by J. L. Wilson
I nodded. Alan already drilled me in security procedures twice. “I’m going to take a pill and go to sleep,” I promised.
“We’ll get someone to examine the elevator and get a key system set up. I don’t want anyone having access to your apartment unless you give them the okay.”
“Good idea.” I wasn’t really worried since the only people who might possibly come upstairs were restaurant employees, but he was probably right. “I’m surprised how quiet it is. I was worried I might hear the Parlor or the Pub. Or smell the food, which, delectable though it might be, I don’t want to smell all the time.”
“They made these old buildings to last.” He stepped into the elevator cage. “Solid and impenetrable. Good night, Tuck.”
“Thanks again, Alan.” I leaned in and kissed him then the door closed and I was alone.
I went back to the living room and curled up on the sofa, relishing the quiet, the cleanliness, and the cozy little space. It was probably half the size of my house, but it was adequate. Hell, it was more than adequate, it was charming. My house was a mish-mash of furniture and styles, but this apartment had Alan’s touch, which somehow managed to coordinate the odd assortment of furniture and furnishings into one cohesive, relaxing whole.
I sipped a glass of wine, content to simply watch the windows darken while the sun slowly set. The last few days were filled with a jumble of emotion: grief, fear, anger, anxiety, and confusion were the ones that sprang immediately to mind. It seemed like everyone in this drama was hurt in some way.
Poor Will, killed in a farm field.
Rob Huntington, who now faced censure or jail time.
Marianne Archer, who apparently was betrayed by the man she married.
PJ Fitz, who died in the back of an SUV.
Isabel Fitz, who now faced a life totally different than the one she knew.
The only one who wasn’t hurt was Richard Fitz, who appeared to be managing all the bumps with amazing calmness and aplomb. If things continued like they were going, he’d get off scot free, his factory would probably be exonerated of all charges, and the Fitz conglomerate would continue making money hand over fist.
I glared at my dark TV screen, angry at fate.
Then I remembered the moment with John Smalley in the kitchen. I think it embarrassed both of us a bit, but it also intrigued me for sure, and I think it intrigued John, too. I got ready for bed in my new bedroom, wondering what it would be like to have a man in my life again after so many years without. I decided it might be interesting as long as he wasn’t there full-time. I wasn’t cut out for a full-time relationship anymore.
“May not be an issue,” I said to the kittens, who made themselves at home at the foot of the bed. “Let’s cross that bridge if we get to it.”
With that comforting thought I swallowed the last of my wine and went blissfully to sleep.
****
Thursday morning dawned clear and bright with a crisp coolness in the air, unusual for Iowa in June. I opened all the windows in the apartment, something that worried me at first lest small kittens push against a screen and tumble out. But I checked all of the windows and the screens appeared to be super strong and held quite firmly. So I decided to hope for the best and I opened up the apartment to allow the cool morning breezes inside.
I didn’t have my exercise room anymore, so I’d need to find a substitute until I could figure what to do. I dressed in shorts and a blouse then went to the Parlor’s kitchen at nine o’clock. I found Alan already sitting at the center island, sipping a cup of coffee while he considered today’s menu.
“We can move your exercise gear to the second floor,” he said when I mentioned my concern. “There’s room underneath your apartment for it. We’ll have to rearrange some of the things we have in storage there. In fact, it might be good to let the cats prowl around there, too. We’ve been lucky so far with controlling mice, but having two hunters patrol the space would be useful.”
“Isn’t it against city code or something?”
“Nope. They can’t be in the food and drink part of the building on the first floor or the equipment for the brewpub on the second floor. We can easily block off a section and let the cats into the exercise area.”
“You think of everything.” I filled a cup of coffee before pulling up a stool and sitting.
“I’ve worried about the second floor storage for a while,” he admitted. “We only go up there once a year or so to get holiday decorations. It would be a perfect place for mice to nest. Having two cats checking it on a regular basis should handle any problem.”
I sipped my coffee and marveled at how Alan’s mind worked. I tended to focus on day-to-day things like stocking the bar or handling customers. Alan always thought a month or two ahead, anticipating problems before they arose. I told him as such.
“That’s why we’re successful,” he said. “You notice the here and now. I think about the there and then. I contacted the football coach at the high school. He said some of the boys like to earn extra money doing moving. So I asked them to handle the exercise stuff. I hope that’s okay. I figured the treadmill and your elliptical machine might have to be disassembled and maybe jocks could figure it out.” He grinned at me.
“I would never have thought of it,” I admitted.
“Actually, Owen suggested it. I implemented it. So what are you going to do today?”
“Work.”
“Oh, no. You need to rest. Besides, today is Thursday. It’s your day off.”
“I’ve had a lot of days off lately. I’ll just drop in and see how things are going.”
“Well, as long as that’s all you do. I think Miller planned to come in and open. I know he has someone lined up to take over later on. Maybe you can drop in before tonight’s party.”
“What party?”
“Did you forget? It’s the kickoff for the town’s Dodransbicentennial celebration. We’re closing the Parlor early so the staff can go.”
“I can’t believe you can pronounce that. I didn’t even know there was a word for a 175th anniversary.”
“I practiced it. There’s a party in the park tonight to kick things off. It starts at five or so. From what I’ve read in the paper, Richard Fitz is slated to speak after they get the celebration rolling. First they’re going to present the Golden Arrow award.”
“Who’s getting it this year?” I asked. The Golden Arrow was voted on by the city council and was presented to a business person who helped Barnsdale’s economy in the previous year. It was like a Businessman of the Year award, but with our own local Robin Hood touch. I secretly wanted the award, but so far we never got it. That golden arrow would be a nice addition, hanging over the cash register in the Pub.
“I heard,” and here Alan winked at me, “it might be John Smalley’s turn.”
Any envy I felt about the recipient vanished. “Oh, that would be nice. He’s worked hard to get his organic business running smoothly. It does a lot to have a business like his offset the reputation of the Yoke.”
“No kidding. We could use some good publicity.”
I sipped my coffee. “I might call John and see if we can go to the farm he’s thinking about buying, to get an idea of how much renovation it needs. If we want to really consider his plan, we’ll need to start thinking about a budget.”
“Good thought,” Alan said with an impish grin.
“What?” I demanded.
“Nothing, nothing. Make sure you don’t overdo it today, doing whatever it is you’re going to be doing.” He dodged my playful slap. “Seriously, take care of yourself. You’re still pretty banged up from the car accident. Speaking of which, when do you get wheels?”
“Today, I hope. I need to go upstairs and make some calls.” I glanced around the pristine kitchen. “I’ll try to stay out of your way with my comings and goings.”
“I’ve been thinking about it.” Alan pulled over a notepad on which was a rough diagram, drawn in pencil. “We could put in a
n outside entrance for you. That way you won’t have to go through the kitchen to get to the freight elevator. See, if we get rid of the window here and move the sink, we can put a doorway in. You’ll be able to come and go without having to be in the middle of traffic, so to speak.”
“That’s perfect,” I said. “And I’ll pay for it.”
“No, we’ll pay for it.”
“I’ll pay for it,” I insisted. “And I’ll pay rent.”
We quibbled amiably for a few minutes, then it was finally decided I’d pay for the construction and would contribute four hundred dollars a month into a special savings account which we could use for redecorating or remodeling. “There’s no need to pay on the building mortgage,” Alan said. “We already have it covered through the business account, so why muddy the waters?”
“You’re right. This way we can build up a little fund for repairs and redecorating.”
“I know you won’t let me touch the Pub, but I have ideas for the Parlor.” He grinned when I groaned. “It won’t be anything huge, just a tweak here and there. But it’s for later. Now you’d better shoo, I need to get going for the day.”
I went back up to my apartment and called my insurance agent, who assured me a loaner car was ready for me whenever I wanted to pick it up. A check would come to me for a replacement car and a separate check coming for the damage to my house. The second check would be relatively small because there was no structural problem, only a psychological one. I decided to use the money for redecorating and getting the house ready for sale.
I marveled again at how much like home this apartment felt. Although it was only half the width of the building, it felt light and airy. Tall windows on the north, east, and south meant the space was almost always bathed in brightness. I heard and felt the vibration of the machines on the first floor while our beer was brewed, but it wasn’t intrusive. The faint aroma of hops, mash, and barley mixed with the grass and flower smells from the outside world.
“I’m home,” I said to Cayenne, who was stretched full-length in the front window, staring down at the street. He yawned in agreement and settled in for a nap.
I took a few minutes to make a shopping list then I grabbed one of my old purses from the closet. Armed with my remaining credit cards and my shopping list, I headed out.
I walked first to Staibler’s car dealership, not far from the pub, where my loaner car awaited me. “I’m glad to see you up and around,” Harry ‘Horse’ Staibler said. “It sounded like a bad accident.”
Sounded like meant the news of my car accident and house trashing was probably all over town. Gotta love the Small Town Telegraph. “I’m walking and I’m happy,” I said, holding up my bandaged hand. “A couple of broken fingers is a small price to pay.”
“The insurance folks said to get you something like what you used to drive and I figured this was close.” He winked elaborately at me.
I regarded the sleek new sporty Malibu. The only thing it had in common with my old Malibu was the fact they were both red. This newer, updated version was more like a Mustang than a Mom-Mobile. “Thanks, Horse.”
He gave me a few lessons on where the bells and whistles were, including the keyless ignition which I immediately loved. I signed a bunch of papers and an hour later I was driving again. I headed for town and my bank. It would be only a short walk from the bank to the clothing stores, where hopefully I could score the items I needed to replace from my old purse. I could tackle the cell phone problem by going to the mall on the outskirts of town. With luck, I’d be done in an hour.
That was optimistic. I didn’t anticipate the amount of paperwork involved when one loses one’s identification. I needed to open new accounts at the bank, transfer things, get a new driver’s license at the courthouse, put a hold on this, and put alerts on that. And there was the whole problem of my mobile phone, which I had to prove was lost by producing the police report.
By early afternoon I replaced almost everything except for my peace of mind. I returned to the Acorn and made my way through the kitchen, which was starting to slow after the lunch rush. I resolved to make sure the construction work was done quickly on an exterior entrance. I went upstairs, showed the kitties my purchases (they were not impressed) and settled in for a quick nap.
Two hours later, I woke up, groggy and grumpy from oversleeping. But the rest did me a world of good. My ribs still hurt, but they didn’t remind me with every breath. My broken fingers hurt, but now they only throbbed. And my scraped elbows and face now tingled slightly instead of burning with every movement.
I was on the mend. I decided to celebrate by going to work. I dressed in sneakers, capris and a gold Acorn shirt and went downstairs. It was almost empty, which confused me at first until I remembered the party and the Parlor closing early.
Alan was in the dining room, turning the Open sign to Closed. “I called a guy to come and give me an estimate on the doorway. And I talked to the elevator company, which, surprise, is still in business. They can re-key it on Monday.”
“I should have done it. I’m the one who’s loafing around. You’re busy.”
“You know what they say. Give the busiest person the most work. They’ll get it done fast.” He grinned when he said it so I knew there were no hard feelings. “Where are you off to?”
“I’m going to check in at the Pub before going over to the park.”
“I think I’ll join you. That sounds like a good plan.” He waved me ahead of him and we passed through the Parlor door and entered the Pub.
I was only gone a few days, but it felt like years. I swept my gaze around the room, expecting to see changes. But it all was the same, from the burnished wood to the mirrors behind the liquor walls in between windows by the brewery.
Miller was behind the bar and he waved when we came in. “How are you doing?”
Alan and I took seats at the far end of the bar. “I’m doing okay.” I held up my taped fingers. “I can’t get into a fight for a while, but other than that, I’m mobile.”
Miller filled two glasses with wine and set them in front of us. “On the house,” he said with a grin. “It’s good to see you, Tuck. We were worried about you for a while.”
“It’s good to be here, Miller. Thanks for filling in for me. I’ll come back on duty tomorrow.”
“No worries. We’ll set a schedule. You can’t do full time for a while, but we’ll figure something.” He meandered off to fill a barmaid’s order.
I took a sip of wine, savoring the feeling of home, once again. I spent most of my waking hours in this pub and I enjoyed it. I didn’t consider this work. This was Home with a capital H. Now I didn’t have to separate Home from home. I had it all. Life. Is. Good.
“Here comes trouble,” Alan said softly a few minutes later.
I followed his gaze and saw Richard Fitz enter the pub, an older woman with him and behind them, Isabel Fitz and Rob Huntington. They were all dressed in what I thought of as “the sporting set” clothing. Pressed dark pants for the men, tailored summer skirts for the women, and crisp shirts and blouses. I was surprised to see Rob in anything other than jeans and a summer shirt. He seemed out of place, like the Professor next to Thurston Howell the Third.
They took a table in a quiet corner, and placed orders with the barmaid. I watched Miller fill the order. One white wine, one Deacon’s Downfall, a gin and tonic, and bourbon straight with water on the side. The gin was Old Raj, our best stock, and the bourbon was Maker’s Mark. I shook my head when the bar maid set the bourbon in front of Rob.
“That’s a mistake,” I said.
Alan peered over his shoulder. “I haven’t seen her in years.”
“Who?”
“Eleanor Fitz. She’s Richard’s mother. And Isabel’s mother-in-law.”
I eyed the quartet in the corner. “Gin and tonic.”
“And I’ll bet she asked for the best in the house. That’s Eleanor. Only the best for her and her children. I think the only reason she didn�
��t send the kids to private school was old Henry, her husband, insisted they be raised here among the people they would later enslave.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit harsh.”
“So is she.”
“I’m going to thank Isabel for the china,” I said, slipping off my bar seat.
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Alan cautioned. “She may not have told Richard or Eleanor she donated it or to who.”
I hesitated. Isabel saw me and waved me over to them. “Well, here goes.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Alan turned, smiling at Isabel and nodding at Richard and Eleanor. The old woman gave a frosty nod in return.
I made my way through the crowded pub, greeting people while I went. The old woman watched my progress with thinly disguised disapproval. She reminded me of Maggie Smith, who played one of the professors in the Harry Potter movies—tall, thin, white-haired, sour-faced, and oozing with good breeding. Like my momma would say, she was so stuck up she could drown in a rainstorm.
“Isabel, thank you for helping me get back on my feet again,” I said when I reached the table. “I appreciate it so much.” There. I was tactful. No mention of fancy china.
“I was happy to do it.” Isabel smiled warmly at me. Her dark hair was once again pulled back into a chignon and she wore dangling gold earrings which sparkled when she turned her head. It made her seem youthful and energetic despite the dark pants and staid blouse she wore. “I don’t know if you’ve ever met my mother-in-law. Eleanor, this is Tucker Frye, the proprietress of the Acorn.”
The old woman nodded regally to me. “Miss Frye. I heard you’ve had a series of unfortunate accidents. How terrible for you.”
“Not really accidents. Oh, Guy hit me by accident, and a woman fell on me by accident, but the car crash was deliberate.”
“Guy Gibson?” The old woman shifted her attention to Richard. “Guy?”
Rob cleared his throat. “Guy and I were having a disagreement and Tucker unfortunately got in the middle.”
“They were fighting,” I clarified. “And I stepped in. Guy hit me.” I shifted a bit, wincing when my bruised ribs made themselves felt. “And he kicked me. I think he kicked me on purpose. My momma always said that I draw trouble to me like a magnet draws iron. I guess my talent hasn’t faded with time.” I smiled at Richard, who frowned at my ill manners.