Renovating the Richardsons

by Virginia Smith

  “Always,” she said quietly.

  “I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you.”

  The tenderness in his voice reached inside her conflicted thoughts and left her fighting tears.

  He tore up a few blades of grass and tossed them aside. “If you want me to back away, give the word.”

  Startled, she looked up into his face. “Do you want to?”

  “What do you think?”

  For a moment, his eyes opened a pathway through which she saw his heart. Longing. Sadness. Desire. But above all, a tender love that threatened to rob her of breath. She launched forward on her knees, rested her hands in the grass between them, and planted a kiss on his lips.

  When she backed away, a wide grin appeared on his face. “Then I’ll just have to win him over with my charming personality.”

  Then he tossed the ball into the air. Not far, but high enough to arc over the space between them and descend toward her. Without thinking, she grabbed it out of the air.

  “You did it!” His shout rang throughout the yard.

  “That doesn’t count.” She scowled at the ball resting in her glove. “You’re only three feet away.”

  “It’s the same thing,” he insisted. “You just watch the ball, put yourself beneath it, and let it fall into your glove.”

  Though she knew the difference between the velocity of a ball tossed from three feet away and one flying toward right field from the batter’s box, a jolt of triumph shot through her. Maybe, with Justin’s help, she really could break free from this fear.

  Maybe she could break free from several things.

  The sound of the front door opening reached Jerry as he pulled a tray of baked chicken out of the oven.

  “I’m home, Jer,” Cindie called from the living room. “Supper smells great, whatever it is.”

  He set the hot tray on a trivet and, tossing the oven mitt on the counter, went into the living room to greet his wife. Cindie set her purse and briefcase on the couch and entered his arms for a hello hug. Like many Goose Creek residents she commuted forty minutes each way to a job in Lexington. As a result, Jerry usually got home long before she arrived.

  “The potatoes are almost ready,” he told her. “We can go ahead and start on the salad.”

  “Sounds good.”

  They headed for the kitchen but were interrupted by Jerry’s cell phone. He lifted it from the counter and glanced at the screen. “Paul Simpson. I wonder what he wants.” Pressing the button to answer, he propped the phone on his shoulder and removed a green salad from the fridge. “Hey, Paul.”

  “Mayor, there’s trouble at the tower. You’d better get over there quick.”

  Scowling, he set the bowl on the table. Cindie raised her eyebrows in a question.

  “Don’t tell me Betty and Frieda are at it again,” he said into the phone.

  Cindie rolled her eyes.

  “Nah, it’s not them. It’s Junior.”

  That drew him up short. “Junior? What’s he doing there?”

  “Wait, I think that’s the ambulance. Gotta run.”

  Jerry jerked upright. “Ambulance?”

  The call disconnected. Wide-eyed, Cindie asked, “Something’s happened to Junior?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d better get over there.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  She grabbed a piece of foil to cover the chicken while he turned off the fire beneath the potatoes. Snatching his keys, they hurried to the car for the two-minute drive down Maple Avenue.

  A small crowd had gathered a short distance from the base of the tower. An ambulance had been pulled all the way to the edge of the gravel drive, red lights flashing, and two EMTs knelt beside Junior’s supine figure.

  When Jerry jumped out of his car, Paul detached himself from the onlookers and joined him in hurrying to Junior’s side.

  “What happened?”

  “Don’t know. I’d just parked my car in front of the diner and was getting ready to go inside when I heard him hollering. Found him lying on the ground, moaning. I called the ambulance first and you second.”

  “Thanks, Paul.”

  They arrived at Junior’s side. One of the paramedics knelt at Junior’s head, holding it with both hands, while the other snapped a cervical collar around his neck.

  With a nod at the closest one, Jerry lowered himself to his haunches a couple of feet away. “Junior, are you okay?”

  “Oww.” He opened his eyes, and then squinted them shut. “It hurts a heap, mayor. Cain’t hardly move a’tall.”

  “What happened? Was it a wreck?” He glanced around the immediate area. No sign of Junior’s pickup.

  “He fell off the tower.” The paramedic pointed to the steel rungs rising from the ground to the platform high above.

  Good heavens, had the man broken his neck? “Is he going to be all right?”

  “He’ll be fine.” The second paramedic finished his work with the collar and stood. “He was only a few feet off the ground.”

  “My boot slipped plumb off the ladder,” Junior moaned.

  Jerry glanced at his footwear. Yes, the same work boots he insisted on wearing to softball practice.

  “Apparently he fell on his arm.” The paramedic beside Junior pointed to the swathed arm brace. “It’s for a doctor to say, but I think it’s broken.”

  “Ooooooohh,” Junior moaned.

  Paul, standing a few feet away, ventured a question. “Why do you have his head immobilized like that?”

  “Just a precaution,” the paramedic assured him.

  “Junior, what were you doing up there?” Though why Jerry bothered to ask the question, he didn’t know. The answer was obvious.

  “I jes’ wanted to see the picture, that’s all. They’s bein’ so hush-hush about it, like it’s some kind of big secret, made me wanna see.”

  Jerry bit back a comment about curiosity and what it did to cats. On the other hand, cats landed on their feet, whereas Junior apparently hadn’t mastered that skill.

  When the ambulance pulled away, Jerry stood with the small group of onlookers watching until the red lights disappeared around the corner of the Whistlestop. There went his shortstop. Not that Junior was a good shortstop by any means, but even a bad player was better than being a man short. The game was in ten days. Unless he could find a replacement, and fast, he’d have to forfeit.

  Cindie stepped up to his side. “I’ll play.”

  Not bothering to hide his surprise, he turned toward her. “But you hate softball.”

  “Yes,” she nodded, “but I love you.”

  He slid an arm around her waist and hugged. “Thank you.”

  “But do me a favor,” she added. “Put me someplace that won’t see much action. And keep looking for someone else.” She lowered her voice. “I’m probably not even as good as Dr. Susan.”

  “I will.”

  Though he fully intended to make good on his promise, he didn’t hold out much hope of success. He’d already called everyone in town.

  “Well, look at you. I didn’t expect to ever see you again after you went home to Paducah.”

  Wincing at the volume of Tuesday’s enthusiastic greeting, Thomas glanced at the surrounding yards. In truth, he was more surprised than she to find himself standing on her lopsided front porch.

  “My departure was temporary,” he told her. “But I still spend my weekends here in Goose Creek. I thought if you have some free time… ” He craned his neck to peek behind her.

  The full lips twisted into a sarcastic grimace. “Honey, I’ve got time, but it isn’t free. Come on in.”

  He edged past her into the small living room. Not a box in sight, and the addition of a couple of table lamps, a quilt, and several brightly colored throw pillows had transformed the room into a comfortable, if somewhat confined, space.

  “Has business picked up?”

  “Not at all.” A troubled expression overtook her normally cheerful countenance. “If I didn�
�t know better, I’d think some of the ladies in this town had blackballed me.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Oh. You know.” She plucked at a curl dangling at her temple, an escapee from her headband. “Sideways looks they give me. The tail end of whispers I overhear.”

  Though Thomas’s exposure to the female gender was admittedly limited, he was no stranger to the quirks and cliques of small towns. His own daughter had fought a similar battle when she moved to Goose Creek earlier this year. Though she’d achieved a grudging acceptance, she was still considered an outsider, and no doubt would be for a good time to come.

  “Don’t give up,” he advised. “Given time, they’ll come around.”

  “I hope so.” Then she brightened. “What are we standing here for? Go take those clothes off so I can get my hands on you.”

  Sometimes her choice of words left him feeling a little uncomfortable.

  In the massage room he removed his shirt and shoes and considered her problem. If she uttered questionable comments such as the one she’d just delivered in the company of conservative women, no wonder they’d taken a dislike to her. Tuesday Love was her own worst enemy.

  “Ready in there?” she called.

  He settled his face in the cradle and sighed, anticipating the treatment he was about to receive and tonight’s subsequent restful sleep. “Ready.”

  Her fingers began their magical movements on his back, and he sighed, tension leaching out of his body by the second.

  “How is work on the building coming?”

  “Slow.” She traced his spine and located a tender place about mid-back. “I picked out some paint, but when I put it on the wall it looked like dog barf.”

  Trying to picture that went beyond his imaginative abilities, thankfully. “I still think you should go back to your bank. With a solid business plan and some market research, maybe they’ll reverse their decision.”

  “See, that’s where you lose me.” She set to work on his shoulder with her expert touch. “I probably would have learned stuff like that if I’d gone to college, huh? I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  Perhaps it was the result of his extreme enjoyment of the massage. Before he could censor his words, he volunteered. “It wouldn’t be difficult. I could help.”

  Her hands halted. “Would you really?”

  Thomas could have bitten his tongue. What was he thinking with an offer like that? Didn’t he have enough to do already, what with trying to convince the bank president to move him to Lexington and helping to ensure his and Susan’s business venture stayed her top priority?

  But the offer was made and, judging by the unmasked hope in her voice, highly appreciated. Retreating now would make him nothing more than a brute. Besides, he meant what he said. Conducting a small amount of market research wouldn’t take much time. And she could do a lot of the legwork. Should, in fact, since she knew the business aspect of her profession better than he did.

  “Certainly. It’s a simple matter of defining your customer base, studying on their demographics, and then formulating an approach that appeals to them. And recording the information in a business plan, of course.”

  “You can do all that?” A note of enthusiasm crept into her voice.

  “Easily,” he assured her. “I do work for a bank, after all.”

  “That’s right.” She giggled. “You do.”

  When she got to his feet, she exclaimed, “Thomas! Your toes are all crunched up again.” Tsking, she tackled his right foot. “Have you had a lot of stress in the past couple of weeks?”

  Her kneading produced a sigh, half-painful, half-pleasurable. “You have no idea.”

  As if it weren’t enough that the realtor delivered a dismal price on the value of his home, the bank’s directors were unconvinced that relocating an executive to the Lexington branch was an advantageous move. As his feet relaxed his tongue did the same, and before he knew it the whole story poured out.

  “So as it stands now, I’ll have to either accept a demotion and a significant cut in my pay and bonus opportunities or find a comparable position with another bank.”

  “Your toes are clenching again.” She rapped them with a finger and continued massaging when he forced them to relax. “So are you sure this is what you want to do?”

  “I have one daughter,” he replied, “and she needs me. I can’t help her from two hundred miles away.”

  “Susan seems like a pretty together girl to me.”

  He did not reply, and she worked for a moment in silence.

  “I’ll be glad to have you close, since you’re my only customer.” Another giggle, and the sound marked the close to the uncomfortable topic.

  “We’ll soon take care of that. Together,” he added, lest she get the impression he would do the work alone.

  “Together,” she agreed. “Sort of like partners. You know the boring business stuff, and I know the fun stuff. We’ll make a great team.”

  He could have voiced a ready answer, but her words echoed another conversation he’d had not long ago. A disturbing parallel drew itself in his mind.

  “Hey, since we’re going to be partners, we ought to share the profits, huh?”

  The comment drew his attention sharply back. What was the woman going on about now?

  “I won’t accept payment, so don’t even think about suggesting it.”

  “I wasn’t talking about money.” She stood from her rolling stool and gave his foot a final pat. “Since you’ll be here in town, how about free massages for life?”

  His arms felt like limp ribbons, his feet like a cool drink of water on a summer day.

  “You’ve got a deal,” he said.

  Late Saturday morning, Al bid the Creekers goodbye and crossed the train tracks in front of Cardwell Drugstore. Only a few days of June remained, and the Weather Channel’s promise of a hot, dry summer had proven true. The sun had baked the inside of his car to an oven-worthy temperature, and he lowered all four windows before pulling away from the curb. The fact that he had to drive to his favorite hangout on Saturdays still irritated him. For years he had enjoyed the four-block stroll downtown from the house on Mulberry Avenue, the place he still thought of as home. The Updyke house lay a couple of miles down Ash Street, one of the last structures inside the Goose Creek town boundary in that direction. Though Millie insisted the exercise would do him good, he knew better than to walk on hot summer days. If he didn’t collapse from heat exhaustion, he’d probably get run over by one of those crazy teenaged drivers.

  On a positive note, his wife rarely suggested that he drag Rufus along with him these days. At least he was spared cleaning a pound or two of dog hair off of his cloth car seats.

  While driving down Walnut Street, he gave in to an impulse and executed a quick left turn onto Mulberry. For nearly two months he had avoided passing the old place. Far better to relish the pleasant memories than to torture himself with the sight of Thacker’s car in his driveway and Thacker’s name on his mailbox. But Violet’s comment a few weeks ago refused to be banished from his mind. What had the man done to the backyard? Maybe he’d be able to glimpse the damage from the road.

  He drove slowly, relishing the familiar sight of neat, square yards lining both sides of the street. The houses all lay a uniform fifty-three feet from the sidewalk, their driveways smooth and unadorned with weeds growing through cracks in the blacktop. His eyes were drawn to the most beautiful lawn on the street, located in the exact center on the right side.

  A flash of plaid caught his eye. A man wearing red, white, and blue Bermuda shorts stood on the walkway leading from the sidewalk to the front door of his former home. Drat. Not only was Thacker home, he was outside. Al tapped the brakes and the car slowed. Should he turn around? Or zoom past? Thacker faced the house, his back to the street, so maybe he wouldn’t notice a car driving behind him.

  His attention was focused on a task. What was he doing? As Al watched, he planted a shovel in the ground
and jumped on it. He pushed on the handle a few times and then repositioned the blade. When he reached down and grabbed a plant, Al stomped on the gas pedal. The car shot forward, and when he arrived at his old house he slammed on the brakes, still in the middle of the street.

  “Here now, what are you doing with that camelia?” He did not bother to filter the anger from his shout.

  Thacker turned, his expression clearing when he recognized Al. “Bert! Good to see you, buddy.” He held the uprooted plant aloft. “I’m getting rid of these old bushes. The wife’s got her heart set on petunias.”

  Al shoved the gearshift into park and leaped out of the car. “You can’t do that. Those are healthy bushes. You can’t just dig them up.”

  “Healthy?” Thacker blew a blast through pursed lips. “Look at ’em. The flowers were beautiful a week or two ago, but now they’re all wilted. We must have done something wrong, because they’re all dying.”

  “They’re not dead, you—” He stopped himself before the word idiot emerged. Thacker’s eyebrows arched, and Al lowered his volume. “They’re not dead. They bloom in the spring, and then the flowers drop off. They’re beautiful green shrubs.”

  “Huh?” Thacker inspected the plant, and then shrugged. “Well, we don’t like them.” He tossed the butchered bush into the grass.

  Mouth gaping, Al could not pull his gaze from the camelia, which sprawled there, surrounded by dandelions—Dandelions! In his yard!—like a murder victim.

  “Having a little trouble letting go of this place, are you, Bert?” Thacker dusted his hands on his ridiculous shorts. “You need something else to think about. Like the big game. It’s in nine days, you know. Just three more practices. Now, I’ve been working on my analysis, and… Bert?” He snapped his fingers a few inches from Al’s nose. “You still with me, Bert?”

  A rush of memories played in Al’s mind. David and Doug had come down from Cincinnati to help him plant those camelias. Millie used to sit on the front porch and talk to him while he trimmed them to perfect roundness. They’d taken snapshots of the grandkids standing on this very walkway while bright pink blossoms covered every plant.