Linny's Sweet Dream List

by Susan Schild

  From the corner of her eye, Linny saw a red truck pull up. Did she hear opera music? Nah. Couldn’t be. Those were the wrong tunes for the dump. The man, who was wearing jeans and work boots, lifted recycling bins from the truck bed. He looked like a Blake Shelton fan, not an opera buff. Glancing around, she saw that they were the only two souls in the recycling area. He looked wholesome, but so did axe murderers. She’d watch him from the corner of her eye.

  Linny wound up pitcher-style for the next toss. She was tired to her bones and running on fumes, but still, launching bottles with a vengeance felt good. Buck said the fishing tournament was “to strengthen business contacts and build teamwork.” So that’s what they called it these days. The swashbuckler with the killer smile on the dark rum label looked a little like Buck. Shaking her head in disgust, she slung the bottle into the dumpster.

  This was the second time she’d been widowed, and she wasn’t even forty. No one her age should be so familiar with the process of burying husbands. All she wanted was a normal life. Nothing fancy, just the basics—a nice husband to eat supper with each night and sleep beside, a child or two, a little house, a secure future. Was that too much to ask? The vodka bottle with the dancing Cossack on it glittered like diamonds when it shattered.

  Linny drove under the speed limit, studied Consumer Reports before she bought anything big, and subscribed to Prevention magazine. Still, husband number one—her beloved Andy—died after a brown recluse spider bite three years ago at age thirty-five, and now Buck was dead. Conscientiousness and planning were no guarantees of safe passage.

  Linny groaned aloud at her stupidity. Why had she married Buck in the first place? What a lunk-headed decision. Any woman in her right mind should have known that a golden boy with a Matt Damon smile and driving a vintage Cadillac convertible would be trouble. “But no, not me,” she muttered as she tossed.

  She snorted as she glanced at the happy hula girl on the label of the Ronrico rum bottle—she was probably so carefree because she was an unmarried girl in an island home. She didn’t have to tidy up the story about the seedy circumstances of her most recent husband’s death or clean up the mess he’d left for her.

  Linny suspected she’d made a mistake shortly after the ink was dry on the marriage certificate. At the Royal Palms Hotel, her brand-new husband made eyes at the young concierge who was giving them details of their honeymoon package. Linny had tried to explain it away. She was jittery and tired from all the excitement. Buck was just being friendly.

  But on the sugary pink beach the next day, under the cover of a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses, she’d pretended to thumb through a magazine and watched Buck’s eyes follow bikini-clad women as they strolled down the beach.

  Linny paused and pushed back her bangs. It had made no sense. During their courtship Buck had never glanced at other women. She married him, and he turned into Cassanova.

  “Stupid . . .” Linny started to berate herself yet again, but paused her frenzied tossing and snapped the rubber band on her wrist. She modified her self-talk, a concept she’d read about in the latest self-help book she’d loaded on her tablet after Buck died—peace goddess and healer Indigo Merriweather’s best seller, Snap Out Of It and Boogaloo with Your Inner Goddess.

  With the sleeve of her shirt, she wiped the sweat dripping down her forehead, and continued her internal pep talk. I cha-cha toward courage with my cheetah goddess. Glancing around to make sure no one was looking, she gave herself a little hug the way Indigo had suggested in Chapter 1. She’d weathered other setbacks, and she’d weather this one. She needed to stop beating herself up. As George Dickel and Jack Daniels exploded into shining shards of amber, she felt a fresh surge of resolve.

  She flung the last bottle high and hard, but her fingers were slick and the bottle got away from her. Instead of the tinkling of breaking glass, she heard an oddly muffled thud and, a beat later, a crack.

  A man’s voice rang out. “What in the h . . . ?”

  Linny’s heart pounded in panic as she raced around the side of the dumpster. It was the man from the truck, pressing a hand to his head. Her heart hammered. If another man died on her watch, she’d really be in trouble.

  “Oh, my goodness!” Linny gasped and squinted as she tried to assess the man’s injuries. “Are you okay? I am so sorry!”

  The man grimaced, took off his sunglasses and cap, and gingerly touched a spot on his head. “I’m okay.”

  Her heart pounded. “Are you sure? Let me see you.” Linny stepped closer to the man, and gave him a quick once-over. No bones jutting out and no blood seeping through. That was good. Clean-shaven and solidly built, he wore an NC State Wolfpack shirt. With his farmer’s tan and smile lines that fanned out around his eyes, he looked like he spent a lot of time outdoors. A small goose egg rose atop his salt and pepper hair. She winced. “That must have hurt.”

  “I’m fine,” the man said, eying her warily.

  But what if he wasn’t fine? She rubbed her sweaty palms on the sides of her shorts and tried to remember basic first aid. Did a concussion dilate or constrict pupils? “Let me check your eyes.” She stood right in front of him, and peered intently at him, but got sidetracked in her inspection. Luxurious dark lashes framed intelligent eyes that were as green as pine trees. Gracious.

  She must have looked confused, because his lips twitched and he asked, “Am I going to make it, doc?”

  “We need to get you to an emergency room,” she said firmly, all the while doing frantic math in her head about the cost of an ER visit. How would she pay for that now?

  “I’m not going.” The man pulled his cap back on his head. “No need.”

  Vibrant men up and died unexpectedly all the time. She gave an involuntary shudder, pictured Buck’s body, and then—with a staggering wave of sadness—Andy’s. “What if you go to sleep and then never wake up?” She spoke rapidly, unaware of the tears trickling down her cheeks until she tasted them.

  His expression softening, he held up a hand. “Slow down. I’m fine. I’ve got a hard head.”

  She brushed away the tears. The after effects of adrenaline made her knees turn to jelly, and as she leaned back against his truck, she noticed a shimmering web of glass on the windshield. “What happened to your truck?”

  “Got hit by a bird—a Wild Turkey.” he said wryly, as he gingerly picked the Wild Turkey bottle from the cracked safety glass, and chucked it into the dumpster. “You got a two-fer.”

  She was bewildered, and then it dawned on her. “I hit you and your truck?”

  He gave her a lopsided smile. “Your throwing arm is good, but you need to work on the wild pitches.”

  She put a hand to her mouth, her panic returning. “I’m so sorry!”

  “Nah.” He waved her off toward her car. “It was cracked already.”

  Glancing at the shiny truck, Linny peered closely at the windshield and saw a small preexisting crack beside the big new one. “Please. Let me pay for the windshield.”

  “No. No big deal.”

  She snatched her purse from the car and searched her wallet, pulling out a crumpled five and three ones. Dang. She wouldn’t insult him by offering that. “I’m sending you a check,” she said firmly, and held a pen to a scrap of paper ready to get his address. “Let me get your name and address.”

  He waved her away and turned to go, but his eyes flickered down her shirt, and he suppressed a grin.

  The wave of gratitude she felt suddenly receded. Was he an ogler like Buck? She wanted to say something snappy, like, ‘Eyes up here, buddy,’ but restraint was in order—she’d just hit him with a bottle, after all. Turning on her heel, she shoved her wallet back in her purse and called over her shoulder in what she hoped was a chilly, formal tone. “Again, I’m sorry.” As she wedged the bins back in the trunk, she saw the man gazing at her with an amused smile. What was so funny? She snapped the rubber band, muttering, “I two-step toward tranquility with the tigress goddess.”

  Slipping into
the driver’s seat, she slammed the car door. As she jerked on her seatbelt, she glimpsed the slogan on her T-shirt. Her face flamed. Good Lord, she wore the “I’m Too Sexy for My Skin” shirt that Kate had given her as a gag gift for her thirty-fifth birthday. She was so tired, she’d grabbed it from the FOR GOODWILL box without a glance.

  What the heck. This good girl was feeling crazy. If he thought she’d seriously wear that shirt, she might as well play the part. Linny stepped on the gas, and for the first time in her life, sprayed gravel as she fishtailed out of the county landfill. It felt good. She liked peeling out, and might start doing it more often. Maybe she’d trade in the Volvo for a muscle car. She smiled, and rolled down the window.

  On the way to her mother’s house, Linny called her sister. Kate’s lilting hello made her feel better. “I just hit a man in the head with a bottle,” she announced.

  “Wow,” Kate said in the extra mellow voice she got after she did her Tai Chi, “He okay?”

  Linny breathed out as it dawned on her that she could have badly hurt the man. “I think so.”

  “Good to hear,” Kate said with her usual equanimity. “I’ll be out tomorrow morning to help you size up repairs. I’m also going to bring sage stick bundles and we can smudge the place. Get rid of any bad energy, cleanse the karma.”

  Her sister had taken one too many trips to Santa Fe. But then again, she herself was currently two-stepping with a tigress. She’d take any help she could get. “Okay.”

  Kate paused a beat. “I know it may be too soon, but I think you need a dog to keep you company. So many dogs at the animal shelter need homes.”

  “I don’t need a dog,” Linny said firmly. She felt a flash of apprehension, though. Kate’s ideas had an uncanny way of materializing. “There’s too much going on right now.”

  Her sister’s voice was even. “I understand.”

  Linny thought about her sister’s sweet heart. Yesterday morning, she’d called Kate in a panic after Buck’s slick-haired partners showed up at the door to give her twenty-four hours to vacate, so they could put their home on the market. Kate had flown to her side, dubbing the partners the Shark Brothers. After a quick discussion, they decided not to involve her attorney. If those sleazeballs wanted her out of the house, Linny sure as heck didn’t want to stay there. She and Kate had rocketed into action; between the two of them, they’d called sixteen apartment complexes, but none had any vacancies. “All the people who still can’t get home loans are renting,” Kate grumbled, before hitting on the idea of Mama’s trailer. It was definitely a temporary solution, but workable. Right now, Linny desperately needed workable.

  Her voice choked with emotion. “Thanks for saving me yesterday, Kate.”

  “No biggie,” her sister assured her. “Best to get out of that haunted house.”

  “Just Thursday, I was making a list of the pros and cons for staying married. I was going great guns on the cons . . .” she trailed off.

  “Well, you couldn’t very well have stayed married to an unfaithful man,” Kate said, sounding reasonable.

  “I know.” Linny’s voice was small, and she paused. “So, am I supposed to call the place a trailer, a mobile home, or a house?”

  Kate said quietly, “For now, I think you call it home.”

  Linny bumped down the dirt road that led to her mother’s farm and pulled up behind the carport of Dottie’s tidy brick ranch house. Wincing, she saw the I BRAKE FOR YARD SALES sticker on the bumper of her mother’s Buick. Hoo boy. She took a breath, and walked up the paver stones, noting the freshly mown lawn, perfectly pruned azaleas and dandelion-free yard. Outward appearances could be deceiving.

  Dottie answered her knock and gave her a hug. “Hey, there.” Her eyes flickered over Linny’s Too Sexy for My Skin shirt, and her lips pursed.

  Linny ignored her mother’s look. “Hey, Mama.” As usual, Dottie wore clothes that were usually worn by women twenty years her senior. Today, she had on a mauve zip-up housecoat and pink tennis shoes. Twenty years ago, she’d had her colors analyzed at The Baptist Women’s Conference in the mountains, and still took her Spring designation very seriously. Linny peered at her. Did her mother’s hair also have a pinkish tint to it yet again? “Did you find the keys?” Linny asked.

  “I did. Come on in.” With a wave, Dottie beckoned her to follow and bustled down the hallway. “How are you coming with the move?”

  Linny’s voice was flat as she stepped into the living room. “Your last tenants were drunks. I just got rid of seventy-six bottles of alcohol. I’ve got my stuff in, but have got some cleaning up to do.”

  Her mother raised her eyes heavenward, and shook her head. “I know. Awful people. I was getting ready to evict them when they crept out in the middle of the night.”

  Dottie kept the blinds drawn when the weather was hot. As Linny’s eyes adjusted to the dim natural light, she took in the angel figurines, cut glass bowls, and God’s Blessings Inspirational Romance novels stacked on tables and chairs. She gave an involuntary shudder. These days, Mama couldn’t stop yard sale shopping. She was the clutter queen. When Linny was growing up, Dottie had been an a-place-for-everything-and-everything-in-its-place type of mom. The safe, comforting feeling she’d had about her childhood home had been replaced with an oppressive heaviness. Why did her mother live like this? She added to her mental to do list, Talk to Kate about whether Mama is getting crazy.

  “I have something for you.” As her mother dug through her bill-paying desk, Linny cleared away the Amy Grant CDs and perched on the edge of the couch. She recognized two new purchases—an elliptical machine that loomed in the center of the room, and a pink Barbie jeep big enough for a little girl to drive parked beside Dottie’s recliner. Why would she want either?

  “I see you went to more yard sales this weekend,” Linny said. Her mother glanced up, her glasses slipping down her nose, and shot her a look.

  Unwisely, Linny persisted. “You need all this stuff, Mama?”

  Dottie’s chin jutted out. “I use every bit of what I buy, Lavinia.”

  For once, Linny didn’t cringe at hearing her given name because she was too busy picturing her fifty-nine-year-old mother galloping along on the elliptical machine like the pony-tailed pitchman on the commercials. Chagrinned, she remembered that Dottie was helping her out of a major jam. She was the screw-up, not her mother. She swallowed. “I want to thank you again, Mama, for letting me stay in the trailer.”

  “I’m glad it was vacant.” She sniffed. “I know a mobile home is not as fancy a place as you’re used to, but it’ll be a handy spot for you to get back on your feet.”

  Linny felt a flash of hot anger at the Shark Brothers. Her mother didn’t know of her eviction and wouldn’t if Linny could help it. “Buck’s company owned that fancy house, Mama. It wasn’t really ours, so I had to move.” Slipping her finger under the rubber band on her wrist, Linny snapped it to Samba toward strength with the saber-toothed tiger.

  “Ah. Buck.” Dottie looked like she’d taken a swallow of sour milk.

  Linny flushed. She hadn’t even told her mother she was dating Buck until after they were engaged. Linny had been too swept up in love, and afraid of her mother’s judgment. Dottie refused to go to Bermuda for their wedding. Later, when she’d finally spent time with Buck, she’d said to Linny, “My, he’s a charmer.” It wasn’t a compliment. When Dottie heard about the unseemly circumstances of Buck’s death, she’d muttered something about “lying down with the wrong horse” and “the pigs coming home to roost.” Although her mash-up of figures of speech usually made Linny smile, these hadn’t. Linny already felt foolish enough without having to hear Dottie’s I-told-you-sos.

  But today, thankfully, Dottie said no more. “You’re helping me too, Linny,” her mother reminded her as she rummaged. “The place is overdue for a spruce-up and I’m real grateful you said you’d take it on.” In a gentler tone, she added, “And I’m sorry you’re walking into a place that needs tidying.”

&
nbsp; “I can handle it.” Linny tried to sound confident, but in truth, she was daunted. The trailer was trashed. She glanced knowingly at her mother, who hummed “How Great Thou Art” as she rummaged. Dottie had that Southern way of soft pedaling unpleasantness. A “spruce up” and “tidying” sounded like she’d just need to do touch-up painting, but the trailer looked more like it was ready for the wrecking ball. Still, she and Andy had enjoyed tackling home improvement projects. They’d fixed up the small frame house they’d bought when they’d married, tearing out carpeting, getting flung around by a floor sander they’d rented, and refinishing the oak floors. She could still picture them sitting on the couch at the end of the project, exhausted. She’d draped her legs over his knees, and they’d sipped their beers, marveling at the glossy, rich sheen of the hardwoods. After that, Andy had sworn he was going to block her Houzz and Pinterest websites because Linny kept coming up with new fix-up projects she assured him would be simple.

  Now Dottie was browsing through the items crowded on the mantel—a box of moth balls, bottles of Mountain Dew, Princess Diana commemorative figurines. “Ah-hah,” she said triumphantly as she picked up a can of Barbasol and handed it to Linny. “I want you to take this.”

  Linny blinked. “Mama, I’ve got shaving cream.” Her mother was getting nutty, no doubt about it. Suddenly aware of just how tired she was, she said, “I need to run. I’ve got a lot of cleaning up and unpacking to do.”

  Her mother held up a finger. “Wait one minute.” Dottie pushed a spot on the side of the can, and a compartment sprang open, revealing a roll of cash. “Here’s two thousand for fix up money. You’ll need it for paint, carpet, and the like.”

  She stared at the bills her mother pressed into her palm. Where did she get this kind of money? Dottie had been on a fixed income ever since Linny’s father passed away.