“I was wondering where you were,” Brenda said. She rose from the floor and faced him.
Nick wore his usual chambray work shirt, jeans, boots, and baseball cap. He wasn’t handsome like Steve, he drawled like a hillbilly, and sometimes he messed up his grammar, but Brenda had come to enjoy the man’s jovial company. In fact, she went to bed each night replaying their conversations in her mind, and when she woke up the next morning, she waited to hear his pickup crunching the rocks on the driveway.
“I asked the hardware store to shake up the paint,” he was saying as he crossed the basement floor, “and then I realized we couldn’t start on the Serene Green sewing zone until we’d taped it off. But there you go, girl, always one step ahead of me.”
Brenda laughed. She liked the way Nick called her “girl,” as though she were just a kid. They had discovered they were only a year apart in age, but that was about the only similarity between them. Brenda had grown up in the same house and neighborhood with the same set of parents and siblings all her life. Nick seemed to have been riveted together from various bits and pieces, like one of those whirligigs Missouri gardeners built to the keep the crows away.
He had been raised with parents, stepparents, brothers, sisters, half brothers, half sisters, stepbrothers, stepsisters, cousins, family friends, and the occasional stranger all living under one roof. But that roof had altered through the years as changes in the family structure moved him from rental houses to trailer parks to apartments. Once he had even lived in his car for nearly a year.
Along the way, Nick seemed to have lost parts of his tackedtogether self. While splitting kindling, he had cut off half of an index finger. A little sister had drowned, and then his parents got divorced. During Nick’s rodeoing days, his first wife had left him. “My heart wasn’t the only thing that got broke,” he had told Brenda, his blue eyes misting with tears as he spoke. During that brief period, he had snapped his leg three times and shattered an elbow. Later, his second wife had miscarried his first son. And part of his left ear was gone, lasered off during a brush with skin cancer.
Still in his second marriage, Nick LeClair now lived in a mobile home near Camdenton, had grown children, and loved his two grandbabies. Though he didn’t go to church, he said he believed in God. Family and faith weren’t the only things that enriched his life. Though he had barely graduated from high school, Nick informed Brenda proudly that he never once considered going to college.
“Didn’t need it,” he assured her, “because I have the gift of vision.”
Nick insisted he could look at a bare slab foundation and see an entire house right down to the plumbing and wiring. He could remodel a room in his mind without even needing a blueprint. And, he told Brenda, he could see right through people.
“You’re a bona fide artist,” he drawled as he carried cans of paint through the basement door and set them on the concrete floor. “I’m not kidding. When the paint guy at the hardware store saw the colors you had picked out for the basement, he liked to have had a cow. He told me every one of those greens was used on a video the paint company sends out to help train the salespeople. Neither of us could tell the difference between one shade and another when we looked at the samples, but once we had them all mixed up and we opened the lids, we could see it was a perfect range. I told him, I said, ‘That lady I’m working for is an artist, pure and simple.’ And he said, ‘Let me tell you what, Nick; I do believe you’re right.’ Not only did you get the colors right, Miz Brenda, but you’re a whole step ahead of me with the taping.”
He straightened and grinned at her, his cloudless blue eyes shining in the sunlight that streamed through the basement windows. Nick might have broken a few bones and plastered his arms with tattoos, but there wasn’t a thing to mar the man’s perfect 63 white teeth. Unlike most of the construction workers Brenda had met through the years, he didn’t smoke. His mother had died of emphysema, Nick explained, and that made up his mind for him at an early age. Still smiling, he stripped off his jacket and hooked his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
“Well, I’m ready to change your life, girl.” He reached down and picked up a paint roller. “You ready?”
Swallowing, Brenda stepped toward him and took the handle. “Let’s do it.”
Steve flipped shut the door to his gas tank and hurried into Rods-n-Ends. There was serious business afoot, and he wanted to discuss the situation in the privacy of the tackle shop. For days now, gossip had been swirling around the lake like a nasty green oil spill. He had heard rumors in Deepwater Cove, Tranquility, and even as far away as Camdenton and Osage Beach. Steve figured if anyone knew the true story it would be Pete Roberts.
As the front doorbell tinkled, the burly man glanced up from a table full of engine parts in his repair area. “Well, if it isn’t Steve Hansen, the king of real estate,” he boomed. “How’s it goin’, my friend? Did you finally run low on gas? I swear if you start a trend with that hybrid of yours, you’ll run me out of business in no time flat.”
Steve worked up a smile. “No chance of that. Besides, you’ve got boats, four-wheelers, and Jet Skis to fill.”
“Hey, did you hear the news?” Pete hopped up and made his way toward the cash register.
“I might have,” Steve said. “Are you talking about the…uh…”
“I’m talking about the NASCAR hauler that stopped by here the other day. I tell you what—you should have been here, Steve. It was no ordinary trailer. It was a monster.”
“Is that right?” Steve tried to muster interest. NASCAR was a popular sport at the lake, and now that he recognized Pete’s enthusiasm, he noted the display of calendars and photographs of brightly colored, decal-covered stock cars on the tackle-shop walls. Pete even had framed autographed pictures of various drivers lined up in a row near his workbench.
“It was an official NASCAR Craftsman Truck Series transporter,” Pete went on, beaming as if Dale Earnhardt himself had just stepped down from heaven for a visit to Rods-n-Ends. “The driver let me have a look inside, and it was something else. In the front, the crew has a private office with a TV and a sofa. Behind that, in the upper level, I could see the two trucks sitting there like royalty. Beautiful! Below them was storage for parts and tools, and the crew even had a set of lockers. I don’t think the president of the United States gets as good care as a stock car. I would have given my right arm for a look under the hood of one of those babies. You ever seen a NASCAR engine? The trucks have cast-iron, 5.7-liter V8 engines with aluminum cylinder heads. Each one has a maximum displacement of 358 cubic inches. Can you believe that?”
“Pretty amazing,” Steve said. He had begun to think stopping at Rods-n-Ends had been a bad idea. Trying to repair the everwidening gulf with Brenda, he had volunteered to come home in time for supper. She wanted to discuss activities and plans for the upcoming spring-break vacation. Their two younger kids, Jessica and Justin, would be home from college, and Brenda wanted to make a special occasion of it.
Warming toward her husband for the first time in weeks, Brenda had told Steve she would bake lasagna for their dinner tonight. She knew he loved her lasagna, and Steve hoped this signaled an end to the hostile attitude she had been clinging to all this time. Brenda said she planned to serve dinner in the dining room instead of the kitchen—another sure sign of a thaw in her antagonism. Before leaving the office this evening, Steve had put a sticky note on his dashboard, reminding himself to take a look at the progress on the basement, make a few nice comments about the plaid chairs she had painted, and remark on the matching place mats she had sewn.
“The torque is 535 feet per pound at 6,000 RPM for those trucks, you know,” Pete was saying as he rang up Steve’s gas sale. “That means the engine can produce horsepower in the range of 750 at 8,000 RPM. Now that’s something to see.”
“I guess so,” Steve said.
“You and Brenda ever been to a stock-car race?”
“Never have.”
“It’s the n
umber-one spectator sport in the country. Bet you didn’t know that.”
“Well, that does surprise me.” Steve gave a nod as he pushed his credit card back into his wallet. “Maybe I can talk Brenda into it one of these days.”
“I doubt you’ll have much convincing to do. She’s a live wire, that woman. In and out of here at least once a day having me sharpen her scissors, fill up her gas tank, or load her down with hot dogs and sodas. She nearly bought out all my coolers to store the kids’ trophies, medals, and ribbons. Said they’d be better protected in coolers than in plain old plastic boxes from the discount store. In fact, Brenda was here when the transporter drove through. Said she’d love to go to a race.”
“My Brenda?”
“Yep. I don’t know the last time I saw a woman with so much energy. That must be quite a basement you’ve got over there in Deepwater Cove.”
Steve stared blankly at Pete. Never in a million years would he have described his cold, silent wife as a “live wire” full of energy. Lately when she spoke to her husband at all, it was to say something bitter and resentful. Most of the time, though, Brenda stayed withdrawn into the chilly little igloo she had built around herself.
Not knowing how to respond, Steve pushed his hands down into the pockets of his khaki slacks and turned to gaze out the front windows of the shop. He couldn’t imagine that Brenda presented herself to the world as a warm, happy, interested participant in lake life—willing to go to a stock-car race, for heaven’s sake!—when she never gave her husband anything but a cold shoulder.
Brenda reserved her bouncy zest for a tackle-shop manager and a stock-car trailer!
Icy anger flooded through Steve’s chest as he thought about all he had done and given and meant to her. What was he getting in return? Zero.
Clearly there was a problem, but it wasn’t him. It was Brenda. If this dinner tonight didn’t produce some changes in her behavior, Steve had decided to tell his wife she needed to make an appointment to talk to their minister. Pastor Andrew might recommend a doctor or a counselor who would be able to help her. For all Steve knew, this difficulty grew out of her starting menopause. Or having a midlife crisis. Whatever the cause, Brenda’s attitude was the effect. And Steve was sick to death of it.
“Here’s your receipt,” Pete said, handing him a scrap of curled paper. “You know, if you and the wife want to make an outing of it sometime, just let me know. I’ve been thinking about asking Patsy Pringle to the races. We could all go together.”
It took a moment before Pete’s words sank in. “I don’t think Patsy is the NASCAR type,” Steve said, glancing at the wall that divided the bait shop from the beauty salon next door. “Besides, Pete, I’m a little surprised you think Patsy would go out with you. Last time I was over there for a haircut, you started up a weed whacker, and she nearly scalped me. She didn’t have a lot of kind words for you. I get a feeling she thinks you irritate her on purpose.”
Chuckling wryly, Pete shook his head. “Women! Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.”
“That fits my Brenda to a tee.” Steve started for the door, then hesitated as he recalled the original reason for his visit to the store. He had been hoping to clear up some information and make sure that Pete and Patsy were both in agreement with him on the situation.
“Say, Pete,” Steve said, turning back, “there’s a rumor that’s been floating around the lake these past couple of weeks.”
“A rumor?” Pete’s ruddy complexion suddenly paled. “About…about Brenda?”
“No, about the strip mall. I hear someone has rented the empty space next door to the beauty parlor.”
“Oh, that!” Pete blew out a breath. “Yeah, I heard a fellow was putting in a movie-rental place.”
“Adult movies. Triple-X videos, pornographic magazines, and other kinds of trash.”
“Triple-X?” Pete’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“That’s what I’ve been hearing. How do you feel about a business like that moving into Tranquility?”
“I can tell you right off the bat—I don’t like the idea. We have enough trouble with the bar up the road. Fellows start drinking around three o’clock every afternoon. Sometimes they come over here for gas, and it’s all I can do to let them drive home. Don’t get me wrong. I know how it is—been there myself, and I’ll be the last one to sit in judgment. But that bar is not good for the area. If we start having the kind of creeps a porn shop would bring in…well, it would just set a tone. You know what I mean?”
“I agree completely, and I’m sure Patsy would go along with you on that.”
“At least there’s one thing we could see eye to eye on!”
“I know Dr. Hedges wants nothing to do with an adult-movie business anywhere near his chiropractic clinic. I’m not even sure the tattoo people would want pornography around.”
“You can’t count on that, Steve.” Pete stroked his thick beard. “Tell you what…I’ll talk to Patsy and see what she thinks. But you know the laws around here better than any of us. Would we have any say in who moves into the strip mall?”
“It’s private property,” Steve told him. “The owners can rent to anyone they choose.”
“Even if the rest of us don’t want them?”
“If you got together as a group, you’d have some influence, I’m sure.” He paused for a moment. “You know, I’ve heard the strip mall could be for sale to the right buyer. If an upstanding person bought it, then he could keep the undesirable businesses out.”
“That won’t be me,” Pete said. “I’m trying to be upstanding and all, but I barely make my rent. I know Patsy Pringle doesn’t like me doing small-engine repair next door to her tearoom, but sometimes that’s all that carries me over from week to week. I’m hoping business picks up during the summer, or I won’t last through the year.”
“You’ll do great with your bait and tackle once the weather warms up. People will be flocking here for gas, too. No question about that.”
“Maybe you can find a buyer for the mall,” Pete suggested. “That would be a great idea—make you a bundle on the commission, too. You have anyone in mind?”
Steve shrugged as he lifted a hand in farewell. “I’m not sure. I guess we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
As he headed toward his car, Steve glanced back over his shoulder at the row of storefront windows glittering in the setting sun. If things went well tonight…if life took a turn for the better…well, he just might have someone in mind after all.
Brenda slid the lasagna out of the oven just as Steve’s car pulled into the garage. Good. For once, he had followed through on his plan to come home.
All day she had been expecting her husband to call with one excuse or another. A potential client wanted to show him a million-dollar home that he might want to list with Steve. Or he had forgotten a last-minute meeting with a termite inspector. Something like that. At six, the phone had rung, and her heart sank. But Steve was only calling to say he had stopped at Pete’s for some gas and would be there shortly.
The thought of having Justin and Jessica home for a whole week thrilled Brenda, and she was eager to talk to Steve about it. Working on the basement had helped her begin to feel almost like she used to—eager to make plans for the family, excited about projects they could do together, hopeful that the kids would have a wonderful time and would want to come back more often.
Jessica used to come home on weekends. But because of a new boyfriend, she had come home only once since Christmas break. Justin rarely called or visited. He had made new friends, a new life, and—as he enjoyed telling his parents—a new home there in Springfield. And as for Jennifer, she was a short-term missionary in Africa. Other than the occasional e-mail, she might as well be a stranger to her parents.
“Smells great!” Steve said as he stepped into the kitchen from the garage. “I’ve been thinking about that lasagna all day.”
Despite her best intentions, a retort flew into Brenda�
��s mind. I’m surprised you didn’t prefer to have dinner with one of your clients at the country club.
But she managed to bite her tongue. Thank God!
All day Brenda had been praying that she and Steve could have a civil, even amiable, evening together. As she and Nick LeClair painted the basement walls, she had tried to keep her thoughts on her husband and her children. She was a good wife, Brenda reminded herself. A loving mother. A faithful Christian. A kind neighbor. She and Steve had been married so many years that surely they could weather this unpleasant chilly spell between them.
“Just the way you like it,” she said, forcing a cheerful tone to her voice as she hung the hot pads on their hook. “Extra ricotta cheese and loads of meat sauce.”
“Thanks, honey.” He paused and looked at her. His eyes went soft as he reached out and ran one hand down her arm. “You look beautiful.”
She tried not to shrink from his touch. “I’ve lost nearly ten pounds.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“I’m not hungry these days. So busy, you know.”
“Pete Roberts told me you’re always in and out of his place buying hot dogs and sodas.”
Bristling, she turned away. “That’s not all I buy from him. I got storage containers from Rods-n-Ends for the kids’ trophies and art projects. The hot dogs are for Nick.”
“The basement guy?”
She took a large bowl of tossed salad from the refrigerator. “Nick loves the rotisserie hot dogs from Pete’s place. I usually buy him a couple on my way back from the hardware store. Seems like I have to run to town for supplies nearly every day. Nick has gotten so used to me bringing him hot dogs, he doesn’t even carry his lunch from home anymore. He likes my chocolate cake, too.”
“He does? Huh.” Sounding slightly befuddled, Steve wandered over to the hall closet, where he hung up his jacket and set down his briefcase.
Brenda carried the salad bowl into the dining room. The garlic bread would be just about warm by now, and she hoped Steve would wash up without her having to tell him. Sometimes the man stood around like a little kid, expecting her to do everything for him and give him basic instructions for managing the world. Well, she wasn’t his servant. Or his mother. She had her own life.
It Happens Every Spring Page 7