Renovating the Richardsons

by Virginia Smith

  His mind cast about for an explanation on which to anchor their comments. Coming up with none, he folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “I’m sorry. What are you talking about?”

  Betty’s eyebrows arched. “Why, the canopy, of course.”

  He blinked. “The canopy?”

  Frieda leaned toward him. “At the water tower.”

  The tower again. Was this duo determined to stir up trouble? If he remembered correctly, they’d both been in favor of awarding the water tower painting job to Sandra Barnes.

  After a moment of awkward silence during which Jerry felt that he should have been able to come up with a reasonable response, he flashed a quick smile at the ladies. “Why don’t we take a walk?”

  Betty dipped her head regally. “Yes, let’s.”

  Clouds blocked the sun today, and they battled a fairly strong wind as they paraded up Main Street. Jerry looked upward and chided himself for not noticing the skeletal wooden structure circling the water tower earlier. When had it been erected? Two figures stood on the narrow platform, hammering.

  Jerry and the ladies turned the corner of the Whistlestop Diner and approached the support legs of the tower. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello up there.”

  The hammering ceased, and two faces appeared over the safety railing.

  “Hello, Mayor,” shouted Sandra.

  “Hey,” Little Norm added with a wave of his hammer.

  At the risk of stating the obvious, Jerry waved a hand vaguely in the air. “What’s going on?”

  The two exchanged a glance, and then Sandra called, “We’re coming down.”

  Good.

  Jerry aimed a smile at Frieda and Betty, who stood off to one side and fixed expectant gazes on him.

  Discomfort churned in his stomach. Busybodies or not, these two had every right to expect him, the mayor, to know what was going on in Goose Creek. The fact that he didn’t left him shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking anywhere but their faces.

  When Little Norm and Sandra had descended the alarmingly narrow ladder and stood on terra firma, Jerry fixed a smile on them. “What’s up with the construction project?”

  Frieda took a step forward. “There isn’t much painting going on, even though that’s what the city is paying for.”

  Little Norm, who was not little by anyone’s standards, narrowed his eyes. “We’re hiding our work, that’s what. Gonna hang a canvas on this here frame to keep troublemakers from seein’ what we’re up to.”

  The ladies drew themselves up, and Jerry groaned.

  Sandra answered before he could voice a response. “We’re preparing a little surprise for the town.”

  That stopped Frieda, who cocked her head. “A surprise?”

  With a loaded smile in Jerry’s direction, the painter explained. “That’s right. We’re so proud of what we’re doing we don’t want to give it away. We want everyone in town to see it at once. After it’s finished.”

  Betty and Frieda exchanged a glance.

  “But then it’ll be too late for our input.” The whine in Betty’s voice grated on Jerry’s nerves.

  Sandra’s smile widened, and she stepped forward to put an arm around each of the ladies’ shoulders. “You’ve given me valuable input already. And I sure do appreciate it.” She turned them away and began walking toward Main Street. “Now I’m gonna give you two and this whole town a surprise that’ll knock your socks off.” Her Texas drawl faded as they disappeared around the corner of the Whistlestop.

  Left standing beside Little Norm, Jerry stared after them. “That woman has a multitude of talents.”

  “Don’t you know it?” Little Norm rounded on him, fists planted on his waist. “Those busybodies need to mind their own business and let us work. Having to hide ourselves behind a tent.” He gestured angrily at the wooden frame being erected around the tower. “It’s ridiculous, that’s what it is.”

  Jerry stared after the women. Judging by the way Frieda and Betty had been led tamely away by Sandra, he doubted if he’d have any more trouble from them. She might even have gained a couple of supporters.

  “But it’s also a stroke of genius,” he told Little Norm.

  If only he could have a similar inspiration about the softball team.

  When Al arrived home from work on Thursday afternoon, he made a quick tour of his traps. Not a single squirrel had taken his bait. All the cages sat exactly as he’d placed them, their insides empty of rodents but full of insects. The flies and ants certainly appreciated the feast of apples and peanut butter. The squirrel population was definitely not in danger of going hungry, either. Not a single seed remained in any of the feeders.

  Tension buzzing in his ears, he headed for the house.

  One of life’s little enjoyments was walking into the house and being greeted by the aroma of dinner. His wife was, hands down, the best cook in the state. Nothing said Welcome home! like the smell of Millie’s meatloaf or the spicy scent of her chili. And when she baked cookies, the mere fragrance of warm chocolate or sugary vanilla could lower his blood pressure by ten points.

  Today, another odor greeted him when he entered through the kitchen door.

  Coming to a halt inside, he wrinkled his nose. “What is that smell?”

  “Mold killer.” Millie appeared from the direction of the hallway, hair arranged and makeup freshly applied. “The men told me it wasn’t dangerous, but I’ve got a headache from breathing it all afternoon.”

  Al gave an experimental sniff. “It’s not bleach. Some sort of chemical, though, and it’s kind of piney. Like floor cleaner.”

  “Don’t even bother to put your car keys away.” With a hand on his back she turned him around and gave a shove. “We’re going out for dinner.”

  “But I’ve got to change clothes before practice,” he protested.

  “I have them here.” She scooped up a bulging reusable grocery bag from the counter. “We’re picking up Violet on the way to the Whistlestop. You can change at her house. Now let’s get out of here before my brain pounds through my skull.”

  Since chicken and dumplings at the Whistlestop was a treat not to be argued with, Al allowed himself to be shoved through the door. Outside, Millie paused to fill her lungs with fresh air.

  “Should we stay someplace else tonight?” he ventured. The cost of a hotel room was an expense not in his budget, but he’d sacrificed far more lately in the interest of marital harmony.

  She shook her head. “Mold Man promised the odor would fade in a few hours. They’ve opened the windows and set fans upstairs and down. If it’s still too strong when we get home, we’ll sleep in the motorhome.”

  Al brightened at the idea. He glanced toward his RV, still parked at the far end of the driveway where it had been since they moved into this house. Once a week he started the engine and spent a few minutes in the driver’s seat, staring through the windshield and planning the places they would one day visit. The Grand Canyon. Mount Rushmore. The Pacific Ocean.

  That is, if the repairs to Millie’s house didn’t bankrupt them first.

  Half the town had decided to visit the Whistlestop, it seemed. Al held the door open for Millie and Violet and scanned the interior. He exchanged a nod with Jacob Pulliam, seated with his wife at a table along the far wall.

  “This place is fuller than a tick on a bird dog,” Violet commented.

  He did not bother to hide his distaste. “Couldn’t you come up with something a little less distasteful right before we eat?”

  She placed a finger on her cheek and cocked her head to consider. “Packed like sardines in a can, maybe?”

  With a slow nod, he awarded his approval. “I like sardines.”

  “Look.” Millie pointed across the room. “There’s Susan and her father.”

  The pair sat in the center of a row of booths. Thomas, whom Al had met only twice, leaned across the table toward his daughter. He spoke quietly, and Susan gave an occasional nod but kept her
gaze fixed on her hands, which were toying with a crumpled napkin.

  “Oh dear.” A concerned frown creased Millie’s forehead. “She looks unhappy. I wish that man would give up this notion of moving to Goose Creek and go back to Paducah where he belongs.”

  Al raised his eyebrows. “What happened to your insistence that Goose Creek needs an influx of new residents?”

  “We do, but not him.” Her gaze fixed on someone else, and she bit her lower lip. “And I’m not sure we need her, either. The poor dear.”

  In one of the middle tables sat a woman alone, her attention fixed on a book. At one glance Al knew her identity. Millie had described Tuesday Love as a holdover from the sixties, and certainly the fringed blouse and wide headband lent her a retro appearance. But this woman was at least a decade younger than he and Millie, who had lived through enough of the sixties to recognize an authentic hippie.

  “Is that the massage woman?” Violet inspected the stranger with unconcealed interest.

  “Let’s go speak to her. She looks lonely.”

  Millie and Violet threaded their way through the tables. Though unsure if he was to be included in the introduction, Al followed behind them. He had developed a great deal of curiosity about Goose Creek’s newest resident. Several of the women had apparently taken a strong dislike to Ms. Love. Talk among the Creekers who gathered at Cardwell’s soda fountain was performed in whispers, with many glances thrown over shoulders to ensure Lucy Cardwell didn’t hear them discussing her and report back to their wives.

  When they approached she caught sight of them. Her expression brightened and she snapped the book shut. “Millie! Good to see you.”

  She leaped out of her chair and hurried around the table to hug Millie as though they were long-lost friends. Conversations in the restaurant died as attentions were fixed on them.

  Looking a bit flustered, and with more than a few glances around the room, Millie gave the woman’s shoulder an awkward pat. “It’s good to see you too.” Her voice stretched thin, tone higher than usual. “This is my friend Violet, and my husband, Albert.”

  While the woman was busy shaking hands with Violet, Al shoved his into the safety of his pockets. Not only did he find shaking hands with women awkward—a holdover from the male-dominated culture in which he’d been raised—but he recognized the sound of jealousy in his wife’s voice. After nearly forty years, he knew enough to maintain a polite distance when prudence called for it.

  “Why don’t y’all join me?” Tuesday gestured to the three empty chairs. “Seems a shame to take up two tables when the place is so busy.”

  Violet shook her head, and Millie said, “We couldn’t intrude on your dinner.”

  “Please. I’d like the company.” A plea appeared in her eyes. “I eat alone so much I’m starting to feel like a leper or something.”

  That decided his softhearted wife. Al watched Millie’s expression go from reserved to compassionate.

  “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  They arranged themselves around the table, Al selecting the chair at the opposite corner, as far from Tuesday as the limited space allowed.

  The waiter arrived to take their orders, and Al didn’t even glance at the menu before ordering his favorite meal.

  When the young man left, Tuesday folded her hands on the table in front of her. “So how are my kitties?”

  “You have cats?” Violet asked.

  The woman giggled. “No, but I found a whole litter of them. I hope I’ll be allowed to have one.”

  “You will,” Millie told her. “Kate told me you could have the pick of the litter when they’re old enough to leave their mother.” She unfolded her napkin and asked without looking across the table, “How’s the business coming along?”

  Tuesday slumped against her chair back. “Slow. The building needs more work than I can afford. I’ve set up my table in my rental house, but so far I only have one client.”

  “You have one?” Violet’s eyebrows arched, and she looked faintly scandalized.

  “That’s pretty good since you’ve only been here a week,” Millie hurried to say.

  “I guess. Back in Indianapolis I had lots of clients. They requested me all the time, and that made the center’s owner mad. That’s why I decided it was time to open up my own place.” Her eyes flickered sideways, to somewhere behind Al’s back. “But one client isn’t gonna pay many bills.”

  Their drinks arrived then, and Al reached for a packet of sweetener from the bowl in the center of the table. “Maybe you should advertise.”

  “I’m trying. The newspaper only comes out once a week, and I missed the deadline. But I’ve got an ad in the next one. And I made up a sign for the front window of my new building.” She squeezed lemon into her water and stirred with a straw. “I asked a couple of other places if I could put one in their windows, but… ” She shrugged. “I guess they don’t know me well enough yet.”

  “You mean they wouldn’t let you hang a sign?” Millie asked.

  “Oh, I don’t blame them,” Tuesday hurried to say. “I’m a stranger to town. They’ll get friendlier soon.”

  Al exchanged a glance with Millie, who was still waging a similar war on behalf of her employer.

  “Small towns don’t take easily to newcomers,” Violet ventured to say.

  “I knew that.” Tuesday straightened and put on a smile. “And especially when they’re trying to introduce something new, like massage therapy. But that’s one reason I picked this town. There’s no competition within a forty-minute drive. All I have to do is get my hands on a person once and they’ll come back.” Her eyes flickered past Al again, and then settled on him. “How about you, Al? You ever had a massage?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  Across the table Violet looked scandalized while Tuesday brightened. “Really?”

  “Years ago when I was over in Nam. A few of my buddies and I went into Saigon on leave.” The memory surfaced with vivid clarity. “One guy had been there before and knew all the bars that catered to American servicemen.” He chuckled, warming to the tale. “I’ve never been so—”

  Beneath the table, Millie pinched his leg so hard he jumped. Rubbing the spot that would certainly bruise by nightfall, he turned a reproachful glance on her.

  “Our salads have arrived.” She smiled brightly at the approaching waiter. “That was fast, even with this crowd.”

  Al deemed it the better part of wisdom to focus on his meal and forego any further discussion of his service days.

  The napkin had become a damp wad in her hand. Susan smoothed it across her lap. Their meal had come and gone, though she had barely taken a bite. A nearly whole chicken sandwich, entombed in Styrofoam, rested on the plastic placemat before her.

  Daddy recorded a tip and a total on the credit card receipt and signed in his careful script. Pocketing his pen, he slid the plastic check holder to the edge of the table. “Oh, and there’s something I need you to do while I’m gone.”

  She tried not to look happy at the mention of his imminent departure, but the truth was, when Daddy went back to Paducah one major stressful element would be removed from her life. At least temporarily.

  “What’s that?”

  “Keep an eye out for a suitable house. At least three bedrooms and preferably built within the past two decades, if such a thing exists here.” He arranged his used silverware in the center of his empty plate. “My job situation may take a month or so to arrange, but if an opportunity arises before then we need to go ahead and act on it. The real estate market in this town isn’t exactly robust.”

  Invisible bands squeezed Susan’s chest, rendering her breath shallow. “About that. I’m not sure living together is a good idea.”

  Surprise colored his features. “Why on earth not? It’s a logical arrangement based on our joint business venture and the finances involved.” He leaned forward. “I’m not sure you realize this, but our house in Paducah has no mortgage. I paid it off long ago
. And with property values being what they are in this town, I’ll easily be able to buy something outright. It makes no sense whatsoever for you to continue paying rent for that tiny garage apartment when you can live rent-free with me.”

  In a way, Susan was pleased with the revelation. Daddy never discussed his personal finances with her, and doing so meant he finally considered her an adult. But her father’s opinion of her maturity was not at issue here. Nor was the idea of free rent.

  “It’s just that I’m almost twenty-six years old. How many women my age do you know still living at home?”

  “Are you worried about what others think?” He cocked his head. “I’m surprised at you, Susan. You’ve never concerned yourself with the opinions of outsiders before.”

  “It’s not that.” The napkin once again became a tight ball in her fist. “I’ve grown used to being independent. Paying my own bills. Making my own decisions.” She paused. “Spending my evenings however I wish.”

  He leaned back, resting against the booth’s high back, and folded his arms across his chest. “You mean spending your evenings with Hinkle.”

  “If I want.” She raised her chin and met his eye. “You might as well get used to the idea. Justin is my boyfriend.” The word tumbled out awkwardly, like a middle school confession.

  The air between them grew dense with Daddy’s disapproval. “You’re smarter than this, Susan. You deserve someone with at least as much intelligence and ambition as you.”

  Heat prickled beneath her collar. “Justin is intelligent. You’d see how smart he is if you would talk to him.”

  One corner of his mouth twitched downward. “He couldn’t even finish college.”

  A waiter walked by, drawing her attention away from the two-foot space between them. Diners sat at nearly every table in the restaurant. Had her voice risen loud enough to be overheard?

  She drew in a deliberate breath and released it slowly. “He left college because he knew what he wanted to do with his life, and he didn’t need classes in Shakespeare in order to accomplish his goals. Which he does have.”