Lester stood and retrieved a book off one of the shelves flanking his desk. He sat back down next to me, this time keeping his distance respectful. He flipped through some pages before jamming a finger at some passage of interest. He leaned in and put the book on my lap and showed me what he’d found, hovering over my shoulder as I read a few paragraphs. I felt and got another whiff of his breath, which was foul, like rancid meat, on my neck. I tried not to shudder in disgust. To dislodge myself from him I reached for my coffee with my left hand and pondered elbowing him, at risk of spilling the java on myself, but he seemed to pick up on the possibility and slid a few inches away. I kept my elbow out as I drank and held onto my coffee cup. I regretted applying deodorant for a moment, to be honest, but I suspected he wouldn’t care one way or another. My mother gave me a knowing smirk.
“Which book is this?” Mom asked.
“It’s a local history written by a professor from the college some years back,” Lester said.
“This says it was built in the early 1900s,” I said, “and the materials used were the red sandstone culled from the lake.”
“Yes,” Lester said. “There was a building boom in the early 1900s, when many downtown buildings were constructed. Red sandstone was used — as well as brick — for many of the structures. Depending on when the building was erected …” — he chuckled after he uttered the word, before continuing — “… it was either sandstone taken from the lake — every time a new lock was built, usually more buildings followed — or from the canal, which was started in 1898 and completed four years later.”
“That’s interesting,” Mom said, “but what about the Chapmans?”
“Yes, the Chapmans,” Lester continued, shifting on the sofa. He inched nearer me and bumped his knee against mine. He gave me a look and reached toward my face, tucking a wayward lock behind my ear, his fingers drifting across my jawline as they did so. “My, you have such soft skin!” he exclaimed. He reached out to touch me again and I raised my hand, still clutching the coffee cup, to block.
“Be careful,” I warned. “I don’t want to accidentally spill any of this very hot coffee on you.”
“Ah, yes. Right. My apologies. I just get so excited when people are curious about history.”
“Without a doubt,” Mom smiled. “Say, Poppy, isn’t Roger interested in history?”
“He is,” I said. “Very.”
“Who is Roger? Perhaps your brother?” Lester asked.
“No, he’s her boyfriend,” Mom said. “Roger Montgomery. The big mechanic.”
“Ah, Montgomery, yes. I’ve met his mother before. Wasn’t he the subject of some chatter a few weeks back? Something happened at the Towne Tavern?”
“Yes,” I nodded, remembering the fight when several men, enchanted by my cousin Plenty’s botched spell, tumbled into a brawl as they vied for her attentions. Roger had briefly been under the hex, too, which irked at the time.
“I wasn’t clear what the matter was about?” Lester murmured. “Some blonde girl, I believe?”
I was debating how to respond when my mother cut in. “There was a misunderstanding inside, yes, but Roger also got into it when a guy invited Poppy to go home with him — he didn’t even lay a hand on her, and only spoke to her — but Roger didn’t appreciate the overture, and lunged at the guy, beating the snot out of him. The guy was a big dude, too, if I recall right. Roger’s willing to go all caveman for his woman.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes at the exaggeration, but it did do the trick. Lester slid a couple inches farther away from me. Then I had to fight the urge to laugh.
“So, what about the Chapmans?” I asked, steering the subject back to the matter at hand.
“Ah, yes, the Chapmans,” Lester said. “They were a well-to-do family. They had a few business interests in town, and had the building you’re inquiring about constructed in the late 1890s, I believe.” He trained his nose into the book he held and skimmed through a few paragraphs. “Yes, 1897.”
“What was it used for?” I asked.
“The downstairs area was a shop and the second story held some offices,” Lester said.
“How long was it a shop?” Mom asked. “Did it survive the Great Depression?”
Lester smiled ruefully and shook his head. “Ah, no. It did not survive those years. After that the family’s fortunes went downhill and they moved into the upstairs portion of the building, while keeping offices open on the ground level.”
“When did the Chapmans sell the building? I’m assuming they did, anyways,” I asked, “and are any Chapmans still around?”
“They sold it in the 1960s, or rather a son did. He had decided to try and open a business — I forget what exactly — but it didn’t last long. He sold it to some developer and it’s gone through a lot of incarnations ever since. I can look it up for you, if you’d like.”
“If it’s no trouble,” I said. “What about the Chapmans? Are any still around?”
“There are some, but I believe the ones around here aren’t Chapmans any longer. They’ve married and taken on new last names, and they’re escaping me at the moment. I can look that up for you later, as well. I have a lunchtime meeting and some appointments this afternoon.”
“That would be lovely, Lester,” Mom purred.
Lester clapped a hot palm on my knee and gave it another squeeze. I gave it a not-so-subtle jerk to let him know the placement wasn’t welcome. He didn’t get the hint. At least not until I gave a second, more violent jolt.
“Ah! Pardon me. I tend to get a bit expressive when I’m excited about something. I mean no harm,” Lester coughed out a weak laugh.
“That’s fine,” I said, holding my hand up like I was ready to backhand him. “I get a little expressive, too, if someone gets a bit touchy-feely around me. Not as bad as Roger does, but still.”
Mom leaned back, uncrossing and then recrossing her legs and Lester’s attention darted to her for a moment. I could practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he eyed her high-heeled legs. He couldn’t see anything, aside from a bit of shin and knee, and I suspected he was mightily disappointed.
“Ah, so, I’ll dig around a bit and see what I can find out about the Chapmans, and I can make a visit to your shop. You’re at the end of the tourist strip, correct?” he asked.
“You can call or email if that’s easier,” I offered. “Or we’ll call you.”
“No need, no need, ladies.” He held out a hand in a placating gesture. “I lunch all over downtown so it’d be easy-peasy to stop in and share what I have learned.” He paused and looked me in the eyes. “Unless you’d like to meet for lunch and I can share my findings with you one-on-one.”
“That’s kind of you,” I smiled, “but I tend to work through lunch much of the time.”
“Surely not all of the time,” he said, his eyes wide and bright.
“No, not all of the time,” I agreed, “but right now I’m focused on the holiday rush and will be having a couple open houses and shipping out a lot of holiday gifts as well, so I’ll be hard-pressed to escape in the immediate future.”
“I’d be happy to meet you for lunch,” Mom cut in. “I can also bring along my husband, if you’d like.”
Lester opened his mouth as if he were to say something. Mom spoke again before he could continue. “Unless, you’re only interested in lunching with women who are single or who are young enough to be your daughter.”
“I would be happy to meet with you and your husband for lunch,” Lester said, his grin tight.
“Good to know,” Mom beamed. She gave me a curt head nod and we both stood at the same time. “Well, Lester,” she continued, “we’ve taken enough of your time. We appreciate your help.”
“Not a problem, not a problem at all,” he said as he stood and hovered near me.
We began to walk out of his office, Lester trailing us uncomfortably close.
“Thanks,” I said, slowing as we approached the front door and started
putting on our coats. “Let us know if you find anything.” He didn’t stop in time and bumped into me, crotch first, and I swear I felt a growing bulge there. I turned around quickly, my purse swinging with momentum as it smacked into his below-the-belt region. He gave a loud grunt as I uttered a cheery “excuse me.” Mom waved over her shoulder as we walked out; he was bent over at the waist, still collecting himself from the impact.
As Mom and I walked down the street, she laughed. “That was a good move, accidentally punching him in the nuts with your purse as you turned.”
I shrugged. “It was his fault. He bumped me and was getting a boner.”
“You felt a bit of swelling?”
I nodded. “Just a bit. I suspect it’s all he has.”
Mom laughed and shook her head. “How about we stop for lunch somewhere? Maybe Chinese? Egg drop soup sounds good.”
“Sure. Looking forward to your lunch date?” I teased.
“Pffft,” Mom scoffed. “He won’t come around for that. I guarantee you he’ll come to your shop so he can try and hover over you some more, squeeze your knee. He’ll probably be knocking things over so he can watch you pick them up.”
“Unless Vanessa is there. Then he’ll drop things for her to pick up.”
“While dreaming of you two getting into a pillow fight, no doubt.”
“He seems to live up to his nickname, doesn’t he,” I said.
“He certainly does.”
13
Thanksgiving dawned with a blanket of snow, dusting our northern Michigan world with a few inches of powdery white. I stepped outside to see how cold it was — freezing, but not dreadfully so — and to see if it was good for snowballs.
It wasn’t.
I spotted my neighbor, an elderly hard-of-hearing man, behind his snowblower, finishing clearing my sidewalk.
“Good morning!” I called out, waving to him. I managed to be loud enough so that he heard. He grinned and wobbled over, penguin-like, his cheeks red from the chill and his usual good humor. I held a finger up, asking him to wait for a moment. A second later I stepped outside with a pumpkin pie and a box of cookies. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Pratt,” I smiled. “And thank you for clearing the path and the driveway.”
“Eh?” he held a hand up behind his ear.
“Thank you,” I said more loudly, holding up the sweets. “Happy Thanksgiving!”
“Oh. Yes, happy turkey day to you, too! Those are for me?”
I nodded. I heard the door to his house open and spied his wife on the front step. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs. Pratt,” I waved. “I have a pie and some cookies for you. Let me bring them over.”
“Thank you, dear,” she waved, as I made my way along the cleared path to present the food to the Missus. I held up a twenty-dollar bill and showed it to her. “No need, hon. The hubby likes to plow and snow blow every chance he can get. He’d pay to do it.”
I laughed. Indeed he would. He could never wait for the first earnest snowfall and so far we’d only had dustings, which was unusual for our area. “Then consider this gas money, and not labor money,” I said. “Please. I insist. I don’t want to take advantage of you.” I tucked the money into the pocket of her cardigan and began stepping away.
Mrs. Pratt shook her head and grinned. “Fine, Poppy. For the gas. And thank you for the goodies.”
I turned and waved as I made my way back to my rental.
“Was that a pie?” Mr. Pratt asked as I passed him on the sidewalk.
“It is,” I said. “It’s a pumpkin pie. I know it’s your favorite. And some cookies.”
“Thank you, dear.” Mr. Pratt held a hand out to still me, his usually booming voice lowering as he fiddled with his hearing aid.
“Ah, I see you’re giving the hearing aid another go.”
He gave a reluctant nod. “Yep. Shirley says she’ll kick me out if I don’t wear it when I’m around people. Namely her.”
“Oh.” I bit back a laugh. I knew the woman found it tiresome to repeat herself a half-dozen times. Good on her that she got him to cave a bit.
“Tell me,” Mr. Pratt started, his brown eyes twinkling, “will your mother be stopping by today?”
I shook my head. “Sorry. No. She’ll be hosting her own dinner.”
“Oh. Okay,” he looked disappointed. “Tell her I said hello then.”
“I will,” I smiled. “She’ll be thrilled you were thinking of her.”
“Will you be bringing that young gent who’s been coming around?”
“Yes, and we’ll also be going to his parents’ place for dinner.”
“Oh,” his eyebrows shot up. “It’s getting serious then?”
“I suppose it is.”
“Breakfast’s ready!” Mrs. Pratt called out from their porch.
“Well, I guess I’d best get going then, Poppy.” He turned to go, before stopping. “You still intent on keeping that cat, the big fluffy one?”
“Yes, Mr. Pratt, I’m keeping Fido.”
“If you ever want to part with him, I’d be happy to take him. I think he’d make a fine fishing companion. I bet he’d be a good one for catching squirrels, too.”
“I’m planning on keeping the cat, but if I ever need to find him a new home, I assure you that you’ll be first on the list.”
“That’s all I ask, my dear. And if you ever let him out, be sure to bring him over to my yard. There’s lots of squirrels out back. He’d have a field day picking them off, and I can use the tails to make fishing lures.”
“Sure thing,” I said. “And again, Happy Thanksgiving.”
I chuckled to myself as I jogged back toward my place. Mr. Pratt, when he’d gotten a look at my Maine Coon cat, Fido, with his long hair and white paws, instantly was reminded of a cat he’d had many years earlier, who hunted and killed squirrels with abandon. He always held out hope that I’d let Fido out and let him go to town on the neighborhood critters.
Priding myself on being a responsible pet owner, I never let the cats out, and priding myself on being a peaceful neighbor, I simply smiled and said the cat wasn’t an outdoor animal.
Plus, I’m sure Mr. Pratt would have been disappointed in Fido’s hunting skills. The only things the pudgy puss ever hunted was the red light from the laser pointer toy I had, or the empty food dish. My other cat, Puck, a slinky black cat with huge green eyes, probably would make a better killing machine, but he also was relegated to a lazy and luxurious indoor life.
Plus, in addition to not wanting to risk my cats getting lost, picked off by a predator, or getting sick, I also happened to like the squirrels.
An hour later Roger got up as I was taking a Dutch baby out of the oven. I handed him a cup of coffee and gave him a soft, lingering kiss.
His hair was sleep-mussed and his eyes still drowsy as he sat down and I spooned freshly cooked cinnamon apples over the puffy pancake.
I sat across from him and we tucked in.
“This is good,” Roger said as he chewed a mouthful. “I haven’t had one of these in ages.”
“I’m glad you like it,” I smiled.
“I’m surprised you got up before me. I thought I’d wake up the same time as you.”
“Perhaps I tired you out last night.”
“I know you did. I think I had the best sleep ever as a result.” He winked before he directed his icy blue eyes out the kitchen window. “I see we did get the snow they predicted. I’ve got the plow in front of my truck, so I can clear the drive, and I can make quick work to clear the walk.”
“No need.”
“What? Is that why you got up early? I know you don’t have a snow blower. You really didn’t shovel all that, did you? You shouldn’t have.” His expression looked stern, disappointed. “It’s my job to do that.”
“To do what?”
“To clear the snow.”
“That’s good to know, but my neighbor usually does it for me.”
“The one next door, with all the kids?”
�
�No, the one on the other side, the older gent who’s hard of hearing.”
“That’s why I hear shouting in that direction from time to time.”
“Yes, that would be the reason.”
“You pay him? If so, you don’t have to. I’ll do it for free. You’re my lady, after all,” he smiled as he brought his coffee mug to his lips.
I laughed at being referred to as his woman. It was sort of cute, but I wasn’t fond of being referred to as property, even in some roundabout way. Normally I’d argue, but he looked too good in his half-unbuttoned Henley shirt and his drawstring pants. I started wondering if he was wearing underwear. I knew I could ask, but I thought I’d try to solve the mystery by observing him when he got up next.
“Where’d you go there? You disappeared for a moment.”
“Just pondering,” I smirked. “I’ll clue you in shortly, once a … um … theory gets proven or disproven.”
“You’re not offering me any further detail than that?”
I shook my head. “No. But trust me, you won’t complain.”
He paused to say something more, but instead snickered. “If you’re sure I won’t complain… So back to the neighbor.”
“Mr. Pratt. That’s his name.”
“Okay, Mr. Pratt. Do you pay him?”
“No. He does it for free. I usually pay him in baked treats — or I slip his wife some gas money now and then. He loves clearing snow. That, hunting squirrels and fishing. Oh, and my Mom. Those are his big passions, shall we say?”
“He loves your Mom? What does his wife think about that?”
I shrugged. “I think she’s fine with it. I don’t think he loves my mother, but more has a crush on her. When he spots her coming by and wearing heels or a shorter skirt, I guess he gets a thrill.”
“Does your mother know?”
“She does. She flirts with him just a bit. Since he’s something like seventy-five I suppose it gives him a bit of a charge to flirt with a woman who’s practically young enough to be his daughter.”
“What about the squirrels. I get the fishing passion, but squirrel hunting?”
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