“I didn’t see you go past Polly’s,” he said. “How’d you get over here?”
“Ever heard of a back door?” Bertha pointed a thumb toward the rear of the store. “We’re swankier than we look, I guess.”
Fernando saluted her and closed the door. There was only one store left on the boardwalk. The sign simply said Carpenter. He grabbed the door handle firmly—he’d gotten used to almost forcing the warped doors open. But this door gave immediately.
This guy is a carpenter, after all.
The front of the store was no bigger than the others. Certainly not big enough to do large or even medium-size wood projects. There must be a workroom out back. There was no one in sight. He looked around at the displays of leather belts with their intricate, delicate, ornate buckles, and at the wooden carved bowls, walking sticks, and chess sets. There was even a wooden square-shaped man’s ring. Fernando couldn’t resist. He tried it on and went to the window to look at it in the light.
“I can give you a deal on that,” came a gravelly voice.
Fernando spun around, yanking at the ring. “Oh, I was just trying it on,” he stammered.
“That’s what it’s there for,” the leathery man said.
“You must be Powderkeg,” Fernando said, still trying to get the ring off his ringer.
“You must be Fernando,” Powderkeg said, nodding at the ring. “Want a hand with that?”
Fernando held out his hand and Powderkeg pulled. Fernando heard his knuckle pop, but he tried not to wince.
“That’s the trouble with these square rings.” Powderkeg scooped out some sort of grease from a jar onto a dirty rag. “They get stuck. I haven’t perfected this yet.”
Fernando closed his eyes as Powderkeg wrapped the filthy rag around his finger. The ring glided off.
“Thanks,” Fernando said. “It really is a beautiful piece of work.”
“Don’t mention it.” Powderkeg stared at Fernando with his piercing eyes set in deep, leathery wrinkles. “How long are you here for?”
“Not long,” Fernando said. “I came from—”
“Washington,” Powderkeg said. “We know.”
It occurred to Fernando that the people of Fat Chance actually didn’t need cell phone reception. News just seemed to get around.
“Yeah, Washington,” Fernando said. “It took a while to get here, so I’m just looking around before I head back.”
“Can I answer any questions for you?” Powderkeg asked, polishing the ring and putting it back on the stand.
If you mean can you get me to stay, the answer is no. “You’re very talented. You have three years’ salary in your pocket. Or under your mattress. Or in the bank. Why are you here?”
“I get to do what I want, when I want, and really concentrate on leather and wood in a way that wouldn’t be possible in the outside world. And nobody bothers me,” Powderkeg said. “Where else would I be?”
As Fernando left the shop, he thought over Powderkeg’s answer. After years in the bed and breakfast trade, the thought of pursuing his baking without someone ringing for more soap or different towels seemed incredibly appealing. He was surprised by the wave of sorrow that swooshed through his mind. Hadn’t he done what he wanted? He’d built up a great business—okay, maybe not great but definitely a solid business—in a place he loved, doing things he wanted to do. No other B and B on the island had prettier views—inside and out. And that kitchen! It was everything he’d always wanted in a kitchen. Enough, he told himself. I did it . . . it is done! Now I’m looking for something new. He looked around rather regretfully. And so far this isn’t it!
But as he looked down the boardwalk, he realized that keeping this band of eccentrics happy would probably be impossible. It’s a nice, quiet place, he thought. The only sound was a plane that crisscrossed the sky from time to time.
It had been a nice dream while it lasted.
Fernando had come to the end of the boardwalk. He faced the trailhead and realized it was probably time to try his luck at getting cell phone reception in the center of town. As he stepped back onto the dust of Main Street, he noticed the forge. He started across the street, contending with the dirt devils and their evil plot to wreak havoc with his boots. He was just about to give up on his plan when he saw a man come from inside. Fernando sucked in his breath. Was this gorgeous creature a mirage? Surely no mere mortal could look like this: a shirtless mountain of a man, his ebony skin gleaming in the sun, taut muscles flexing. This must be Titan. Fernando wondered if the intense sun was affecting his brain.
Titan met Fernando’s eyes. He smiled, showing even, white teeth. Fernando smiled back.
Why didn’t anyone tell me about this fabulous man? Maybe I should stay at least a little longer . . .
Fernando took a step toward Titan, but was stopped in his tracks by a sunbaked, one-eyed bird, who rushed him like a dog after a postman. Fernando squeaked.
“Fancy!” Titan said in a melodious, silky voice. “Come back here! Bad bird!”
Fernando backpedaled as Titan scooped up the flapping bird.
“I’m so sorry,” Titan said. “She’s just very protective.”
“That’s all right,” Fernando said, trying to recover his dignity. He pulled out his cell phone and waved it at Titan. “I’m just going to make a call . . .”
CHAPTER 5
“A little to the left,” Polly said from the boardwalk. She was watching Fernando, who stood in the middle of Main Street, trying to find some cell phone reception. With the phone to his ear, he took a step sideways.
“Oh, sorry,” Polly said. “I meant my left—your right. Take a step the other way.”
Fernando took a step in the opposite direction. He noticed that Titan was watching him from the front door of the forge. He took this as a compliment and stood a little straighter. Then he noticed that Powderkeg and Pappy were watching him from a bench on the boardwalk and Old Bertha was peeking at him from behind the curtain of the grocery store.
What a bunch of whackjobs!
He gave Polly a thumbs-up as he heard a voice on the other end of the call.
“Your Taxi Service,” the faint voice crackled. “This is Amanda.”
“Thank God!” Fernando said, cupping his hands around the phone as he noticed his audience leaning in. “Can you send a cab to Fat Chance?”
“Just a moment, sir,” Amanda replied. “I’ll look that up.”
“Don’t put me on hold,” Fernando replied, slightly hysterically. “The phone reception here is really wonky. Just . . . do what you have to do and stay on the line, please.”
“All right, sir,” Amanda said. “Just a minute.”
Fernando stood riveted to his spot, heart lurching every time the phone made a snap or crackle. Pappy’s words earlier had some truth in them—Fernando was looking for something new or interesting to do. The day he signed over his share of the B and B to his partner, Andy, he certainly felt a touch of regret, but mostly he felt exhilarated. Ready to start a new adventure. He was very disappointed that Fat Chance had turned out to be, at best, a run-down ghost town and at worst, a lunatic asylum. He vaguely thought of how he would break the news to Suzanna and her family that the place was a dump. His eyes drifted up the hill to Dymphna’s farm.
Maybe I shouldn’t say anything. She seems safe and happy enough, he thought.
Fernando watched a small plane circling overhead. If worse came to worst, maybe he could flag it down.
“Sir, I see no city called Fat Chance in our service area,” Amanda said.
“It might not be on the map,” Fernando said, panic rising.
“Sir,” Amanda said in her robotic tone, “we use satellites. If Fat Chance, Texas, existed, we’d know.”
“No, no you wouldn’t. It’s off a highway . . .”
“Which highway?”
“I don’t know!” Fernando usually paced when he was upset, but he willed himself to stay on his mark. “I didn’t pay attention. But it’s at the
bottom of a hill, down a dirt road that cars can’t navigate.”
“Then we couldn’t pick you up, even if there was a town called Fat Chance.” Amanda’s robotic tone was tinged with just a hint of annoyance.
“Amanda, listen to me,” Fernando said, fishing a business card out of his pocket. “I have your business card right here! You guys delivered me to the godforsaken town earlier today.”
The silence from the other end of the line made Fernando’s stomach drop. “Hello?”
“Is there a name on the business card?” Amanda finally asked.
“Yes! The card says ‘My Taxi Service Is Your Taxi Service—Jerry.’”
“Oh.” Amanda’s voice had returned to the neutral position. “Jerry.”
“Yes, Jerry,” Fernando panted. “Please send Jerry. He picked me up in Dripping Springs and he knows where Fat Chance is.”
Fernando couldn’t believe he’d apparently stumbled upon the only taxi driver in the world who knew where Fat Chance was, but one was all he needed.
“Jerry no longer works for Your Taxi Service,” Amanda said.
“Of course he does,” Fernando said. “He just dropped me off a few hours ago.”
“Yes, sir,” Amanda said. “That was his last fare. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“You haven’t helped me with anything yet! I need a ride! I can meet your driver at the top of the hill.”
“Address at the top of the hill, please.”
“There is no address at the top of the hill, Amanda!” Fernando said, pacing up the street. “I’m in the middle of nowhere.”
He could sense the dead air before he realized he’d left the cell phone sweet spot. He took the phone from his ear and glared at it.
“You should have told her that you’d meet the cab in Spoonerville,” Powderkeg called from the porch.
“Where is that?” Fernando asked, not moving from the center of the street.
Powderkeg pointed vaguely toward the north. The biplane buzzed low again.
“It’s a little supply town for a big ranch called the Rolling Fork,” Titan added, yelling over the noise of the plane. “We get stuff there, too.”
“It’s on the map,” Polly added with a smirk, squinting into the sun to watch the plane disappear.
“Is it walking distance?” Fernando asked no one in particular.
“Not in those new boots, it ain’t,” Pappy said. “It’s about four miles.”
“I guess I’ll have to chance it,” Fernando said. “I’d like to be back on the road by nightfall.”
“We’ve got ourselves a boardinghouse here,” Pappy said.
Fernando noticed Pappy said this in a very loud voice as he stared at the grocery store. Fernando looked up—the plane was nowhere in sight, so there was no need for the rise in volume. It must be for the benefit of Old Bertha, who was still peering out the grocery store window. The curtain fluttered shut and Pappy’s face fell. It occurred to Fernando that perhaps there was something going on between the two old-timers, but he had enough to think about.
“I think I’ll try my luck in Spoonerville,” Fernando said. “How do I get there?”
“Easiest way is to follow the creek,” Powderkeg said.
“Easiest way is if I drive you,” Pappy said, getting off the bench.
“You have a car?” Fernando asked, looking around.
“Not down here,” Polly said. “Up at the turnout.”
“That VW bus,” Titan said, walking out of the forge with Fancy the buzzard on his arm. Fernando tried not to take a step back. “You must have seen it.”
“I did.” Fernando thought about the old bus with its roof replaced by canvas. I just couldn’t imagine that it ran.
“Pappy calls it the Covered Volkswagen,” Titan said, inching closer with the buzzard.
“Cute,” Fernando said.
Titan beamed and looked at Fancy. “Did you hear that, Fancy? Our visitor thinks you’re cute.”
Fernando didn’t correct him. At least Titan got one thing right—Fernando was a visitor.
“If you want a ride, I’ll meet you in the grocery store in ten minutes,” Pappy said. “That suit you?”
“Sure.” Fernando tried not to sound as relieved as he felt. “Thank you.”
“If you’re going to Spoonerville, Pappy,” Polly said, “can I go too? I have some new hats to drop off.”
“I’ll come too,” Powderkeg said, getting off the bench and stretching. “Somebody needs to harass Dodge Durham, just to let him know we’re still here.”
Polly, Powderkeg, and Pappy disappeared from the street, leaving Titan and Fancy in the middle of Main Street with Fernando. Fernando didn’t want to move as long as that one-eyed bird was staring at him.
“Dodge Durham is a rascal,” Titan said. “You need to be careful around him.”
I’m beak-to-beak with a hungry-looking buzzard and this guy wants me to be careful around some dude named Dodge?
“Thanks for the tip.” Fernando took a careful step away from Fancy.
“It was nice to meet you,” Titan said. “We don’t get many visitors down here.”
I’ll bet.
“I better get into the grocery store.” Fernando jerked his thumb in the direction of the store. “I wouldn’t want to miss my ride.”
He watched as Titan and Fancy went back to the forge. Titan seemed like a nice guy. In other circumstances, Fernando could see the two of them working out at a gym somewhere that wasn’t here.
But that bird!
Fernando saw his suitcase leaning against the front of the grocery store. He’d forgotten all about it. Who’d put it there? The last time he saw it, it was leaning against the café door. This was such a strange group. He stooped to pick up his suitcase and then thought better of it. These people might be a little odd, but if someone was making sure his suitcase moved with him, he didn’t really want to insult anyone by insinuating that he was worried someone was going to run off with his belongings.
Why am I worrying about any of this? What do I care what they think?
He could see Old Bertha rushing behind the counter as he let himself into the store called Wally’s Groceries. A tinny bell tinkled as he entered.
“Hey, Miss Bertha,” Fernando said. “I hope I’m not interrupting you.”
“Depends,” Old Bertha said. “If you’ve come to buy some groceries, then you aren’t interrupting me.”
Fernando usually had a way with cantankerous old women, but that was because they typically loved his cooking. Since he wasn’t planning on cooking for this old bat, it might be an uphill battle.
But I’m on my way out, so what does it matter?
He looked around the store—slim pickins’, to be sure. There were no real aisles, just a few shelves lining the walls and a very noisy glass-front refrigeration unit in one corner. He could feel Old Bertha’s eyes on him every second. Miss Hospitality she was not.
He pulled a garish red soft drink from the refrigerator case. A teardrop of condensation dripped down the words Big Red. He held it up to Old Bertha. “What is this?” he asked.
“If the label is anything to go by, I’d say it’s a soda called Big Red,” Old Bertha said. “It’s very popular in Texas. It’s like a cream soda.”
“But it’s red,” Fernando said. “Cream soda isn’t red.”
“It is in Texas.”
“Do you have any sparkling water?” He put Big Red back in the case.
“There might be a bottle left over from when Cleo was around.” Old Bertha heaved her heavy behind off the stool. “She was the only one who drank the stuff.”
She lumbered over to the refrigerator case and then stood with her hands on her hips, looking at the paltry offerings.
“Nope,” she said.
“I can see that,” Fernando said. “Maybe you have some in the back?”
Old Bertha just snorted. “Maybe they have sparkling water in Spoonerville.” She plodded back behind the c
ounter. “They’re a little more uptown than we are here in Fat Chance.”
Fernando settled for a club soda. He put the bottle on the counter. “How much do I owe you?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“What do you pay for a club soda where you’re from?”
“I don’t know. Maybe two dollars?”
“OK,” Old Bertha said. “That’ll be four dollars.”
“I just said it’s about two dollars where I come from,” Fernando protested.
“I heard you,” Old Bertha said. “But you know how things cost way more at an airport? It’s like that.”
Evidently, Old Bertha wasn’t going to be any more charming selling groceries than she was being the proprietor of the boardinghouse.
Fernando had had about enough. “Cut the crap, Bertha,” he said. “While I was walking around town, I got a little intel on you. I know, for example, you were a bookkeeper for some pretty sophisticated companies. So enough with the crusty-old-woman routine.”
“You got me there.” Old Bertha glared at him.
“So let’s try this again. How much do I owe you?”
“Four dollars.”
Fernando put a five on the table.
“I don’t have any change,” Old Bertha said. “Go pick out something else.”
Fernando sighed and started looking at the random merchandise. There was dried salami, cans of tuna fish, packages of rice and ramen, two apples, and four pairs of socks. An entire shelf full of jam and jelly caught his eye. He picked up one of the jars. On the handwritten label, it said Strawberry Jelly—Made with Love by Dymphna. All the jars had the same handmade labels. Blackberry, plum, peach—Fernando couldn’t believe the variety.
“Find something you like?” Old Bertha asked.
“All these jams,” Fernando said, holding up a jar in her direction. “Is all this fruit growing around here?”
“If Dymphna’s making fruit jelly,” Old Bertha said, “it stands to reason she’s got some fruit.”
Pappy stuck his head in the door.
“You ready to go?” Fernando asked.
Pappy shook his head. “Bus is acting up.”
Slim Pickings in Fat Chance, Texas Page 4