“Anselm will probably figure it out before you tell him.”
“True, for a man he is very intuitive.”
“You better treasure that man, dear cuz,” Judith warned. “You got one in a million.”
“I know. I have to be very careful to not let little things bug me. He is a man of God but can be bullheaded at times.”
“Can’t we all?”
“Are you saying I’m bullheaded?” Melody looked her way.
“Not at all. Keep your eyes on the road.” Judith heaved a sigh, and she could tell her smile was both inside and out. “Thank you for dragging me to that amazing show. You opened my eyes to a whole new world. Made me wonder if, just possibly, I have some of my mother’s artistic abilities. Remember how she used to arrange the flowers? I can remember her drawing pictures for us to color. Remember?”
“I do and I think my mother kept some of those. She used to groan that her sister got all the talent. I’ll have to check that box.”
“The box?” Judith frowned.
Melody nodded. “A box of mementos. She kept all kinds of memory things in a box for me; well, actually for each of her children, all personalized for each of us, too. She went through all the old pictures and made sure she kept the important things like graduation hats, 4-H ribbons, honors of any kind, our report cards.”
“I want to see yours. Mother kept a lot of things and I kept those boxes, but there is no order like that. Oh my word!” She thought a few minutes half watching a long white barn and well-kept buildings, followed by many, many trees that whisked by. “What will I do with all the things I kept if I move to Lynn’s house?”
“A storage unit until you decide; surely they have storage units around there.”
“I kept my bedroom furniture because Mother and I bought that together. And I have her chair.”
“The rocker she did the needlepoint seat and back for? I remember that seat; beautiful handwork.”
Judith felt elated and sad simultaneously, an odd sensation. “Yes. I can hardly bear to sit in it; it makes me cry and realize how much I miss her. Probably more now, which is crazy.”
“Just remember, your room always waits for you here. And I expect you for holidays, at least. Just think, soon your life is going to revolve around school holidays. I’ll help you research first thing in the morning. After all, two computers are better than one. When we go visit Lynn, we’ll go on over to the college campus and get your new life rolling.”
“You really believe this is all going to happen, don’t you?”
“I do. You don’t?”
“Dreams coming true are a little hard for me to accept right now. We shall see.”
Chapter Twelve
Mom, I have something to tell you.”
Lynn knew well that guilty look of her younger son. “What? Can’t be that bad.”
“I hope not but Josie said…”
Do not roll your eyes, smile. She even tried to keep a mother’s exasperation look at bay. “Now you have my curiosity in full force. For Pete’s sake, just tell me. I promise not to ban you from apple pie for the rest of your life.” Hoping to make him smile didn’t work. What could it be? “Tommy!”
“Well, I put your sharing your house idea up on my Facebook page.”
“You didn’t. You’re teasing, right?” At the slight shake of his head, she ordered herself to breathe. Which she did. She’d heard making oneself breathe could bring on patience and right now she really needed a bucketful.
“It seemed a good idea at the time. You know, see if anyone else has done it, what their experiences were. I could go take it off maybe.”
She could have sworn they just hit a time warp and he was ten years old again. And then suddenly the room became very warm. Unbearably warm. On impulse she walked over to the thermostat; there was nothing wrong with the room temperature.
“Mom? Are you all right?”
Hot flash. She sighed. “Just getting old.”
“I probably should have asked first, huh?”
Breathe. “Might have been a good idea. What if we get a whole lot of cranks who…?”
“I didn’t put your address or anything stupid like that. Or even your name, come to think of it. And only my friends and their friends can see it.” He held up a hand, back to adulthood. “But here’s the interesting thing. You remember Charlie Bishop? He came home from college with me a couple of times, I taught him how to ice fish and he caught the season’s record.”
“And your father promised to never let him come again? We all laughed at that threat, from your dad, no less.”
“Right. Well, after graduation we kind of lost touch with each other, until Facebook a year or so ago. Been keeping in touch somewhat. But he responded to my post. Said his Mom has just been forced into a divorce, his dad turned into a jerk, and she doesn’t know what she is going to do. His dad is buying her out on their house and she has to move rather abruptly.”
“Interesting.” Oh, really, come on. Her inner chider went into full force.
“You could talk with her.”
She could tell that this son of hers really wanted a positive answer.
“After all,” he pressed, “what can it hurt…to just talk, I mean.”
“Give him my number and have her call me.” This can’t be any more a strange way to meet than at the quilt show. God, I get the feeling you’re at work again. Sometimes, like now, she was almost sure she heard a heavenly chuckle.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Where does she live?”
“Here in Minnesota, St. Cloud area, I think. He and his sister are both in Seattle.”
“You want a piece of apple pie?”
“You have some?” His face brightened immediately.
“One piece left of the apple cherry.” She opened the refrigerator door and brought out the pie. “Ice cream, too?”
“Why not?”
“Probably because it isn’t even dinnertime yet.”
“I better call Phillip and tell him I’m a bit delayed getting back.”
“I’ll bag up some cookies; that’ll sooth the savage beast.”
A few minutes later, on his way out the door, he threw over his shoulder, “Her name is Angela, Angela Bishop.”
Nice to know. Four more days until Judith Rutherford arrived. And Lynn had not even had time to unpack her bags of treasures from the quilt and needlecraft show. And the garden really needed weeding. Time to call in the short troops. She texted Maggie and asked if the kids could come after school to help her weed, then headed outside to bring out the rototiller and get the weeds between the rows done, at least. After Paul died she had invested in a lightweight one that she could use and kept the heavy-duty one for digging up in the spring and on new places when she added more garden or flower beds. Would either of the women be interested in gardening? Maybe she should make up a questionnaire for them to fill out.
“You did what?” Angela glared at her phone, or rather glared at it in place of the son whom she wanted to do more than glare at.
“You heard me.” Charlie spoke with all reasonableness, as if suggesting she move to some outlandish place where not knowing anyone was an everyday occurrence.
“Right. I heard you, but don’t be silly. I have a job here and I need to work, in case you thought I was independently wealthy.”
“But, Mom, you told Gwynn on the phone that you needed to start a new life and maybe in a new place.”
“I was just running off at the mouth.”
“So what is happening now at that real estate office? Can you make a living there? A decent living?”
What could she say? The short sale fell through, one couple backed out of searching for a house, and the potential seller changed his mind and went with another agency. She had zero income until the one in escrow closed. She’d not found an apartment she could move to. The ones she could afford were not palatable and the ones she liked she couldn’t afford. Sometimes she wanted to do Jack
bodily damage. He refused to give her an extension, said he needed the house now.
Lately, overwhelmed was her only recognizable emotion. No, fury was the other.
“So will you call her?”
“Charles Edward Bishop, do not put any more pressure on me at the moment.”
“Please call her and I’ll stop bugging you—for now.”
She could tell he hoped she’d be reasonable. After all, he was trying to help. Not like some other male she knew.
“Okay, I will call her. Only because she and her family were so good to you those years ago. But I can tell you right now, this just isn’t going to work. You don’t just pick up and move a real estate business.”
“Thanks. I’ll tell Gwynnie to keep on praying.”
“Yeah, well, I’m glad to hear someone else is praying, too. Right now I don’t seem to be getting any answers.” Or heavenly help either. She thought of the day before when all the real estate transactions came tumbling down and she had no further options other than cold-calling, which she hated. Maybe crawling back into bed and pulling the covers over her aching head was the best remedy.
Lynn stared at the pad of paper on her lap. At the top: “List of Questions to Ask.” “Maybe I should just do a checklist for each of us to fill out.” Thanks to Tommy, she had gone online and started looking for other people embarking on a life change like this and discovered there was a whole world out there of communities, of bloggers, and of nonprofits formed to help people do this. Shared housing was nothing new, but it was growing more popular all the time.
She wondered if there were other people in the Detroit Lakes area who were already experiencing the situation. It seemed most of the houses and communities she had researched were in cities with access to public transportation and all kinds of entertainment. She looked out over the lake where a flock of mallards settled on the smooth lake surface; their duck chatter could be heard on the slight breeze off the lake. She’d be hearing loons anytime now.
Miss Minerva wound herself around Lynn’s legs and chirped permission to lap sit.
“Sorry, I’m busy.”
The cat jumped up anyway and bumped her head on Lynn’s chin, a demand to pet me, pay attention to me. Lynn held up her pad of paper and scribbled, “Must love animals, no smoking, light drinking,” and watched the flock of chickadees squabble at the bird feeders. Life in the country was a far cry from city life, different in just about every way imaginable. Her phone sang and Minerva jumped down, glaring over her shoulder as she stalked off. Settling on the deck railing, she took up bird-watching, too.
“Hello, Paul’s Plumbing.”
“Oh, sorry, I must have the wrong number.”
“Whom are you calling?” This wasn’t the first time this had happened. But the calls had been transferred to her once their help left the office.
“Lynn Lundberg.”
“Speaking. How can I help you?”
“Ah, well, my son said I should call you regarding your idea of sharing your house.”
“Are you by any chance, Mrs. Bishop, uh…” She couldn’t remember the first name. “Sorry.”
“Yes, Angela Bishop. My son, Charles, visited you several times.”
“Yes, I remember Charles well. Fine boy. Well, he was boy then. Tommy told me about you yesterday morning. I was hoping you would call.” She softened the business voice she’d answered with. “Do you do Facebook?”
“Not as much as Charles does. He and my daughter, Gwynn, text all the time, too.”
“Do they expect you to do the same?”
“They do.” Her voice took on a bit of a smile.
“I know, mine too, and my two sons live near here, one across the field, the other less than a mile away. My daughter teaches school. Tommy said your two are really far away in Seattle.”
“Right. And some days it feels farther away than others.” They chatted for a while before Angela asked her first real question. “I am a real estate agent and this makes me wonder why you want to share your house.”
“I have a rather large log house, and since my husband died, the house has felt even larger. We talked about my selling it, but the term downsizing makes me gag. I love my house, but one person living here alone seems a waste. And besides, help with the mortgage would be another solid reason.”
“So a housemate will pay rent.”
“Yes, I know sometimes women buy a house together, but not here.”
“Have you advertised?”
“No, I hope I don’t have to. I’d rather God brought the right people here since this seems to be His idea anyway.” There, put the faith questions right out there.
“The thought of moving away from this area seems overwhelming on one hand and a welcome reprieve on the other.” Angela paused, obviously thinking. “Is there any chance you could send pictures and maps?”
“I could, but the best idea would be for you to come see. I’m warning you, though, if you want city living, this is not it. Detroit Lakes is the closest real town and it’s about ten miles away. We’re about forty-five minutes from Fargo.”
“There are real estate offices there, of course.”
“Yes, some very good ones.” Then for some strange reason, Lynn asked, “Is that what you want to do with the rest of your life? Sell real estate, I mean.”
Angela heaved a sigh, audible even over the phone. “I wish I knew.”
“You are welcome to come visit, spend the night if you’d like.”
“Could my kids come visit me there?” She sounded like a little girl lost.
“Of course. And your grandchildren, too.”
“Perhaps someday, but right now, they are career focused. Charlie has always talked of going back to your house. He so loved it there but he is a confirmed city dweller.”
Lynn flipped to her calendar. “When would you like to come?”
Another sigh. “Would tomorrow be too soon? I don’t know about spending the night.”
Lynn swallowed and kept her voice level when it wanted to squeak. “That will be fine. If you want directions…”
“No, I have my GPS. I’ll see you after dinner tomorrow. Can I let you know then if I decide to spend the night?”
“The bed will be ready for you.” They did their good-byes and Lynn sat staring at the lake. Miss Minerva jumped back up in her lap, knocking the pad of paper to the deck floor. Lynn sat stroking the cat and thinking about the phone call. Talk about a hurting woman. In fact, from the brief histories they shared, both Judith and Angela had been through some pretty traumatic situations in the very recent past. Was this good or bad in regards to building a shared house with the three of them? Or were there other people to interview, too? Lord, I wish I knew what you are doing in all this.
Chapter Thirteen
Judith pulled into a graveled circular driveway and parked in a wide spot beside a nice little black sedan. Was this the place? Surely so, two-story log house on the shore of a lake. The two-bay garage beside it was so new you could still smell the lumber. Too bad they had not made the garage of logs as well, but the cedar shakes that formed the siding were good enough. Judith had managed enough renovations on Rutherford House to know a thing or two about construction. This new building was very well constructed.
And the lake. Transfixed, Judith walked out across the green lawn to the water’s edge. Oh my. The lake. A slight breeze tickled the surface and made it shimmer. It glowed. Yes, this was exactly her dream. No loons that she could see, but Lynn had said they were there. And ducks. Five mallard ducks puttered around at the water’s edge nearby. Blue water reflected blue sky. And beyond, the sharp contrast of dark evergreens and pale green deciduous trees just beginning to come into foliage.
The yard was clearly loved and well cared for. Judith could see no weeds, and that was the first thing she looked for. Properly tilled beds, full, well-established grass. Good. Good. After her father laid off the landscape gardeners, the Rutherford House grounds that had once been t
he pride and envy of the region had all fallen into neglect, for Judith could not handle the herculean task. So she had arranged for the local garden club to take over the grounds of the Rutherford estate. Her father objected strenuously to strangers rooting about in his yard, but Judith insisted. The women, and a few men, took to the project with alacrity. They pruned, planted, tilled, mowed, and used some of the flower gardens as experimental plots. Now once again nestled amid lush beauty, Rutherford House enjoyed its former dignity and glamour. Did her father—or Mr. Odegaard, for that matter—realize the half of what Judith had accomplished for that estate? Obviously not, or if they did they were ungrateful fools. She turned back toward the house.
Two women came down off the porch to greet her. No two women could be as contrasty as these two were. The one was superthin, almost too lean, well dressed, well coiffed, very upscale looking; she seemed aloof, almost cold on first approximation. Beside her, Mrs. Lundberg was graying, normal build, very casually dressed, and sort of down-home bouncy-cheery. She oozed “Grandma.”
Lynn smiled and extended a hand. “Welcome, Judith. I’m Lynn Lundberg. This is Angela Bishop, another potential housemate. Please join us. We’re in the middle of a hot discussion about how much flour goes into lefse dough.”
Judith laughed. “The fate of the free world hangs on this decision, doesn’t it?”
Mrs. Lundberg and Mrs. Bishop looked at each other, grinned, and nodded. Mrs. Lundberg said, “You’ll fit right in. Come and sit, please.”
Judith took the three wooden steps up to the porch, or veranda, or deck, or whatever you’d call it. She settled into a wicker papasan chair with a velveteen pad that was even more comfortable than it looked.
Mrs. Lundberg handed her a glass of clear pink something over ice. “Raspberry lemonade. The raspberries are homegrown. The lemons, not. How is your cousin?”
“Pouting, but she’ll get over it. When I left Rutherford House, she intended for me to settle near her, ideally in her spare bedroom. Instead, if I come here, I’ll be farther away than before.”
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