Renovating the Richardsons

by Virginia Smith

  But today he was earlier than normal. Though most of the vice presidents at the bank where Thomas Jeffries had spent his entire professional career did not work on Saturdays, he always made it a point to be in his office whenever the bank was open. Their hometown of Paducah was four hours’ drive away, and since the time was now just shy of noon, he would have had to leave early.

  “Of course not. I’m surprised to see you, that’s all. Did you take the day off?”

  “I did more than that.” He straightened his spine. “I have an announcement, one I think you’ll approve of.”

  A tickle of discomfort erupted in Susan’s stomach. How well she recognized that granite-like expression. Regardless of his words, she steeled herself against something unpleasant. “Oh?”

  The rumble of wheels over tile drew their attention to Hazel, who rolled her chair forward to plant her elbows on the reception desk, an expectant gaze fixed on Daddy. In the months since Susan bought the animal clinic—with Daddy cosigning the loan, a fact she must never forget or fail to be grateful for—she’d become aware that this reception desk formed a firmly established link in the Goose Creek gossip chain. At least Millie’s actions in spreading news throughout town were always goodhearted. If a client’s cat was about to have kittens in need of a good home, Millie could be counted on to spread the word. Hazel’s news, on the other hand, occasionally held a touch of venom.

  “When is my next appointment?” Susan asked the watchful woman.

  With a glance at the computer monitor, she answered, “Not for thirty minutes.” She settled her chin on her hands, clearly waiting for the announcement.

  Daddy lifted his classic Roman nose into the air and, with a look at Hazel, addressed Susan. “Let’s talk in your office. Perhaps your secretary would be so kind as to run into town and bring us a sandwich.”

  Hazel stiffened in the chair, eyes snapping fire. He might as well have asked her to pick up his laundry. Susan hurried to intercede before the feisty woman, whose feminist leanings were no secret around town, could fire off a retaliating volley.

  “Daddy, she’s a veterinary receptionist, not my secretary.” She flashed an apologetic grimace toward Hazel. “Besides, I have ham and cheese in the fridge. We’ll share.”

  She hooked a hand around her father’s arm, halting him in the act of reaching for his wallet, and dragged him through the swinging door, safely out of firing range of Hazel’s sharp tongue.

  In the clinic hallway, she whispered, “Please don’t insult Hazel. She might quit.”

  He cast a disdainful glance toward the door. “Let her quit. You can replace her easily enough.”

  She heaved an exasperated sigh. “You have no idea how hard it is to find people who’ll work for the salary I can afford to pay. Besides, Hazel has a lot of friends in this town. Business is finally starting to pick up, and I can’t afford to lose a single patient.”

  “Don’t coddle your employees, Susan. Be friendly, yes, but they need to know who’s boss.”

  Several replies leaped to mind. This little clinic was not a bank, and she was not a vice president with a commanding presence. And while Paducah might not be a major cosmopolitan city, it was ten times the size of tiny Goose Creek.

  Instead, she left his comment unanswered and retrieved her sandwich from the clinic’s dorm-size refrigerator. When they were settled in her office with the door shut and her neat desk between them, she divided her sandwich and set the bigger half on a tissue in front of him.

  “There.” She smiled at him and picked up her lunch. “Now what’s this about an announcement?”

  “I’ve decided it’s time for a change, both personally and professionally.” He leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, clasped his hands, and rested them on his shin. “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this, and I’m satisfied it’s the right move.”

  The discomfort that had begun a few moments before intensified. Susan set her untouched sandwich down. “What move is that?”

  He cleared his throat. “I’ve decided to sell the house and move to Goose Creek.”

  The silence in the office served as a backdrop to a loud crash that reverberated inside Susan’s mind—the sound of her love life, her relationship with Justin, shattering like a crystal bowl smashed with a sledgehammer.

  The discovery of mold succeeded in doing something rare indeed: it dampened Millie’s enthusiasm for further work on the house. After Justin returned to his project on the chimneys and the back door slammed behind Albert downstairs, she retrieved her putty knife and made a halfhearted effort to scrape the glue from the panel of wall they’d stripped before the dreadful sighting.

  “This glue has dried,” she announced in a despondent tone. “Would you hand me the sponge?”

  Instead of picking up the bucket containing the fabric softener mixture, Violet cocked her head and peered at her. “You’ve had the wind knocked out of your sails.”

  “You’re right.” Millie lowered the scraper. “I knew we’d encounter difficulties along the way, of course. But mold?” She slumped against the wall and slid down to the floor.

  Violet deserted the steamer hose and sat beside her. “Could be worse. At least the pipes are in good shape.”

  “As far as we know.” The worries that she kept stuffed deep inside bubbled dangerously toward the surface. Albert was so pessimistic about this renovation project, and indeed about the whole bed and breakfast plan, that she did not dare voice anything but optimism and a positive attitude. But truthfully, she did have doubts. At the base of them, lurking like a monster in the depths of a dark, scary cavern, was the possibility that Albert’s dire predictions would come true. That this house, and her bullheaded determination to renovate it, would bankrupt them.

  “What if this is only the beginning?” She turned her head to look at Violet. “What if there are other leaks we don’t know about?”

  “Just the tip of the iceberg?” Violet asked.

  Millie answered with a miserable nod. “We could end up tearing into every wall in the house. And what if Justin’s wrong and it is black mold? We’ll all die. When I get to heaven, Albert will be standing there at the pearly gates and he’ll say”—Millie ducked her chin and spoke in a low voice—“ ‘I told you buying that house was a bad idea, Millie.’ ”

  Violet’s lips twitched, but then her expression grew concerned. “You’re as glum as a funeral.” She climbed to her feet and held out a hand. “Come on. You need some cheering up.”

  Millie took her friend’s hand and allowed herself to be hauled upright. “I don’t feel like being cheered up. I’d rather wallow in misery for a while.”

  “Baloney. I’m prescribing an old-fashioned remedy for depression. Chocolate malts at Cardwell’s soda fountain.”

  “But what about the wallpaper?” Millie gestured vaguely toward the half-finished wall.

  “It’ll still be there on Thursday. And besides, what if the mold specialist says we have to take out the whole wall? We’ll have wasted our time peeling off the paper.”

  Millie scowled at her friend. “Like that’s supposed to cheer me up?”

  But oddly enough, she did feel better. Violet had the right idea. When a situation threatened to get the best of one, it was time to walk away. Time and distance helped one gain perspective.

  “You change clothes,” Violet instructed, “and I’ll run home and do the same. I’ll meet you at Cardwell’s.”

  With a final glance at the disaster in the wall, Millie nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

  She followed Violet out of the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind them.

  Of the dozen or so buildings that stretched down either side of the railroad track on Goose Creek’s Main Street, Millie’s favorite was the one housing the Freckled Frog Consignment Shop. When originally constructed a century and a half ago, the building had been home to the railroad office. Since the town was built for the sole purpose of serving and profiting from the railroad, the building
received extra attention during its construction. She loved the heavy carved wooden arch that covered the entry, the decorative offset bricks above the second floor windows, and the extra deep window wells at street level. True, the building needed a bit of attention, as did most of the original structures in town, but she agreed with Frieda, the owner, that to replace the original façade would destroy the charm of the place.

  Satisfyingly full of chocolate malt, and with her attitude much improved, Millie wasn’t quite ready to go home. She bid Violet farewell and crossed Main Street to pass beneath that beautiful arch into the Freckled Frog. A mishmash of colors and scents combined in a cheerful jumble on the shelves and various display cases crowded throughout the shop. Freida’s inventory, everything from handmade jewelry to scented soap to heavily ornate stained glass lampshades, could only be described as eclectic. In Millie’s privately held opinion, there wasn’t a practical item in the entire store, but that didn’t prevent her from spending delightful hours fingering one fascinating piece after another.

  A cluster of ladies gathered around the back counter called greetings as she pulled the door shut behind her.

  “Hello, girls,” she answered. “Beautiful day out there.”

  Francine Ryan fanned herself with a flapping hand. “Bit warm for my taste.”

  “It’s your age, dear.” Betty Hunsaker patted Francine’s arm. “Get yourself some Black Cohosh. It’ll work wonders for those hot flashes.”

  Several heads nodded agreement. A flash of brilliant blue caught Millie’s eye and she paused to finger a crocheted scarf with half an ear toward the ladies as they continued their conversation.

  “Pete got a look at the color,” Cheryl Lawson said, “and it’s entirely wrong. More teal than green.”

  “Do you think she’s going for bluegrass?” asked Betty.

  “If so, she needs to open her eyeballs.” Frieda’s biting tone spit disapproval. “Kentucky’s grass is as green as anywhere else, and she’d better make it look that way.”

  Some unfortunate person was the object of an uncomplimentary conversation. Millie loved newsy chatter as much as the next woman, but she disliked spiteful talk. She sauntered toward them, plastered a smile on her face, and assumed her sweetest voice. “Who’s on the menu for today?”

  The comment drew sharp stares from Betty and Cheryl.

  After a moment’s uncomfortable silence, Frieda laughed. “We were discussing the water tower mural. Ms. Barnes ordered some of the paint through Pete’s hardware store, and the colors are off.”

  Millie had not yet met Sandra Barnes, the artist hired to paint the town’s iconic water tower, but from everything she’d heard so far, she approved. The woman was in a tough position. Being an outsider with such a visible and important task was sure to draw the criticism of several notoriously stiff-necked Creekers. That in itself was enough to recruit Millie to her side.

  “I’d be interested in seeing them.” She turned a smile on Cheryl. “Did Pete bring home color tiles?”

  Cheryl didn’t meet her eye. “Well, no. But he said the green was more blue than green.”

  Millie let a laugh ring through the store. “My Albert is the world’s worst when it comes to colors. If I left the decision up to him, we’d have gold walls with black trim throughout the house.” She grinned at Cheryl. “Purdue’s colors, you know.”

  Betty agreed. “Ralph’s completely colorblind. Can’t tell green from orange, and that’s the honest truth.”

  “Pete’s good with color.” A stubborn expression settled over Cheryl’s features. “If he says the grass is going to be too blue, then somebody had better do something before we end up with another disaster.”

  Thankfully, Millie was saved from answering when the door opened and a woman stepped inside. No, she didn’t merely step. She swept inside, trailing several feet of wispy leopard-print fabric behind her from the hem of her skirt. A mass of dark blonde hair roosted in an untidy knot on the top of her head, and her skin was of a darkly tanned color that spoke of long hours in the sun. From a shoulder strap swung a ragged macramé bag that might have been new twenty years ago.

  She shut the door and began to browse, drawn to a pottery mug which she picked up, turned over, and set back down with a hissing intake of breath. Millie hid a grin. She and Violet shared the opinion that Frieda wanted far too much for that pottery, even if it was hand-thrown.

  “Hello,” Frieda called out from behind the retail counter.

  “Oh!” The woman’s head jerked toward them as though surprised to find she wasn’t alone. Giant golden hoops dangled from her ears, and wide eyes peered through a curtain of bangs that bore a resemblance to a sheep dog’s. “Hullo.”

  “Let me know if I can help you find anything,” Frieda said.

  “Thanks. I’m just looking.”

  Her skirt swayed hypnotically around deeply tanned calves as she wandered over to a glass-topped counter holding a display of handmade jewelry. Millie’s gaze was drawn to her feet, where bright purple toenails rested on a pair of brown flip-flops almost as old as her purse. When she extended a hand to pick up a necklace, the metal clang of half a dozen bracelets jingled like bells.

  The ladies did not resume their conversation, which Millie counted as a blessing. Instead, they watched the shopper while pretending not to. She was rather fascinating, in a hippie sort of way. Millie gauged her age at around fifty, ten years younger than she herself. She hummed as she wandered, a habit in which Millie also indulged, but only in the kitchen where no one except Albert could hear.

  When the stranger ran a finger down the blue scarf, Millie broke the silence. “That’s a lovely color, don’t you think?”

  The bracelets clanged again as she parted her bangs to peer at Millie. “It’s beautifully made, too. Look at the stitches. So nice and even.”

  “Do you crochet?”

  Gold hoops swayed as she shook her head. “No, I make candles.” She turned in a complete circle, scanning the shop. “Do you have any candles?”

  Frieda rounded the counter to join them. “I don’t think I’ve ever had any consigned here.”

  A wide smile revealed a set of blindingly white teeth. “Well, then maybe you could sell mine. They’re nothing super fancy, but they’re clean-burning and I make them in a bunch of colors.”

  Frieda’s expression became guarded. “I’d have to see them first. I’m selective about my inventory.”

  “Oh, sure. I’ll bring you some in a couple of days. As soon as I can find them.” Her bangs fluttered in the breeze of an airy laugh. “They’re packed away in some box or other.”

  At the mention of boxes, the other ladies gave up all pretense of not listening, and openly faced the newcomer.

  “Are you moving to town?” Betty asked.

  The woman nodded. “I’m renting a house over on Canada Street.”

  The street behind the animal clinic. Millie ran down a list of possible houses in her mind. “You’re renting from the Sanders?”

  “I think so. I’m really awful with names.” Another breezy laugh. “Which is obvious, since I haven’t told you mine.” She extended a hand toward Freida. “I’m Tuesday Love.”

  Frieda’s arm halted in the act of rising, but she recovered quickly. “Tuesday Love. What an interesting name. I’m Frieda Devall.”

  “And I’m Millie Richardson.” Millie stepped forward to shake the woman’s hand next. “Were you born on a Tuesday, dear?”

  Tuesday squeezed her fingers with a grip firmer than most men’s. “No.” She winked behind her bangs. “Tuesday was my parents’ day off.”

  During a moment of shocked silence, Millie’s cheeks warmed. “I see. Um. Well, welcome to Goose Creek.”

  “Thank you.” Tuesday moved toward the others, who peered through goggle-eyes as she shook their hands one after another, chatting the whole time. “I’m not just moving to town. I’m setting up shop here too. Right over there.” She pointed out the window toward the north end of Ma
in Street.

  “You’re renting the building across the street?” Cheryl asked.

  “Nope.” Tuesday flashed a huge grin. “I bought it. I’m here to stay.”

  Frieda’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “What kind of shop are you setting up?”

  “Oh, honey, don’t worry.” The woman wrapped an arm around Frieda’s shoulders and squeezed. “I’m not the competition. I’m a massage therapist.”

  Millie would have laughed at the others’ stunned expressions if she weren’t so surprised herself. “You give massages? You mean, like… ” She wiggled her fingers in the air.

  “Oh, there’s a lot more to massage than that,” Tuesday assured her. “And I also do nails.” She extended a foot to display her shiny purple toenails. “Just polish, though, organic and completely natural. None of that fake stuff, on account of its being poison for your nail beds.”

  Millie risked a quick sideways glance at Betty, who was inspecting her inch-long acrylic nails with a horrified expression.

  Noticing, Tuesday covered her mouth. “Oops. Sorry, honey. After I get set up, why don’t you come by my place? I can get those off a there for you and give you something to help restore the damage. Anyway, I’ve got to run. I hope all y’all visit me when I open. And spread the word. Toodles.”

  With a farewell wave and a flutter of fabric, she swept across the store and exited into the bright June sunshine. The door shut behind her, leaving them open-mouthed.

  Millie recovered first. “I had no idea that building had been sold.”

  “Pete hasn’t said a word about it.” Cheryl bit a lip. “Maybe it’s just me, but I’m not sure I like the idea of a massage place in Goose Creek.”

  “It’s not just you.” Betty pursed her lips into a disapproving line. “This is a family-oriented town. We don’t want that kind of business here.”

  Though she needed time to consider the idea, Millie wasn’t ready to pronounce judgment on Tuesday Love yet. “Now, girls, let’s be fair. That building has been vacant for years. If she bought it, Goose Creek has already benefited. And new business is good for the town.”