A series of concrete steps was cut into Riversong’s mounded yard, each with a long run and a short rise, making the climb comfortable, no different than her success at the courthouse. Of that, she remained confident.
Riversong’s front door stood open. Arnett knocked on the stained wood frame of the cabin’s screen door. Through the mesh, she saw Timothy O’Malley striding her way. He had the appearance of a leprechaun. He was a slight sixty-year old with a fringe of reddish hair around his pink and liver-spotted bald dome.
“Good morning, Arnett,” he said, pushing the door open. She stepped inside and was met by the tantalizing aroma of coffee and baked goods. “Eleanor was just wondering about you. I see you have a cap.” He held his eyeglasses in his hand and pointed to the hat with a curved earpiece. The second earpiece was missing.
Arnett fingered the cap’s bill. “I met some Australians yesterday.”
“Aussies. Yes. Enjoyable people, I’ve always heard.” His eyes were expressive, a pale blue under thin red eyebrows.
She followed him from the hardwood entryway to the carpeted living room stuffed with oversized furniture. Humungous lampshades hung over large bulbous glass bases on square tables squeezed into corners between a long sofa and upholstered chairs. Throw pillows in deep blue and rawhide tan picked up the room’s colors.
Eleanor O’Malley, thick and buxom, rushed in from the next room. She stood nearly a head taller than her husband. “Arnett, I’m glad you’ve come. How are you?”
“I have a bit of a headache,” Arnett said without supplying the alcoholic detail, “but I thought it would do me good to get out.”
“I just picture you a prisoner over there. No car, strange place, and every one of them plotting against you. It must be intolerable.”
“Oh, Ellie, she came for a visit,” Timothy said. “Let’s talk about pleasant things.”
“Tim, look at her,” Eleanor said, gesturing with an open palm. “She had to come in disguise.”
With that reminder, Arnett removed her sunglasses, but left the hat in place.
“Oh, pooh,” Timothy said to Arnett. “Tell Ellie she’s exaggerating.”
“Hush, Tim.” Eleanor gave her guest a mournful look. “Are you missing that grandson? Do you want to check in? I swear our generation may have been the last sane group when it came to rearing children.”
“That’s not true,” Timothy rebuffed.
“Well, it seems like it to me,” Eleanor snapped, then revived a courteous tone for Arnett. “I’ve got fresh nut bread and coffee brewing. And some of those flavored creamers. We’ll go all out.”
Motioning Arnett to follow, Eleanor guided her into a bright kitchen where again the décor bordered on overcrowded. Against the wall sat a square cloth-covered table where the bread cooled on a wire rack. “The phone is still on the sun porch,” she said, speaking over the coffeemaker’s hiss. “Help yourself.”
“I appreciate this,” Arnett said. “You know what it’s like to just need a small tether to someone at home.”
“Home strings. That’s what I call it. Join us in the front room when you’re finished.”
The O’Malleys’ enclosed sun porch with its additional glass panels overhead seemed more like a greenhouse. The room boasted wicker furniture and a surround of window screens. Arnett winced at the swathe of sunshine and repositioned her sunglasses across her face. The old-fashioned black desk phone rested on its telephone bench just inside the room.
With her first look at the device, her heart beat wildly. Initially, she intended to phone Gary to see what stories Lizbeth might have put into his head, but at Eleanor O’Malley’s suggestion, she thought she would try to speak with Chad first. That would settle her nerves. On the other hand, Chad’s Aunt Debbie might have orders from Lizbeth not to let her calls through.
Arnett sat, punched in the Gibson’s home number, and waited for Debbie to answer. She did not. Arnett lowered the receiver from her ear and studied it. There was something in the incessant ringing she found worrisome. That prompted her to dial Patrick’s office. After two rings, she was relieved to hear Patrick introduce himself.
“Patrick, this is—” A recorded message interrupted the rest of her sentence. It said, “I’m out of the office today. Please leave—” Arnett pushed the plunger down and felt the blood drain from her face. “This has all been a hoax,” she said under her breath. She put in a call to Gary. She endured four lengthy rings before her son picked up his office line.
“Gary, it’s Mom,” she drilled through the mouthpiece.
“Is everything all right?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s wrong? You okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine, I suppose.”
“You suppose? Is Lizbeth treating you badly again?”
“Gary, it’s not that. It’s Chad. I just called Deb at home and Pat at his office. No one answered either place. I think they’ve taken him to Florida. Lizbeth has gotten them to sneak him down to her uncle’s.”
“Mom,” Gary said, dragging out the word. Arnett could just imagine the accompanying eye roll over his droopy, dark mustache. “You’re worrying over nothing.”
“I don’t think so. I know something’s wrong.”
“They’ve probably just taken Chad to the aquarium. He loves it there. He asks to go every other day.”
“No,” she said firmly, “not since Dan died, he hasn’t.”
“Okay,” her son said, using an appeasing tone, “I’ll check over at Patrick’s tonight after work. I’m sure they’ll be there. Chad’s okay, Mom. Call me again tonight, or tomorrow.”
“Lizbeth hasn’t called you?” The words escaped her lips before she could pull them back.
“Now, why would she call me? I told her a week ago what I thought of taking you all the way to West Virginia. Why don’t you let me come get you? I could drop everything and come right now, or first thing tomorrow. You choose.”
“No, honey,” she said. She was thankful Lizbeth hadn’t phoned, but panicked at the same time. She couldn’t leave for home and not know what else would pass between Callie and Lizbeth in her absence.
“Why would you stay? Lizbeth’s threat is never going to take root. She won’t take Chad away. She practically lives at the cemetery. I can’t imagine her leaving.”
“That’s your brother’s grave,” Arnett said, suddenly angry at his insensitivity.
“Yes, Mom. His grave. Dan’s not there. Dan would want us to take care of Chad. And see to Lizbeth.”
Arnett, primed to agree with his sentiment, heard a familiar voice. She rose to peek around the corner. The layout of the cabin was such that she could see straight through to the front hall. Beebe Walker stood there, shaking hands with Timothy O’Malley. Then Eleanor O’Malley entered the picture. Another introduction was made.
Jerking back from view, Arnett promised to call Gary the next day. She laid the receiver in its cradle, then sucked in a rejuvenating breath. Breezing through the open corridor, she remembered to snatch the sunglasses off her face.
In the living room, the O’Malleys maneuvered Beebe to one of the champagne-colored chairs with wide, rounded arms. Timothy occupied the other. Eleanor sat across the way at one end of a sectional couch.
“Arnett,” Beebe said merrily, seeing her, “there you are. I was beginning to think the Australians planted a homing device in that hat, then came back to whisk you away.”
Those seated laughed. Arnett added a lackluster chuckle. “What an imagination.”
Eleanor patted the cushion beside her. Arnett took the seat and pulled a brocaded throw pillow into her lap. She fiddled with a corner. T
he situation felt awkward in the extreme. It was like having your mother show up to share in the fun when you’re at a friend’s house, skipping school.
“Are Lizbeth and Callie back?” Arnett inquired conversationally. Secretly, she wanted a reason to break up the little foursome even if it meant a caucus loomed in her future.
“No, not yet.” Beebe dashed Arnett’s hopes. “And since that makes a little free time, and since I saw a whittled rainbow trout hanging on the cabin’s sign just now, I’m wondering if you aren’t a fisherman, Tim.”
“I am,” he professed gladly.
“I haven’t fished since I left my hometown in Michigan.”
“Is the river calling you?”
“Hardest four days of my life not to walk out into that water for a little fly-fishing.” Then Arnett watched Beebe proceed to overact. The only male in the room was her audience. With her chin tucked to her chest, she shyly fluttered her eyelashes at Timothy. “But I haven’t any tackle.” She heaved a great sigh.
“I’ve got enough for the both of us. Let’s go,” Timothy said, bounding out of the chair. “Actually, the fishing is best off Heatherwood’s dock.”
“Then we’ll go where it’s best.” Beebe was on her feet. “Ladies, you don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course, they don’t,” Timothy answered for Eleanor and Arnett. He took Beebe’s elbow and led her to the door. “They have a hen party planned, anyway. Hens stay cooped up. Fishermen get out-of-doors.” Arnett thought it was ludicrous how the little man paused to thump his chest. Then his tone changed to regretful. “I’ve been too gender-specific. What would you be? A fisherwoman?”
“How about lady-fisherman?”
“Sounds like a British title of sorts: Lady Fisherman.”
“Tim. You’re a funny man,” Beebe said, stepping through the door he held open.
Eleanor was left dumbfounded. Arnett didn’t think she had anything to worry about, but that scene was a perfect example of just how easily a husband could get stolen.
Hollowed-Out Dream
Lucius paced the Bullwhip cabin’s living room. Every three seconds, his gaze shot to the working laptop, resting on the coffee table. The long-awaited message indicator finally appeared on the display. After a few keystrokes, a living, breathing bust shot of his beloved appeared on the screen. He sent the image to the cabin’s forty-four-inch plasma above the stone fireplace and opposite the black leather recliner where he perched.
“Why the big screen, Lucius?” The question came in response to an earlier email requesting the video conference. The question also projected a hint of annoyance Lucius rarely heard in Willie’s voice.
Willie Thorne—tall, dark, and business-class handsome—sat with his forearms on the walnut table in his Cassel conference room.
Lucius slid back into the recliner and cocked his head. “I guess I requested the big screen because I didn’t get my fill of you last weekend, snookums.” Inwardly, he flinched at the bogus-sounding remark. He shut down his smile, straightened his spine, and started over. “Actually, I need to see your face when I tell you this.”
“Tell me what? What’s wrong?” Willie asked, concerned.
“I’m worried about something: We have a life dream, don’t we?” He posed the question using the term Lizbeth coined at the depot Monday.
A look of bewilderment fled onto Willie’s face. “A life dream? If you mean a commitment? Yes. Forever.”
Lucius shook his head.
Narrowing his eyes, Willie repeated, “Lucius, what’s wrong?”
“I’m talking about our life dream.” Lucius gestured around him to the West Virginia cabin he overhauled from early hunter to classy rustic male. “I’m here. You’re not.”
“Oh, the cabin.”
“You make it sound insignificant. It’s not for me.”
Willie remained absolutely still for a beat. “It’s not for me, either.”
“Good. Then make the move. Sell the house to that man who made the offer and get your sweet caramel butt to Baron.”
“I can’t. Not quite yet. Lucius—”
Lucius cut him off. “I’m here, building this for us with my own two hands.”
“I help those two extremely talented hands every time I’m there.”
“Oh, please, Willie, you pick color swatches.” Frustrated, Lucius got up.
“Lucius, sit down. All I see is the recliner.”
Lucius paced another few steps, then slid back into the picture frame. “I don’t want to lose our dream before you’ve even arrived to live it. The best part of the dream is being here together. I don’t want something to happen—to me, to you—before we have our chance. God—” Biting off the rest, he ran his hand through his hair, then jumped to his feet.
“You’re out of the chair again.”
“You mean, your recliner.” Lucius tipped his head down within camera range. “The recliner I bought for your forty-fifth birthday last March. It’s here. You’re not.” He came around and flopped onto the soft leather.
Suddenly, Willie sat back and propped an elbow on the chair arm. He wore a thoroughly satisfied expression, the one that said he could read Lucius like the financial pages. Lucius found it comforting. Despite the miles, he felt their souls snuggle up close.
“Oh, Lucius, you’ve gotten yourself wrapped up in those women.” Willie’s eyes twinkled. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Lucius took a moment to arrange his thoughts. “I’ve known Callie since we were fourteen. She’s always been tough. Strong-minded. She had a plan, and she held it together even though Jack was married. Then she got her chance, their dream. It lasted less than three years and part of the time, Jack was recovering from surgery and chemo, then a stretch at the end when the cancer came back. She has suffered so much with his loss.” His words faltered, mired in the hopeless feeling that overcame him every time his heart went out to her.
“She loved him,” Willie said in snapshot summary.
Lucius wanted to remind Willie of their love. In comparison, he waited in West Virginia nearly two years. But instead of rehashing, Lucius eased the point of his call forward.
“I can’t help but think that if they had more time together, if their dream hadn’t been cut short, it would have made a difference. To finally get what she wanted, then lose it so quickly. She’s got her whole life ahead of her. Then, there’s Lizbeth. She lost Dan in one day. They got out of the same bed one Saturday morning for the last time. She was never going to lay down beside him again. He’s gone, and all she can think about is the dream they had after college that never happened and is never going to happen. Regret is tearing her up. She’s trying to find a way to fulfill the dream now. It’s too late. It will never be the same. Dan’s not there. Someday, she’s going to realize that all she’s got is a hollowed-out dream.”
Willie knew the particulars on Callie, but not Lizbeth. When he asked, Lucius filled him in on the idea for multi-storied murals that in Lizbeth’s mind crossed over to comprise her husband’s landscapes. He told Willie about the partnership Lizbeth foresaw with her Tallahassee uncle and the impression he had that money was the concern. Professional daycare would cut into her income, but her mother-in-law’s free services would not. He didn’t forget her older son at the University of Florida, another reason to draw a mother south.
“Willie, the point is, your business can be run from here. Your office is almost done. I can push it. Two weeks is all I need.”
“You’ve got the depot still.”
“Then you could rent an office in town for a short while, but at least you’re here. By the first of the year, your office upstairs would be
ready.” Willie nodded agreement. Lucius allowed hope to rise.
“The first of the year is a goal I’m going to strive for. But,” Willie said, shifting in his seat, “I’ve got a new wrinkle here.”
“What now?” Lucius’s hope took a nosedive.
“Isabelle. She just told me. That’s why it took me so long to call. Vance is being transferred. I’ve got her until the end of the year. After that, they move to Seattle. To make Baron work, Lucius, I’ve got to have an office manager here.”
Isabelle York, Willie’s longtime employee, was intelligent, trusted, and well-compensated. Her husband was Vance.
“Most of my clients are here. I’ll need someone in the office for a while yet.” He laced his fingers. “You know, that was always the plan: someone capable and an office with a video feed.”
Willie’s calm festered inside Lucius until it catapulted him out of the recliner. He heard Willie’s tone change. “Okay, I’m talking to the chair again. Lucius, damn it, come back.”
Lucius’s forehead was pressed against the cabin’s front door. Eight, nine, ten. He inhaled deeply, then returned to his seat.
“I’ll double-time it,” Willie said. “I promise. But someone needs to be trained, and I need to get it done while Isabelle’s still around to help.”
“What about Fran?”
“Fran’s a great assistant, but she’s not a manager. She’ll be an asset, but she’s not the answer.”
Lucius slumped in the chair, pinned his chin to his chest, stretched out his legs, and stared at his work boots.
“Look at me,” Willie said. “Tell me you understand.”
Lucius raised one eye to Willie. “I understand.”
“I can’t bungle this. Who this new person is, is critical. I can’t be in Baron and not know the person running the office in Cassel. I need to advertise the position, locally, and in trade magazines. I always wade through a two-interview process with a background check in between for successful candidates. Sometimes, three interviews, then make the offer. All the while, Isabelle’s departure looms and time for adequate training slips away. You know, I trust Isabelle. Yes, if Isabelle stayed, I’d make the move. You’re right; I should be there. With you. But by the time my office was ready, I’d be right back here in the thick of hiring, interviewing, and training four days a week. It would be exactly as it is now. Four days in Maryland. Three days in West Virginia. On top of that, there’s the house to move. We haven’t talked about that. What’s here is pretty much all excess. You’ve got the cabin furnished. We’re set there.”
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