Renovating the Richardsons

by Virginia Smith

  Alone with Violet, she sank onto the window seat. “I wish I hadn’t insisted that Susan hire an afternoon receptionist. Looks like I’m going to need the extra money.”

  Her friend sat beside her, uncharacteristically quiet. She patted Millie’s leg. “Maybe this will be the only mold in the house.”

  “Maybe.”

  Another long span of silence followed, and then Violet leaned sideways to nudge her with a shoulder. “Stop frowning. You don’t want your face to get stuck like that, do you?”

  That elicited a small smile. “I used to say that to the kids when they pouted.”

  “Did it make them stop?”

  “No.” The memory of a teenage Alison rolling her eyes rose in her mind.

  Violet shrugged. “Now you know how they felt. Pretty lame advice when you’re down in the dumps, huh?”

  The comment struck her as funny, and she started to chuckle.

  “That’s more like the Millie I know.” Her friend patted her leg. “Besides, this isn’t all bad. You wanted to repaint this room anyway. We’ll just do it sooner than we expected. And somebody else is gonna strip the wallpaper for us.”

  She sucked in a deep breath and blew it out, banishing gloom as she did. It was not in her nature to wallow in pessimism. That’s one reason the Good Lord put her and Albert together, so her optimism could counter his glass-half-empty attitude. Maintaining a cheerful demeanor was her wifely duty.

  She turned on the seat. “You’re right. Everything’s going to work out. Every cloud has a silver lining.”

  A wistful expression settled on Violet’s face. “I wish I’d said that.”

  Millie laughed, feeling freer than a moment before. “Let’s go finish our tea.” She hooked her arm through her friend’s and headed for the kitchen.

  Millie’s Lemonade Cookies

  ¾ cup powdered sugar

  ⅔ cup butter, room temperature

  2 oz. cream cheese, room temperature

  Juice from one large lemon

  Zest from one large lemon, divided

  1 tsp vanilla

  4 tsp frozen lemonade concentrate, thawed and undiluted

  2 cups all-purpose flour

  ½ tsp salt

  Lemon Glaze

  2 cups powdered sugar

  ½ tsp lemon zest

  3 Tbsp frozen lemonade concentrate, thawed and undiluted

  ⅓ cup cream

  Preheat oven to 325°. Line a cookie sheet with parchment paper. Using an electric mixer, combine butter and cream cheese until creamy. Add ½ cup powdered sugar and continue beating. One at a time, add lemon juice, lemon zest (reserving ½ teaspoon zest for the glaze), vanilla, lemonade concentrate, and salt. When that mixture is completely combined, gradually add flour. Beat until just combined. Dough will be crumbly. Using a spoon, form 1-inch balls and press them into discs. Cookies will not rise or expand—these will be solid, crumbly lemon cookies. Place them 1 inch apart on the paper-lined cookie sheet. Bake in oven for 20-25 minutes, until bottoms are browned and cookies are cooked through. Remove and cool on cookie sheet for 2 minutes. Whisk ingredients for the glaze until smooth. Dip the top of each cookie in the glaze, and then let the cookies sit until the glaze is set. Store in a sealed container. Makes approximately 36 cookies.

  Chapter Four

  On Thursday evening after an early supper, Al and Millie loaded Rufus in the car and headed out to the first softball practice.

  The town of Goose Creek did not own a softball field. Mayor Selbo had somehow convinced Junior Watson to move his cantankerous old bull out of his front pasture and had paid some local kids to clean the area and construct a makeshift ball field.

  Al pulled off the side of the Watsons’ gravel driveway to park behind a long line of cars.

  “Goodness, it looks like the whole town is here.” Millie didn’t turn from the passenger window. “I’m glad I thought to bring a chair. Pop the trunk, please.”

  Al did as he was told, trying to ignore the nervous tension that had plagued him all day whenever he thought of tonight’s practice. What was he doing here, an old man in his sixties? He should be at home, puttering in his yard and watching the birds flock to his feeders.

  Only his yard was a field of weeds, and his birdfeeders had been overtaken by squirrels. And his real yard, the one he’d worked so hard on, was now owned by Franklin Thacker.

  Resolutely, he extracted the folding chair from the trunk and followed Millie down the gravel driveway to the place where a long line of chairs and blankets had been spread along the fence so the crowd could watch the practice. A much smaller group stood inside the fence.

  Millie selected a place and instructed him to set her chair beside Violet’s while she led Rufus away to speak to her boss, who was seated beside a distinguished-looking older man. Must be the veterinarian’s father, the one Millie disliked.

  Al offered a greeting to Millie’s friend as he unfolded the chair. “Hello there.”

  Violet eyed him coldly. “Don’t ‘hello there’ me. I’m not speaking to you.”

  Though he could have pointed out the obvious, her attitude piqued his curiosity. “What have I done?”

  With a quick glance around their immediate area, she whispered, “You moved them in next door.”

  No question concerning the identity of them. But the accusation was completely unfair.

  “I did no such thing. Selling the house to the Thackers was Millie’s idea.”

  “She didn’t know what she was doing.” Her eyes narrowed. “You knew exactly how annoying they are, and you sold your house to them anyway.”

  In his sixty-two years Al had made plenty of mistakes for which he would accept full responsibility. This was not one of them. He drew himself up. “I refuse to take the blame for Thacker.” Curious, he cocked his head. “What’s he done, anyway?”

  She gave an offended sniff. “He calls me Plum.”

  “Well, he calls me Bert,” Al pointed out.

  “After he leaves for work in the morning, Lulu opens every window in the house and screeches at the top of her lungs.”

  Al scratched his head. “Screeches?”

  “She calls it singing practice.” Violet shuddered. “Apparently she’s taking lessons. And you should see what he’s done to the backyard.”

  Alarm shot through him like a lightning bolt. “My backyard? What—”

  “Al! Over here!” Jerry Selbo stood amid the group inside the fence, waving in Al’s direction. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Time to get started.”

  Al looked down at Violet. “We’ll talk about this later.”

  “Hmph!” She turned pointedly away.

  Forcing thoughts of his beautiful yard on Mulberry Avenue from his mind, Al located the gate and joined the group standing around a chalked X on the ground.

  Jerry welcomed him with a smile and a clap on the back. “Here’s our manager.”

  “Welcome, manager!”

  A familiar voice grated on Al’s ears as a figure shuffled into view. What was Thacker doing here?

  “I thought you had a bad knee.” Al worked hard to keep his tone neutral, which was probably a wasted effort. Thacker never seemed to know when he wasn’t wanted, no matter how obvious the message.

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t help.” The man held up an electronic tablet. “I’ve been working on a program to analyze each player’s strengths and weaknesses.”

  With an effort, Al managed not to roll his eyes.

  Jerry addressed the group. “I think we can get started. Here you go, Al.” The mayor thrust a spiral notebook into Al’s hands. “Let’s get a list of the players and their phone numbers. Tonight we’ll decide who’s playing which positions, and then we’ll practice hitting and catching.”

  Junior, wearing worn denim overalls with no shirt, piped up. “I’m the shortstop on account of I’m letting y’all use my field.”

  Junior Watson as shortstop? The fastest he ever moved was when the supper bell ran
g. Al raised an eyebrow and caught Jerry’s eye.

  “That’s our agreement,” the mayor admitted. Then his expression grew stern. “As long as you do a good job, Junior. If we find out you’re better in another position, we’ll move you for the good of the team.” He raised his voice and addressed the assembled. “I expect we’ll shuffle around a bit until we see what we’ve got to work with.”

  Al freed the pencil from inside the spiral, recorded Junior’s name, and wrote shortstop beside it. Good thing it wasn’t an ink pen, and the eraser looked new.

  Jerry continued. “We only have eight practices between now and the Fourth of July, so it’s important that we all be here for every one.”

  When Norman Pilkington elbowed his way between Junior and Little Norm, Al nearly dropped his pencil. What was he doing here? The man had to be in his seventies.

  “We-el,” he drawled, “’at there might be a problem onct or twict. I got me a farm to run. And since m’boy spends s’much time up at that water tower”—he cocked his head to glare at Little Norm—“me and Eulie’s havin’ to do everythin’ ourselves.”

  “Pa, you oughtn’t to be playing anyway,” Little Norm said. “You might get hurt.”

  “Pshaw!” Norman’s thick gray eyebrows dropped down in a scowl. “Been playin’ ball m’ whole life.” He pounded his right fist into a cracked, ancient ball glove that Al suspected had not been used since the 1920s.

  The rumble of an approaching motorcycle interrupted what might have become an argument.

  “Oh, good.” Relief flooded Jerry’s voice.

  “Hinkle is on our team?” Al asked. Maybe they’d actually have a chance with a strong young man like him.

  “I wish.” Jerry shook his head, regret plain on his face. “The rules say only residents of Goose Creek can play. But he played baseball in high school, so he’s going to help me coach.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” Justin announced as he hurried through the gate. “What did I miss?”

  “We’re just getting started.” Jerry looked over his team. “Okay, here’s what we have so far. Fred’s our catcher.”

  Al recorded Fred Rightmier’s name and position. Before the next practice he’d find a clipboard somewhere.

  Thacker, hovering behind Jerry, said, “Spell your last name for me, Fred.”

  While Fred did, Thacker tapped on his tablet. Al felt himself beginning to bristle. Was the annoying man trying to usurp his responsibilities? Then again, Thacker was merely collecting data for his program, which was a ridiculous idea that would probably go nowhere.

  Jerry continued. “Paul, can you handle centerfield?” Paul Simpson nodded, and Jerry waited for Al to finish writing and Thacker to finish tapping. “Little Norm is going to pitch, and Chuck will play second base.”

  As Al scribbled, Thacker sidled over to him. “I’ll get everybody’s names from you tomorrow at work, okay Bert?”

  Gritting his teeth, Al nodded.

  Norman stomped toward Jerry and stood directly in front of him. “How ’bout me? Where you gonna put me?”

  Jerry rubbed a hand across his mouth, clearly hesitant. “I’m thinking right field.”

  Though Al knew little about baseball, he did know enough to recognize that right field saw the least activity of any position. Norman’s scowl deepened, and he opened his mouth to protest, but Justin spoke before he could.

  “I hope you’ve got a strong arm, sir. Whoever plays right field has to get the ball all the way in to third base, the longest throw in the game.”

  Norman’s mouth snapped shut and his chest puffed. “I c’n handle it.”

  Jerry cast a grateful glance at Justin. “Good. Sharon’s going to be in left field.”

  Surprised, Al eyed Sharon Geddes, who stood beside her husband. He’d assumed she was there to support Chuck. What a chauvinistic assumption. In many ways, Al really was the dinosaur Millie accused him of being. He recorded Sharon’s name in his notebook.

  “I’ll play first base,” Jerry said. “But we still need a third baseman.”

  Justin scrubbed a hand through his hair. “What about some high school kids? Surely there are some good athletes in town we could recruit.”

  A good suggestion. Al could think of several teenagers who would virtually guarantee they had a winning team.

  But Jerry shook his head. “The rules state that the players have to be eighteen years old.”

  “Who came up with these rules?” Al asked.

  “I met with Sheriff Grimes and Fitzgerald, the Morleyville mayor, a week or so ago.” Jerry glanced around their small team. “We need to do some recruiting. A third of our team has to be women or we’ll take a five run penalty.”

  “Five runs?” Justin gave a low whistle.

  Norman pounded his ancient glove. “Eulie’ll play if ’n I tell ’er to. Want me to fetch ’er?”

  All heads turned toward the observers. Al located Eulie, looking frail in her folding chair beside Sandra Barnes, the big, rawboned painter from Georgia.

  Little Norm turned a stern glare on his father. “Not a chance, Pa.”

  For a moment Al thought Norman would argue, but Justin interrupted. “Let’s ask for volunteers.” The young man strode to the fence and addressed the watchers in a voice loud enough to be heard from one end of the line to the other. “We want to thank you all for coming out to support us at our first practice. As you can see”—he half-turned to wave in the direction of the small group clustered around home plate—“we need a few more players to fill out our team. Anybody out there interested in playing softball?”

  Al scanned the crowd. Where were all the young men? Surely Goose Creek boasted a few young men among its residents who wanted to play softball. But if so, there were none present. At this rate, the softball game promised to be a fiasco. What was the mayor thinking when he signed Goose Creek up for a public debacle?

  Al cast Millie a why-did-you-get-me-into-this glance, but she was chatting with Violet and probably couldn’t see his expression from this distance anyway.

  Susan sipped from her water bottle and battled irritation at the nearly palpable disdain radiating in Justin’s direction from her father. Daddy had been completely charming to everyone, the amiable bank professional with a wide smile and easy manner, until Justin’s motorcycle appeared. Now he sat in the camp chair with his arms folded and legs crossed, his lips twisted into a distasteful smirk.

  Justin paced the fence line, scanning the crowd. “All right, folks. I know there are some ball players out there. C’mon and join the fun.” He stopped directly in front of her. “And by the way, this is a coed team. I’m sure Mrs. Geddes isn’t the only lady in town who wants to play.”

  He looked directly at her, and his gaze pinned Susan to her chair. Surely he didn’t mean her?

  “My mommy can do it!”

  A childish shout came from somewhere to her left. When Justin looked in that direction, Susan let out a pent-up breath.

  “Hush now, Willow,” answered a familiar voice. “I don’t play softball.”

  Susan twisted in her seat and caught sight of Alice Wainright seated on a quilt with her four children spread out around her. Thick, unruly mops of dark hair topped each small head, though Alice’s locks were light brown and spaghetti-straight.

  “Yes you do, Mom.” A boy who looked to be around nine jumped to his feet and shouted toward Justin. “She plays baseball with me and Forest all’a time. She’s a fair batter, but she can catch anything.”

  An edge of panic crept into Alice’s voice. “Be quiet, Heath. That’s just backyard play with you kids.”

  Daddy leaned toward Susan. “Isn’t that your new afternoon receptionist?”

  Susan nodded.

  “She’s too mousy to be a ball player.”

  The comment jabbed at Susan’s already raw nerves. She shot Daddy a reproving scowl.

  “Alice!” Justin called toward the woman, who looked horrified to find herself the object of attention. “Is it true y
ou can catch a baseball?”

  “I—I guess so,” she admitted.

  “Sure she can.” The other boy, who must have been Forest, grabbed Alice’s arm and tried to tug her off the quilt. “Do it, Mom.”

  “Yeah, Mommy.” Seven-year-old Willow put a skinny arm around the youngest child. “I’ll watch Tansy while you play.”

  A commotion stirred the crowd when Millie left her chair and approached the family. “Don’t worry about the children, Alice. I’ll keep an eye on them.”

  When she plopped down on the quilt and pulled Tansy into her lap, several in the area called encouragement.

  “Go on, Alice.”

  “You can do it.”

  Finally, and with clear reluctance, Alice got to her feet and headed for the field amid cheers. Susan twisted around in her chair to find Justin staring at her.

  “We still need at least one more woman.”

  No doubt about it. He meant her. Blood drained from her face, leaving her lightheaded. Mouth dry, the only answer she could manage was a slight shake of her head.

  “It’ll be fun.” His appealing grin appeared. “We’ll get to spend every Thursday and Saturday together for the next month.”

  Someone behind her called, “Honey, if I was twenty years younger, that’d do it for me.”

  Laughter met the comment, while Susan fixed Justin with a wide-eyed stare.

  Don’t do this to me. Please, don’t!

  Beside her, Daddy snapped a response in her defense. “Don’t be ridiculous, young man. Susan is a professional.”

  The words slapped at her. Stinging, she turned toward her father. “What do you mean? Just because a person holds a professional career doesn’t mean they’re incapable of doing anything else.”

  He gave her a paternalistic smile and patted her arm. “Sweetheart, you ran track in high school for a reason, remember? Stick to what you’re good at.”

  Part of her brain acknowledged the truth of his words. Since the time in second grade when she lost three teeth after being hit square in the face with a soccer ball, she’d avoided any sport that involved a ball. She could outrun any kid on the field or court, but whenever she saw a ball speeding toward her, she had only one instinct—duck.