Chapter Three
The new owner arrived on Wednesday afternoon instead of Friday, while Tommie was still at her shop. He took an Uber to Floral Real Estate, retrieved his keys, exchanged pleasantries with Beverly Cantrell and the owner, Charles Williams, and then he asked for directions to his new home on Camelia Street. Beverly immediately insisted on driving him—and his emotional support dog—to the duplex. As they pulled into the left unit carport, he thanked her for the lift but neglected to invite her in. She backed her car out onto the road in a huff and sped away.
That she was nonplussed did not bother Mr. Finbar Holmes in the least. Being European and 71 years old, he was often abrupt with others. Besides that, he had keen instincts about people, and his take on Miss Beverly Cantrell was entirely accurate. He had no interest in befriending her or her pretentious associate.
The first thing Holmes did when she drove off was put the dog down and let him do his business. A well-behaved Jack Russell Terrier, Sherlock (yes, his name was Sherlock) stayed right by his master’s side while Finbar inspected the grounds all the way around the duplex. Not quite finding them to his satisfaction, he made a few notes in a small journal he carried: 1. Hire lawn service. 2. Have a privacy fence erected around entire back garden. 3. Install a pet portal for Sherlock. 4. String up a clothesline.
With Sherlock’s immediate necessaries taken care of, Holmes unlocked the rear door and entered the dwelling. His trusty little dog examined the rooms along with him, sniffing the corners, hoping for any sign of vermin, for he loved chasing mice. Finding none, he gave an audible doggie sigh and settled himself on the painted concrete floor.
That will need covering, Finbar noted. Sherlock much prefers wood flooring, as do I. These walls cry for warmth, as well. He jotted in his journal: 5. Decoration supplies—wood for flooring and paneling, wood stain, Tung oil, brushes, paint, sandpaper, rags. 6. Tools—circular saw, hammer, nails, power drill, screws. 7. Necessities—towel, bathing cloths, toiletries, bedding, air mattress, cooking essentials, food and drink.
Putting the journal on the kitchen counter, Holmes went back out to the garden, leaving the door open for Sherlock. He dragged the molded blue resin Adirondack chair that he found on the covered patio into the grass and sat down, basking in the sun. He pulled out his cell phone, made a number of calls, and placed several online orders.
By the time Tommie got home at 6:30 p.m., Finbar Holmes had arranged for all the items on his short list to be completed. A white and orange Home Depot truck had already come and gone by 2:00 p.m. Two burly workers stacked everything on the back patio. Finbar paid them generous tips and brought the power tools inside, leaving the bundled wood planks under the cover of the patio. A car arrived at 2:30 p.m., and two women delivered eight blue canvas Wal-Mart totes full of groceries, cookware, and other household sundries. Finbar tipped them as well.
When Tommie got home that night, it was already dark. She did not notice the lumber on the patio or the chair in the grass, nor did she have reason to turn on the patio light and look outside because her dogs Zed and Red did their business on training pads placed on large rubber mats.
She greeted her pets, changed out their dirty pads, and fed them their dinner—dry dog food topped with some shredded chicken breast and rice she had cooked in the slow cooker. She served herself a chicken breast with rice and nibbled on it as she experimented with a new banana nut bread recipe for the man’s arrival on Friday of the following week. With the television broadcasting Wheel of Fortune in the background, she didn’t hear any noises from the unit on the other side of the wall.
Finbar Holmes and his canine companion heard no noises either. They were both fast asleep on a deluxe air mattress in the back bedroom, exhausted from jet lag after the long plane trip and the six-hour time difference between Ireland and Florida.
On Thursday, Tommie awoke at 10:00 a.m., thanks to the Blues Reme-Tea she drank the night before. She hurriedly showered, dressed, and applied a little bit of makeup. Warming a few slices from the loaf of banana nut bread and slathering them with butter, she packed them in a plastic container along with some soda crackers and cheddar cheese and headed to her car to drive to Watson’s.
Just before noon, her friend Sarah Beth Brewster entered Tommie’s shop through the adjoining side door. Sarah Beth ran Brewster’s Coffee Shoppe. Her main business hours were 6:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m., and Watson’s were 12:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m., so she and Tommie were like shift workers. They both rented their shops from Beverly Cantrell and Charles Williams at Floral Real Estate, and they each disliked them immensely. Charles, in particular, had an annoying habit of coming in several times a week to inspect the units, and he never failed to complain about some contrived infraction.
“Mrs. Brewster, your coffee makers are set too high. I burned my mouth this morning,” he said one day.
“Then learn to blow your mug to cool it down,” Sarah Beth replied.
“Ms. Watson, I believe I saw a roach in one of your jars of house blend tea,” he reported one afternoon.
“Oh, Mr. Williams, I put roaches in for added protein to promote vim and vigor,” Tommie taunted.
Charles Williams had just left Brewster’s before Sarah Beth came through the door. The women had duplicate keys made so they could keep an eye on each other’s shops.
“Word of warning,” Sarah Beth said. “His majesty is on the loose.”
“Crap. What’d he say today, Sarah Beth?”
“The coffee was bitter, and his stomach was upset.”
“And what’d you say, Sarah Beth?”
“I politely told him to go to the restroom and blow it out his …”
“You did not!” Tommie exclaimed.
“No … but I wanted to. I said he could always go to Watson’s and get some of your Tummy Tea to calm it down.”
“No! Did you really? That wasn’t very nice, trying to send him to me.”
“I didn’t, Tommie. Just teasing. I actually hope his stomach is upset. Maybe he’ll leave you alone today. How’re things going, by the way?”
“It’s Thursday. I wonder if that Irish guy will come in tomorrow,” Tommie said.
“Are you ready for him?”
“Yes … and no. I test-baked a new banana nut bread and made a special tea to take him. If he’s just getting in on Friday afternoon or Saturday, though, I think I’ll wait until Monday evening. Give him a chance to get over jet lag and be in a better mood.”
Sarah Beth pinched off a corner of Tommie’s bread and popped it in her mouth. “Great idea. Oh, yum. Tasty stuff! After you give him his goodies, what’ll you do then?”
“Then I’ll beg him to let me stay, and if he says I can’t, then I guess I’ll have to find another place to live, and I’ll have to give up the shop to Charles,” she moaned.
“Oh, no, you will not!” Sarah Beth slammed her hand down on the counter. “If it comes to that, I will loan you the money to get in another house. You must not let Charles get his hands on your shop. He’ll put me out of business, too.”
Tommie was surprised at the depth of emotion Sarah Beth displayed. She was normally pleasant and easygoing. A svelte, attractive woman with naturally curly shoulder-length light auburn hair and dark jade green eyes, she exuded an unselfconscious confidence and grace. At 5’4” and 55 years old, she was in incredible physical condition, due to her morning workouts at the gym.
Her husband Gary worked for the Floribunda School Board, and they were financially secure. As a couple, they had one downside: their only child was a morose young man of 25 with depression who still lived with them. He didn’t seem at all like he belonged to beautiful Sarah Beth. I guess everyone has some kind of albatross, Tommie thought and was instantly ashamed of herself in light of Sarah Beth’s offer to help her find another place to live.
“Thank you, Sarah Beth. That means a lot to me,” Tommie said, genuinely touched.
“Gotta stick together, right?” Hearing the jingle of the little bell over
the door which signaled a customer, Sarah Beth gave Tommie a quick hug and disappeared into her own shop to close up.
Tommie always opened in time for the daily lunch crowd to stop in. She served no food, but patrons brown-bagged it at the little round tables while enjoying the hot or iced teas she prepared. When her customers went back to their jobs and the shop was quiet, Tommie spent her time making special order herbal remedies, as well as a variety of tonics, salves, and beauty products which she advertised for sale on a set of low bookcases near the display window.
Today was no different, and she forgot her woes in the faces of the smiling clientele who chatted with her and praised her latest house blends. February being Valentine’s Day month, her newest were Fruity Friendship—with bits of dried apricots, cherries, and peaches in a sweet Honeybush tea—and Romantic Red—a customer favorite of Red Rooibos and red rose buds, with mint leaves hand-tied around jasmine flowers and served in white teacups to show off the blossoming petals that unfurled as they steeped in the boiling water.
Five hours later and bone weary, Tommie returned to her home, fed the dogs and herself, and retired to the bedroom to watch a movie on television. Again, there was no noise from the unit next door. She had no idea Finbar Holmes had already taken up residence.
Friday passed much the same way. Tommie left for the shop around 10:00, and Finbar considerately began his renovations as soon as her dogs announced their owner had left. He, himself, wondered how he would handle the issue of her occupation of the adjacent unit. He decided to continue decorating his unit while she was gone and wait for her to make contact. Then, he would come to a conclusion, based on his first face-to-face impression of her. Thus far, he found no objections with the level of noise from either her or her dogs. Time will tell, he decided as he nailed another paneling strip to the wall. Time will tell.
On Saturdays, Watson’s and Brewster’s kept the same hours: 9:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. at both shops. Despite the fact that they both sold beverages, they were not in competition.
“Coffee drinkers are not tea drinkers, and vice versa,” Sarah Beth had remarked when she first met the new shop owner back in October of 2018.
“That’s a good point,” Tommie agreed, pulling her wheelchair around with her good leg while she removed the awful vinyl covers from the tables and cleaned all the exposed hard surfaces with an alcohol and hydrogen peroxide mixture.
Thereafter, theirs was a congenial and cooperative relationship. Tommie was extremely relieved. There were few available retail spaces for rent in Floribunda—just like the housing—and she was lucky that her cousin decided to quit selling his horrible sandwiches. But, when she learned the business next door was a coffee shop, she had worried there would be problems between them. Instead, she found an ally in Sarah Beth, with Charles Williams their common enemy. He was equally rude and nasty to both of them.
“What’s his deal anyway?” Tommie had asked.
“He wants these two side-by-side properties,” Sarah Beth responded.
“Why?”
“He’s greedy. You know they’re prime pieces of real estate now since the hurricane came through and destroyed so much of our downtown area. Somebody offered Charles more rent for them as one store. He’d like to buy them and combine them to make more money.”
“He can’t do that. My cousin Sanderson owns both of these spaces, and unless he’s changed his mind, he doesn’t want to sell them. He can’t. They’re Harper family property.”
“Really? I didn’t know that. Interesting. But, don’t you pay rent for the shop?”
“Yes, I do … to Floral Real Estate. Sanderson lets them manage the lease.”
“But, if your cousin is the owner, why do you have to pay any rent?”
“Because Sanderson Harper’s a good ole boy, and he attends the First Presbyterian Church with Charles Williams. He won’t sell it, but he doesn’t mind making his blood relative pay for its use.”
“Men. Can’t live with them; can’t tie ‘em to a truck and drive it into the river,” Sarah Beth mugged. “Speaking of men, I might have a guy who can help you get your space fixed up and organized—my son Barry. He’s not so much in the personality department, but he is my child and I know he can follow directions.”
“Thanks,” Tommie replied, grateful for the help.
Barry proved to be exactly as his mother described: a medicated man-boy with little personality. He did seem to take direction well, however, and with his help, Tommie was able to get her renovations done in early November and have a successful grand opening well before Thanksgiving. In the past two months since the opening, she had progressed from wheelchair to crutches to walker to walking boot, and the herbal remedies business seemed to be thriving.
On Saturday the 9th, two days before Coral Beadwell collapsed, Tommie’s thoughts returned to the Irishman’s arrival as she hobbled and limped around her shop in between customers, wiping down tables, dusting herb jars, and reordering the reference books and retail merchandise on the display shelves. Saturday, and I still haven’t seen or heard anything about the new owner. Maybe he’ll come in on Sunday, she speculated. If so, she would not know. Sunday was her day to visit her own son Kevin in Sugar Sand Beach where he lived and managed a beachside restaurant. Kevin Watson always treated his mother to lunch and a movie, and then dinner at his restaurant. She usually got home well after dark.
As far as Tommie was aware, the Irishman would order her out immediately, and she’d have just under three weeks to get resettled. She knew Kevin would come over to move her on his one day off, and her friends would help out, but Terry was a 70-year-old widow, Joan was a 60-year-old divorcee, and Craig was 66 with a bad back. Maggie was the youngest at 58, and Tommie was still somewhat crippled. Other than her 33-year-old son, they were all senior citizens. It would be a struggle; she hoped they would survive it.
She wondered if Sarah Beth had been serious about offering to front her the move-in money. Probably not without asking her husband Gary. And knowing Sanderson like she did, if he couldn’t collect rent money from her, he would let somebody else have the lease.
No, if the Irishman evicted her, Tommie would certainly lose her shop, and it was the solitary source of income necessary to supplement her pitiful social security checks and the meager retirement she received from nearly 20 years as a public schoolteacher. Without the extra money, she could never rent both the shop and the duplex on Camelia Street she had called home for the past four months since the hurricane.
In early October, Hurricane Adam had gathered strength and hit the Florida panhandle as a monstrous category five storm. It hopped over its projected target of Sugar Sand Beach (thankfully, her son Kevin had evacuated) and landed squarely on inland Bay City. The storm wreaked havoc on the suburbs before it continued a destructive course through other outlying areas, effectively destroying the way of life as it had been known in the sleepy towns of Loblolly, Rivertown, Beavercreek, Deer Run, and Floribunda.
Tommie was living in Beavercreek when it made landfall. Her rustic tiny home was a 12-foot by 32-foot cottage she had lovingly crafted from a preconstructed side-lofted barn-style shed set up on five wooded acres near the banks of Beaver Creek. She did all the interior work herself, except for the electrical wiring, and constructed built-in furnishings to save space. An adjacent 12-foot by 20-foot shed housed her dried herbs and equipment for making teas, tinctures, decoctions, tissanes, and infusions. Together, the two shed structures formed a right angle, with a fenced grassy area for the dogs completing a 32-foor by 32-foot square.
The cottage was accessible by a two-mile dirt road which branched off a paved side street from the main highway and wound its way toward the creek. The setting was idyllic, with towering pines and majestic oaks, as well as native elderberry trees, wild blueberry bushes, creeping honeysuckle vines, and a plethora of both wild plants and cultivated herbs along the banks of the shallow creek that offered cool, clear unpolluted water.
On that morning,
when it was evident the storm had changed its course, Tommie and her two elderly dogs Zed and Red took refuge in the Beavercreek Church of God, a brick and block building a mile up on the paved cross street. For three hours, she and about thirty of her neighbors huddled among the wooden pews with their pets and listened as the winds howled and the rains pelted the roof of the church. Then came repeated cracking sounds like gunfire and thundering, ground shaking thuds.
During the brief quiet that signaled the eye passing over, some brave souls peeked through the doors, only to return with wide staring expressions and open mouths. Then, the backside of the eyewall brought the remainder of the storm. Three hours later—after the roof over the choir loft shuddered and then completely disappeared—there was an eerie silence. Hurricane Adam had finally moved on.
Tommie ventured outside, holding tightly to the leashes of her dogs, and surveyed the damage. There were no oak trees left standing, and every single pine tree had been snapped in half. The road was impassible by vehicles, so she left her car at the church and walked the three miles home, picking her way through the downed trees and rubble. Though the cottage was still standing, a large pine tree lay across the roof. But the adjoining herb workshop, with her bulk supplies, concoctions, and all her tools, was nowhere to be found.
Thankfully, it turned out the cottage was relatively unharmed from the tree. The metal roof sustained a huge dent in the center, but there were no holes which leaked rain. The floor was wet in one area because the four-foot back barn door had nearly ripped from its hinges. Tommie repaired it by screwing it completely shut.
Because the connecting fence was mangled beyond repair, Zed and Red could not go outside without being on their leashes. Tommie didn’t mind walking them each day; it gave her something to do while she strategized getting a new workshop and replenishing her bulk herbs. Sadly, her carefully tended produce and herb garden were gone, along with all the shade trees and flowering trees, shrubs, vines, and bushes.
Tainted Teacup Page 2