I won’t do it—”

  His gaze snagged on the reflection in her mirror. Jaw protruding, brow furrowed like a wheat field at planting time, he looked like an old bear. Their headstrong daughter used to display exactly the same expression when she was six years old and forced to clean her room. He bit back the rest of his sentence, lest he appear childish—and you can’t make me!

  “Seven o’clock is good. He’ll see you then.” Millie disconnected the call and then twisted on her stool to face him. “What were you saying, dear?”

  That innocent expression and round-eyed gaze would not work. Not this time. Al drew himself up to his full height to tower over her. “I will not play softball on the Fourth of July. I’m not the least bit interested in the sport, and I don’t care a single bit about that ridiculous intra-county game the mayor is so keen on. After thirty-seven years of marriage, you should know that.” Encouraged by her silence, he strengthened his denial. “What’s more, I’ll thank you not to volunteer me for anything without consulting me first. I’m certainly capable of making my own decisions, and I insist on doing so.”

  “Now Albert, don’t get worked up. Remember your blood pressure.”

  The gentle reprimand irritated him. He set his teeth. “How can I forget when you mention it five times a day?”

  When the last curler had been removed from her hair she stood and crossed the floor, nightgown fluttering around her knees. “I love you and I want you to stay healthy. Which is why you should participate in this community event. The fresh air will be good for you.” She rose to her tiptoes to press a kiss on his cheek and then headed for the closet.

  Determined not to be softened by a kiss, he whirled and followed. “What if I fall? I’m not young anymore, Millie. Old bones are brittle, you know. I could break a hip.” He warmed to the theme. “Or an arm, maybe both. Then where would I be? Only two years and eleven months from retirement, and how can I use a computer keyboard with casts on both arms? I’ll be forced into early retirement, and then all your plans for the B&B will be ruined.”

  There. Let her think about that. He indulged in a satisfied grimace. The plans for her precious bed and breakfast, which was already chomping through his financial investments like a herd of rabbits in a carrot patch, depended on his income until he reached thirty years of service and his pension was fully vested.

  She pulled a shirt from the closet. “Goodness, you’re being dramatic this morning.”

  “I feel the situation warrants it.” He sucked in a breath and spoke in a tone that refused argument. “I will not play in that softball game.”

  “Of course not, silly.” Clothing draped across her arm, she swept past him on her way to the bathroom. “You’re too old.”

  Huh?

  The words transported him into some sort of surreal existence where people spoke in opposites and nothing made sense. He shook his head sharply and then darted after her. “Stop.”

  Turning in the bathroom doorway, she aimed an inquisitive look his way. “Yes, Albert?”

  “Didn’t you just tell the mayor that I would be at the practice Thursday night?”

  “Yes.” She blinked those adorable round eyes, lashes fluttering like a schoolgirl’s. Then a smile broke free and a pair of dimples punctuated her cheeks. “You’re going to be the team manager. You know, take care of the equipment and help the coach with the lineup and practices and so on.”

  The bathroom door closed, shutting her away from view. Al stared at the chipped paint—something else that needed to be repaired in this crumbling old house—and took a moment to gather his thoughts. Not a player. A manager. He’d pace along the baseline, consult his clipboard, and tell the next batter when it was time to warm up. Probably have to wear the team T-shirt, which would make him look like a pudgy old man. On the bright side, he’d be among those in charge at one of the most anticipated events on Goose Creek’s summer calendar. Second-in-command to the coach. An object of respect, and he wouldn’t have to jeopa
rdize life and limb.

  The door opened and Millie emerged wearing old jeans and one of the stained button-up shirts that pretty much made up her Saturday wardrobe these days, since she spent hours working on the house. She managed to make even old work clothes look nice.

  Tilting her head back, she looked him in the eye. “Well? You’ll do it, won’t you?”

  Though he should dig in his heels and refuse on principle, the proposition did deserve consideration. That was a defining difference between Al and his wife—she made decisions in a flash and then leaped feet-first into them. He preferred a measured, systematic examination of all aspects of a situation before making a commitment. And he could not do that while she looked at him with that indulgent smile hovering around her mouth.

  He avoided a direct answer. “I don’t understand why you felt the need to accept on my behalf. It’s as if I have no say in my own affairs anymore.” He drew a breath, prepared to point out the many expenditures inflicted on his bank account by her determination to renovate the Victorian eyesore they’d bought—most committed without his prior approval. She stopped him with an enchanting smile.

  “Because, Albert,” she explained in a reasonable tone, “if I’d asked first, you would have said no.”

  She left the room while he was trying to come up with an answer. No doubt the reasoning made perfect sense to her. Call it wifely logic, a thought process that husbands found incomprehensible but were subject to nonetheless.

  “I might still say no,” he called after her.

  From the hallway Millie’s voice floated back to him. “Come and have breakfast before your blood sugar dips too low.”

  Shaking his head, Albert did as he was told.

  The stools at the soda fountain inside Cardwell Drugstore were all occupied when the sleigh bells on the front door announced Al’s arrival. Heads turned and then dipped in greeting. After a quick scan of the occupants, both seated at the counter and at one of the tables beyond, Al’s stomach muscles released a few tightly wound knots. His nemesis, the man who had mounted a full-scale invasion of the sanctity and peace of Goose Creek’s Saturday morning sanctuary, was not here. Thank the Lord.

  Al acknowledged his fellow Creekers as he made his way to the table where Bill Zeigler and Pete Lawson waved him over. He settled himself in one of the two empty chairs, and Lucy Cardwell set a steaming mug of coffee on the scarred Formica in front of him.

  He smiled his thanks. “Could I get some—?”

  “Honey.” She pulled a plastic bear-shaped bottle from the deep pocket in her apron and plunked it down beside his mug. “I know. Just don’t overdo it or you’ll have an episode and I’ll have to cut you off.”

  Al set his teeth in a grimace as he drizzled a thin line of the thick, sweet stuff into his mug. The long arm of Millie reached into every nook and cranny of Goose Creek. She had agents everywhere. Stirring, he examined the cinnamon roll Bill was tackling enthusiastically. Thick and gooey, dripping with icing. Maybe he could… A glance at Lucy’s forbidding expression banished the thought. Asking would only result in the embarrassment of denial in front of his fellow Creekers. With a sigh, he set down his spoon and sipped honey-flavored coffee.

  Pete leaned back against the spindly metal chair and commented to the room at large, “Looks like they’re about ready to start on the grass.”

  Everyone knew what he meant. Al’s gaze strayed to the drugstore’s front window, which looked out on Main Street. At the west end, hidden from his vantage point, a water tower stood sentinel over the town. Just over a month ago the mayor had awarded the task of repainting the town’s landmark to a woman from Georgia. Her plan called for a mural to wrap around the tower’s barrel, a work of art that would enhance Goose Creek’s image. She’d hired Little Norm Pilkington, the son of a lifelong Creeker with a loud mouth and a penchant for stirring up trouble, to be her assistant. In the days since the pair began work the difference in the tower was already obvious, and they had not even started on the mural. Gone were the baby-vomit chartreuse paint and the uneven lettering, blessedly covered over with a nondescript primer gray that Al found immensely soothing.

  “Wish they’d hurry,” Chuck Geddes commented from his stool at the counter. “I’m itching to see it done.”

  “You’d best be getting you some cream for that itch, then. It’s gonna be a month or so.” Bill, chuckling at his own clever comment, sliced off a huge bite of cinnamon roll and shoved it in his mouth.

  The door burst open, the jingle of sleigh bells announcing a new arrival. When he caught sight of the man who bounded—there was no other word to describe the near-leap with which he entered the store—Al’s stomach twisted into a new mass of knots. He slumped down in the metal chair. Was it too much to ask for one day of peace?

  “Morning, fellow Geese!”

  Franklin Thacker pushed the door closed behind him with a nerve-jangling clang. Or maybe it wasn’t the bells but the man himself who buffeted Al’s nerves. A few half-hearted murmurs from various points in the store answered him, but not a single man met the newcomer’s eye.

  Oblivious, Thacker strode toward them. “I’ve been thinking. We need an official greeting. Like the Vulcans with Live long and prosper. Only it could be about geese, you know? Something like this.” He stopped, planted his hands in his armpits, and began to flap his elbows, shouting, “Honk! Honk!”

  Across the table, Pete’s gaze settled on Al. A guilty flush warmed Al’s face. Everyone blamed him for the Thacker infestation, and rightly so. After all, the man occupied the cubicle next to Al’s at work, and had for several years. No one else could possibly know Thacker’s obnoxious personality better than Al. And what did he do? He sold the man his house. Paved the way for the invasion. Rolled the Trojan Horse inside the city gates and opened the trap door.

  It was all Millie’s fault, of course, but no one blamed her. No one except Al.

  One more reason buying that Victorian eyesore was a bad idea.

  But of course he’d known that all along. Hadn’t he tried to be the voice of reason? Begged her to reconsider? Pointed out the flaws in her plan of renovating the real estate disaster and opening a bed and breakfast to the point of nearly losing his sanity? If only he could somehow have communicated to her how extraordinarily annoying Thacker and his wife were, maybe she would have reconsidered the decision to sell their comfortable little home to them.

  He heaved a sigh. Too late now. The bomb had exploded and all he could do was live with the fallout.

  Thacker caught sight of him. He abandoned his attempt to create a Goose Creek greeting and advanced. “Bert! How’s it hanging, buddy? Haven’t seen you since, let’s see.” Thacker made a show of examining his wristwatch. “Since five o’clock yesterday.” His hee-hawing laughter ended with a snort.

  Al endured a thud on his back as Thacker rounded the table and claimed the empty chair. The man settled himself and then shouted toward Lucy, “How ’bout a cup of joe, you sweet thang, you?” He guffawed. “And some sugar, sugar.”

  The temperature in the room dropped an icy ten degrees. Bill tackled the last bite of his pastry with single-minded focus, and Pete seemed to have discovered a fascinating aspect of his fingernails. Al risked a glance toward Lucy and discovered the source of the winter-like chill in the store. If her expression were any more frigid, her lips would be in danger of shattering.

  The door opened again, and the warmth of a Kentucky summer day flooded the glacial interior of Cardwell’s. The sight of Mayor Jerry Selbo entering with his long-legged stride and sunny smile restored an atmosphere of breathability to the air. Lucy’s lips thawed enough to mutter, “Morning, mayor,” in a tone that approached her normally cheerful greeting. A collective breath was exhaled.

  “Morning, everyone.” He flashed a smile around the room and made his way past the counter to the table beside Al’s. “I’ve just come from the Rightmiers’ place. Wilma is designing the logo for our team shirts. It’s looking good.”

&
nbsp; Lucy emerged from behind the counter with two steaming mugs. She placed the first in front of Jerry with a gracious nod and plunked the second down before Thacker so hard coffee sloshed over the rim.

  “Oops.” She made a swipe at the spillage with the dish towel she kept thrown over her shoulder before returning to her perch.

  Bill twisted around in his chair to face the mayor. “So how many players we got now?”

  “Only six.” Jerry lifted the mug to his lips and blew the steam away. “But I’m still making calls.”

  “Wish I could help you out.” Thacker rose, crossed to the counter, and picked up the sugar dispenser. “I’d be out there with the rest of the flock if I didn’t have a trick knee. Could I have a spoon, honey bun?”

  The last was directed at Lucy, who maintained a glacial glare while she plucked a spoon from the silverware bin and plopped it in front of him.

  “That’s a shame.” Jerry shook his head. “We need all the help we can get.”

  Al examined the mayor closely. He sounded completely sincere. Did he not recognize the bullet he’d dodged? If Thacker joined the Goose Creek softball team, Creekers would stay away in droves.

  Jerry met his eye over the rim of his mug and his smile widened. “But we do have a team manager.” He lifted his coffee in Al’s direction. “Right, Al?”

  Suddenly the focus of attention, Al shifted in the hard chair.

  “Hey, good for you, Al.” Bill leaned forward to slap his shoulder.

  Shaking his head, Al raised his hands. “Hold up a minute. I haven’t agreed to do it.”

  Jerry’s smile faded. “You haven’t? But Millie told me you would.”

  “I said I’d think about it.” Al shut his mouth before adding that his wife did not have the authority to volunteer him.

  “You ought to do it, Al,” Pete said. “I wish I could get involved, but business at the hardware store picks up in summer. I don’t have time.”

  “Hey!” Thacker straightened, a bright gaze circling the room. “I’ll be the manager. That way I can help out and my trick knee won’t get in the way.”