Even so, he would not temper his opinions, not even in deference to the day. Too much was at stake. It was his duty as a responsible husband to point out the utter foolishness of buying that house at this period in their lives. Being a levelheaded woman who, for the most part, could be persuaded to look at things rationally, Millie was certain to come to the realization that his was the only logical decision.
When the front door closed behind them, Rufus applied himself to his walk with enthusiasm. Straining the leash to its furthest reaches, he dragged Al down the front walk and turned right onto the sidewalk.
“No.” Al spoke in the low, firm tone used by the instructor on the dog training video Millie made him watch shortly after she brought Rufus home. “This way.”
He tugged, but Rufus ignored him. Grumbling, Al turned left and started walking toward town, his arm extended behind him, muscles tight with the effort of pulling the dog after him. Rufus, sensing the futility of a struggle, changed his mind and his direction. With an energy that belied the hours he spent snoozing on the cushions Millie kept all over the house for him, the dog raced to get ahead of Al. The jolt nearly pulled Al’s shoulder out of its socket. The creature took up his position at the extreme length of the leash, panting and straining and occasionally eliciting a choking cough.
Rubbing his shoulder with his free hand, Al glared at the animal. “Just once couldn’t you pretend to be a well-behaved canine and walk at my side?”
Apparently not. They continued in that manner to the end of Mulberry Avenue, turned right onto Walnut, and covered the short distance to Main Street at something just shy of a trot, the dog’s toenails leaving white scratches on the sidewalk. So much for a leisurely morning stroll.
The collection of two dozen or so mid-1800s buildings that comprised Goose Creek’s town proper stretched along either side of a railroad track that ran smack-dab down the center of the street. Some years back the city council had designated that stretch of Main Street one-way on each side of the track, which had created no end of controversy among those who, like Al, resisted any change to the little town they called home. The mayor argued that the change would improve the flow of traffic. The mayor won the argument, but was defeated in the next election and moved to Frankfort to plague that city with improved traffic patterns.
Al allowed himself to be dragged down the raised sidewalk on the south side of the tracks, noting with a mild satisfaction that at least a third of the old buildings boasted For Sale signs in the front windows. Some of his fellow Creekers urged that the town must do something to draw tourism and new residents, or it wouldn’t survive. Al unashamedly counted himself one of those who believed that to invite an influx of tourists would spoil the charm of Goose Creek and turn it into a central Kentucky Gatlinburg, a thought that made him shudder.
Cardwell Drugstore, located in the center of Main Street on the northbound side, was a morning gathering place favored by a small group of long-time residents. When first constructed, the building had been a boarding house. Since the decline of the railroad a series of businesses had attempted to claim it, but each ultimately failed. Finally, fifteen years ago, Leonard Cardwell bought it, spent his inheritance repairing the crumbling brick walls and decaying floors, and converted it into an old-fashioned pharmacy. Creekers rewarded his efforts with their wholehearted approval and their patronage. The authentic 50s-style soda fountain quickly became a favorite watering hole. On Saturday mornings the ranks of the regulars swelled with men like Al who made the forty-minute drive to jobs in Lexington during the week.
Al hooked Rufus’s leash to one of the lawn jockeys Cardwell had installed on either side of the door for that purpose. Lucy Cardwell obviously anticipated canine visitors this morning, because the buckets had been filled with fresh water. Rufus, panting from exertion, plunged his head into one and slurped noisily.
“Behave yourself,” Al told him. The dog ignored him. Naturally.
Bells on the door hanger announced his presence to those already gathered inside. He nodded in response to a half-dozen called greetings. A good turnout this morning. All six stools were occupied so he made his way past the counter to the first of three tables, where Jacob Pulliam sat sipping coffee. He pulled out a spindly-legged chair at the same moment Lucy placed a steaming coffee mug in front of him. Looking up with a smile, he opened his mouth to thank her.
“I heard you’re buying the old Updyke house,” she said before returning to her perch behind the counter. “Good for you.”
His thanks died unuttered. Every head in the room turned while Al’s smile melted.
“No kidding?” Jacob leaned across the scarred Formica table. “Mighty pretty, that place. Lotta yard to mow, though.”
Pete Lawson, who managed a hardware store in Lexington, twisted on his stool to face them. “And it’s gonna need some heavy-duty repair work, too. If ’n you want me to start you a charge account, I c’n do it easy.”
Woody Edwards spoke up from beyond Pete. “I got a brother-in-law who does handyman work. I’ll give you his number.”
The sound of rising blood pressure began a faint buzz in Al’s ears. “I am not buying the Updyke place.”
Lucy’s expression became perplexed. “But I just got a text from Betty, who was talking to Sharon Geddes on the phone when she got an e-mail from Louise, and she said you were.”
Never underestimate the power of a small town gossip chain fueled by technology.
“I don’t care what she said.” He spoke a bit more forcefully than necessary and saw a few eyebrows arch. Swallowing back his rising ire, he went on in a calmer tone. “I agreed to look at the house only because today is our wedding anniversary, and I want to do something to please my wife. But I told her, and I’m telling you, that I have no intention whatsoever of buying that house.”
The moment of silence while everyone pondered his words was broken when Woody said, “Well, when you need my brother-in-law’s phone number, let me know.”
The buzz in his head increased as everyone returned to their coffee.
The bells jangled and Jerry Selbo entered. Al joined the chorus of hellos to greet the Goose Creek mayor. He answered the greetings with a smile and shrugged out of his jacket as he crossed the room to take an empty chair at Al’s table.
“Bit of a nip still in that breeze,” he commented, and a collective murmur of agreement answered him.
Lucy set a tall glass of orange juice in front of him. He lifted the glass to his mouth.
“So what’s the news on the water tower?” asked Jacob.
The glass halted an inch from Jerry’s lips. His eyes widened and flickered sideways toward the counter. Jacob’s mouth snapped shut as a heavy silence descended.
Perched on the third stool, Norman Pilkington jerked to attention. “What’s ’at? What’s goin’ on with the tower?”
Jacob winced and mouthed Sorry at the mayor, and then hid behind his coffee mug.
Though Al was absent from Goose Creek throughout the week, he stayed well informed on issues related to the town’s management because Jerry was a member of the men’s group he attended at church on Wednesday nights. This topic had been discussed last week.
The Goose Creek water tower was located one block off of the east end of Main Street. It stood sentinel over the town, a skyscraping monument that symbolized the town’s autonomy from the rest of the sprawling county. Three years ago the town hired Norman Pilkington’s son to repaint the tower. The only positive comment Al had ever heard from anyone besides Norman was that at least the job was completed on time. The color Little Norm chose was a sickening shade of chartreuse which some compared to baby vomit. The black lettering marched unevenly around the tower’s barrel with the k in Creek taking a disturbing downward slant as though it intended to dive off the platform and escape. Every time Al looked at it, an obsessive itch erupted in the base of his skull and he battled an irrational desire to climb the tower with a can of spray paint and put that k out of its misery.
Though it had only been three years the paint had begun to flake. Some said Little Norm had bought it at a bargain—which explained the hideous color—while billing the town for premium stuff.
Al had learned to walk through town with his gaze lowered.
Mayor Selbo set his juice down untasted. Only those seated with him saw the slight tremble of his hand. Al felt a flash of sympathy at the mayor’s resigned expression. By nature he was a mild-mannered man with a deep desire to please his constituents, and went to great lengths to avoid confrontation. There seemed to be no way to avoid this one, though.
Drawing a deep breath, Jerry turned sideways in his chair to face Norman. “I’ve received a complaint about the peeling paint on the water tower. It needs to be repainted.”
“Last few winters’ve been hard ’uns on paint. My barn’s peelin’ too.” Norman glanced around and received a few hesitant nods.
Al kept his gaze averted. No doubt everyone in the room shared the same thought. Norman’s son had painted his father’s tobacco barn around the same time as the water tower.
Norman reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cell. “I’ll jist give Little Norm a call. See when he can squeeze the job in. He’s stayin’ right busy these days, ya know.”
Norman began to punch numbers on his phone while everyone else shot cautious glances at the mayor.
Jerry’s eyes fluttered shut while he sucked in another breath and cleared his throat. “Of course he’s welcome to submit a bid, same as everyone else.”
A scowl descended over Norman’s face, and his finger paused mid-punch. “Whaddya mean, a bid?”
“The town council’s announcing a request for bids for the job of painting the water tower. At the April meeting we’ll consider the ones we’ve received and make a decision on who gets awarded the contract.”
Norman’s spine stiffened. “Are you settin’ there tellin’ me that you’re thinkin’ a hirin’ somebody ’sides Little Norm?”
“Yes, we are.” Al gained new respect for their mayor when the man met Norman’s gaze without flinching. “When it comes to spending the town’s money we need to avoid the appearance of favoritism. So we’re taking bids, and the council will vote on them.”
The silence with which Norman received the news set Al shifting in his chair.
“Well.” Norman pocketed his phone and slid off his stool. “We’ll see ’bout that.”
The bells gave an extra-loud jangle when he slammed the door behind him. A collective sigh was expelled from those who remained.
“Sorry, Jerry,” Jacob muttered.
With a final glance after Norman, the mayor picked up his orange juice. “Had to happen sooner or later. At least now it’s over and done.”
Al refrained from answering. Judging by the look on Norman Pilkington’s face, the matter was far from over.
Chapter Four
Al gritted his teeth as his tires bounced through a pothole in the long driveway leading to the Updyke place. The blacktop had so many cracks it looked like a jigsaw puzzle. Jagged lines of weeds pushed through the gaps, some over a foot tall. This disaster of a driveway was a total loss. No amount of patching could repair the mess.
“Oh, Albert, look at that lovely old tree!” Millie turned from the passenger window to fix sparkling eyes on him.
He glanced at the object of her admiration, a giant oak near the corner of the house. The thing had to be at least fifty feet tall. From the looks of it, it hadn’t been trimmed since it was planted. Twisted branches poked out from the trunk in all directions, and gnarled roots as big around as his leg crept across the ground toward the porch.
“It’s too close to the house,” he commented. “See where the branches are rubbing the roof?”
“Those can be trimmed. Just imagine what it will look like in a few weeks when the leaves come in. It’ll shade that whole side of the house.” She grinned. “That will keep the electricity bill down.”
Al ignored her, warming instead to his dire prediction. “Look how it’s leaning. It’s so old it’s probably rotted out inside. At the first strong wind it’ll come crashing through the roof.”
She gave him the steady look that always preceded a sharp retort, and he braced himself. Her lips tightened but remained still, and she turned back to her window.
So, that’s how this would go. She had determined to blithely ignore any rational observations he made. Did she think that attitude would temper his comments? He’d warned her of his intentions last night, and his resolve had not changed.
A car turned into the driveway behind them as Al rolled to a halt near the boarded-up bay window.
“There’s Louise, right on time.”
Millie unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the car door the moment he cut the engine. Before he’d even gotten out of the car, she trotted over to stand in the unmowed grass, waiting for the realtor to park.
Louise Gaitskill emerged from her shiny red Camry with a folder in one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other. A slender blonde, she would have towered a full head above Millie even without the spike-heeled shoes that contorted her feet into an impossible angle. As the two women hugged, Al shook his head. How her dogs must ache at night when she kicked those ridiculous contrivances off and descended to earth. Thank goodness his wife had better sense.
Of course, the fact that he was here, ready to look through this atrocity of a house, proved that Millie’s good sense did not extend to real estate.
Al slid out of his seat and pocketed the keys. Might as well get the ordeal over with.
Millie turned at his approach. “Albert, you know Louise, don’t you?”
The realtor shoved a pair of sunglasses up on her head and pasted a bright smile on lips the same color as her Camry. “Of course. Nice to see you again, Mr. Richardson.” She tucked the folder beneath one arm and extended her hand.
Al always approached a handshake with a woman with an awkward feeling of caution. How hard should he squeeze? Too much pressure and they might interpret the gesture as a show of male dominance. On the other hand, some ladies approached a handshake like a football tackle, and he never could decide what they were trying to prove with such a firm grip. Others melted limply in the moment of contact, and what did that mean?
“Call me Al,” he mumbled as he made a grab at her fingers and gave them a quick shake. Then he shoved his hand into the safety of his trouser pocket.
“Al, then.” Another blinding smile. She had obviously bleached her teeth recently. “I’m excited to show you this property. I think you’ll agree it has tremendous potential.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Potential for what?”
She splayed her free hand wide. “Why, for whatever you want to do with it.”
Best get this out in the open right up front. “I don’t want to do anything with it. The yard is a shambles, and far too big for us. The roof needs replacing, and it’s obvious to anyone with a set of eyes in his head that the house is in a sad state of disrepair. In my opinion it’s an antique atrocity.”
After a nearly imperceptible pause, Louise’s already-bright smile gained a kilowatt or two. “Valid concerns, and definitely something you and Millie need to discuss before making a decision. This property is what we’d call a fixer-upper. Now, if you’ll follow me.”
She swiveled on one spiked heel and headed for the front steps. Millie trailed after her, leaving Al alone on the crumbling blacktop. So that’s how it was going to be. He studied the women chatting amicably while Louise unlocked the front door. Obviously, she and Millie were in cahoots. They’d both decided to ignore his protests and act as though buying this property were an actual possibility. By doing so, no doubt they hoped to dull his determination, to lure him gradually to their way of thinking.
Well, he would not tamely concede the victory in this battle.
Setting his jaw, he marched up the stairs after them.
Louise pushed the door open and stood aside. Millie crossed the threshold and stopp
ed, her gaze sweeping the entry hall. The magnificent staircase dominated the room, demanding the admiration of everyone who entered. It swept upward, turned, and then continued toward the second floor bedrooms. A railing ran alongside a generous landing above. She closed her eyes, picturing the charming Queen Anne sofa she would place at the top of those stairs. A spindly-legged side table with a giant vase of flowers would add the perfect touch. Was there room for a small bookshelf? She’d like to have an assortment of antique books on the shelves, and maybe a second table with a reading lamp. The lampshade would be stained glass, of course.
“Good golly, look at that banister!” Behind her, Albert gave a long, low whistle.
Millie swiveled toward him to voice an enthusiastic comment about the ornate carving on the railings, but bit the words back when she caught sight of his scowl. She turned again to the staircase. “What’s wrong with it? I think it’s lovely.”
“Lovely?” In two strides he crossed the floor—original poplar hardwood that would be gorgeous when refinished—and put a hand on the railing. He gave it a jerk, and turned a look of triumph on her when the wood creaked and wobbled. “It’s unsafe. The whole thing needs to be replaced.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” Behind them, Louise shut the door. “It needs a bit of tightening up for sure, but that’s all. Besides, look at the handiwork on those newel posts. You can’t buy handcrafted work like that these days. And why would you want to? With a little bit of elbow grease it will be as gorgeous as the day it was built.”
Al opened his mouth, and judging by the crevices on his forehead he wasn’t about to agree with her. Louise didn’t give him a chance, but pulled a sheet of paper out of her folder and thrust it into his hands.
“Here’s the spec sheet on the property. I think you’ll find all the pertinent information there.” She extracted a second sheet and handed it to Millie with a quick smile.
The Most Famous Illegal Goose Creek Parade Page 3