Cliff Hanger

by Mary Feliz

  Renée shook her head. “Not yet. All my time has been focused on the kids.”

  I handed her my phone, so that she could make the work calls without tying up her own line. “Give them a call now.”

  I handed an empty cardboard box to each boy. “You’re on recycling duty. All catalogs and magazines go in the bin.”

  Renée’s eyes widened. “All of them? What if I need to order office stuff?”

  “Don’t you do that online?”

  “What about articles in the magazines? Those professional journals have great pointers for setting up offices like this.”

  “Find them online. If you can’t, I’ll pay to have the magazines send us new issues. When did you last read one of those helpful articles?”

  Renée looked sheepish. “I always mean to.”

  I nodded. “Everyone does. But ninety-nine percent of the time we don’t get to it. I’m going to keep you busy here for the next few weeks. You won’t have time to look at catalogs and magazines anyway. And they’ll all keep coming. I’ll set you up with a phone app to help you reduce the size of the daily onslaught. But anything that’s here now can go.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Dig in, guys. David, you can shuttle the cartons to the recycling dumpster. Brian, no break for you. Got your inhaler?” Dust wasn’t the worst of Brian’s allergy and asthma triggers, but we watched his exposure. “If it gets too bad, I’ll get you another job. Keep me posted, okay?”

  Brian nodded.

  We worked steadily for an hour, filling up more boxes than David could take in one trip, even using the handcart Renée discovered behind a stash of cartons and a broken vacuum cleaner.

  “Mom, I need to take a load out to the recycling bin,” David said. “Would you mind if I took a run after that? I need to keep up my training for cross-country. And I told Renée I’d take a picture of that stake Brian tripped over.”

  I’d been separating a jumble of insurance records and tax receipts, and it took me a moment to shift my attention to my oldest son. I glanced up. “Huh?”

  “Hang on there, mom, you’ve got a spider in your hair.” I jumped back from the desk, as though that would separate me from my own hair and the spider within in it.

  “Get it off me! Get it. David. Get it.” I bent at the waist and batted at my hair, already mortified by my shrieks and my behavior, but desperate to separate the spider from me, the room, and perhaps, life itself.

  David was more tender-hearted. Grabbing a Styrofoam cup, he coaxed the errant arachnid into it and escorted it outdoors, wishing it well in its web ventures.

  He returned, looking smug, accomplished, and as though he’d defeated a six-ton Godzilla for me. I owed him. “Sure. Go for that run. Good idea.” I eyed the pile of dusty papers cautiously, fearing a fraternity of attack-trained spiders lurked in its depths. Ugh!

  “I’ll watch out for violent spiders, snakes, and other dangers,” David said, not making much of an attempt to keep the laughter out of his voice.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, waving him off. “I’m not proud of my behavior at all, but I can’t help it. And I am proud of you both for not teasing me.”

  David glanced at his brother, who was rocking his head to the music on his phone as he sorted stacks of old mail and catalogs. Brian must have sensed us staring. He looked up and pulled the microphone buds from his ears. “Huh?”

  “He doesn’t get any points for not laughing,” David said. “He was oblivious.”

  Brian waved an envelope in the air. “What do you want me to do with real mail?” He asked, stifling a sneeze and rubbing his nose. “This one looks like a check.”

  “Want anything from the condo, Bri?” David asked. “I’m on my way out for a run. Sorry dude, I don’t mean to rub it in.”

  “Run for me, too. And bring back snacks and drinks. Please.”

  David nodded and was nearly out the door with the handcart full of boxes when Brian had an afterthought, “Run north on the beach and look for that stake I ran into. Take a picture of it for Renée.”

  David tactfully refrained from telling his little brother that we’d already discussed that plan.

  “Good idea,” said Renée.

  “It’s probably something you’ve seen a million times. You’ll recognize it as soon as you see it, I’m sure.” Brian said.

  “I doubt it has a romantic history like those pilings, but taking a picture of it’s a good idea,” I said.

  “Maybe pirates or smugglers turn up at night,” said Brian, waggling his eyebrows and twirling an imaginary mustache.

  Chapter 16

  Pack zip lock bags. You’ll use them for garbage, damp or messy clothing and sandy or drippy items. They’re handy for creating individual snack packets and unforeseen emergencies.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Friday, June 21, Midday

  By the time David returned, the rest of us had settled down to a deli lunch Renée had ordered from town. I’d had to wash my hands twice to get rid of the grime and dust. Many organizers ask clients to have their homes or offices professionally cleaned before tackling a project. I felt that Renée had needed to do a first round of purging before a cleaning would do any good. But we were stirring up so much dust that she had already phoned the association’s cleaning service.

  “Grab a sandwich,” I told David, as he plopped a bag of apples and a carton of water bottles on the table. “I was just going over what we’re doing this afternoon.”

  Renée jumped in. “I’m letting us all out at two o’clock, but we need to work full tilt until then. I want you to stash the boxes of garbage and recycling on the deck for now, instead of all the way off to the recycling bins. Housekeeping is coming in as soon as we’re out of here. I’ve asked them to do a thorough cleaning to try to keep the dust down.”

  “That should make our jobs much easier tomorrow, Renée. Thanks,” I said.

  She pushed a stray piece of lettuce into the corner of her mouth with one hand, and in the process left a blob of mayonnaise on the tip of her nose. It was adorable. Before any of us had a chance to tell her about it, though, she pushed a yellow pad of paper toward me. “I got a list of what records we need to keep on hand for the legal department and the insurance,” she said. “Are you sure everything else can go?”

  “Probably even the legal and insurance records, if you have them duplicated on the computer. Do you have an automated backup system? With off-site or cloud-based storage?

  She stared at me blankly, then her face reddened.

  I pretended not to notice her embarrassment. “Never mind. Would it help if we roughed out a budget for a new system? I’ve secured bids for updating other small businesses. Those numbers might help you develop a proposal for the board.”

  “I’ve got some budget leeway,” said Renée. “Go ahead and write up an order for what you think will work. Do we need new computers before we move ahead?”

  I glanced at the closest desk and the spaghetti mass of wires and power bricks under it.

  “You should be fine for now,” I said. “I’ve got a computer guy who can come in and assess your needs…and the state of your current systems. We can get you budget numbers for new computers, cables, printers, and routers. I wouldn’t wait too long, though. Electronics and home appliances tend to blow up as soon as you think about replacing them.”

  Renée folded up her sandwich wrappings and started packing up the remains of our lunch and stashing it in the fridge. “Guess what I’m having for dinner?” she said. “Do you want any of this?”

  I glanced at the boys, who nodded eagerly.

  I picked up the deli menu that had come with the lunch. “Let me buy lunch tomorrow. I’ll order us dinner at the same time. Clearing out a backlog of junk like this is exhausting. N
either one of us will have any energy to cook or even think about a shopping list when we get home.”

  Renée pushed her hair back and sighed. “Thanks, Maggie. Tess was right. She said you take care of your clients.”

  I smiled. “I have to. This is hard work. Physically and emotionally. It’s tempting for clients to throw in the towel after the first day. If I want to stay in business, I have to be adept at keeping you all going.”

  I put the tops on containers of potato and carrot salad and handed them to Renée. After that, we were all back at work, with Brian cracking the whip. He set up a timer on his phone and allowed us a brief break every twenty-five minutes, but other than that, we worked at a rapid clip.

  I’d set Brian a new, slightly less dusty task—photographing the return addresses on all the magazines and catalogs, and entering them into a nifty app that would then contact all the senders and remove the condo association from their mailing lists. There were other less expensive ways to tackle the task of reducing junk mail, but I didn’t know of any that were simpler.

  We were making progress. The expansive entryway deck was covered with bulging plastic garbage bags and recycling bins. Renée said she hoped one day to set up the deck as a place for renters to relax as they waited for their condos to be ready. And as an informal meeting space for the whole community. At first, she’d offer complimentary coffee and snacks but hoped to eventually set up a small deli and gift shop to bring in extra income, particularly in the busy summer months. “The more people I can draw in here to browse,” she said, “the more impulse buys of resort wear they’ll make. If I can get some inexpensive refrigerated display units, I can be their source for the emergency carton of milk they forgot to get in town, ice cream treats for kids, and a whole lot of other small items with big margins. It will help take the pressure off the rest of the budget.”

  It was a great idea, and I applauded her vision. But right now the deck was a perfect staging area. We set aside several boxes of office supplies to donate to the local schools. Renée toyed with the idea of saving them, but I convinced her that it would be better in the long run to buy new items after she’d cleaned, repaired, and remodeled the office with purpose-built storage. If she kept every rubber band and paperclip, she’d waste a good part of her valuable time, energy, and talent moving her office supplies from place to place.

  There was something ultimately satisfying about literally clearing the decks, and getting all the discards stashed in their respective disposal, recycling, or donation bins.

  It wasn’t until we were walking back to the condo that I remembered to ask David about the stake that had injured Brian.

  “What stake?” David said. “I looked all over the beach, in both directions, and couldn’t find it. I checked the tide charts to make sure it couldn’t be under water. There was no stake. Not anywhere on the beach.”

  “So it was temporary?” I asked.

  “It seemed pretty permanent when I ran into it,” Brian said. “How deep would you have to plant a stake to make it immovable? Could someone easily pull something like that back out of the sand?”

  “More importantly,” I said. “Why? Why would it have been there yesterday and gone today?”

  “Could smugglers have needed a way to temporarily tie up a boat, without leaving permanent evidence behind?” David said.

  “Smuggling what?”

  “Illegally caught fish? Drugs? People?”

  I smiled. “I was thinking more along the lines that the stake had been left behind after someone dismantled a wedding tent or volleyball net.”

  “Would either of those things require something so sturdy?” Brian asked. “If the association put them up, wouldn’t they know how many stakes they’d used? They must do that all the time. How could they forget one?”

  I pulled my cell phone from my back pocket. “Let’s check.” I phoned Renée and left a message when she didn’t answer. “Hey, Renée, quick question. David couldn’t find the post that Brian ran into on the beach. Do you know of any reason why a sturdy metal stake would be pounded into the sand and then removed? Is it something your team does to secure recreational equipment or event stuff?”

  I ended the call, and then immediately hit redial. “I’m asking for curiosity’s sake only,” I said. “Trying to solve the mystery of the missing post—like Nancy Drew.” I laughed awkwardly. “I don’t want you to think we’re going to sue or anything.”

  Brian rolled his eyes as I stashed the phone back in my pocket. “Like that’s going to reassure Renée,” he said. “Isn’t that what someone bent on litigation would say? It’s not like the words we don’t plan to sue are legally binding or anything.”

  I shrugged. “Clarifying my motives makes me feel better,” I said. “Whether Renée believes me or not. I needed to tell her I wasn’t bent on a lawsuit.”

  My phone pinged with a text alert:

  We secure temp. beach equip. w/Day-Glo plastic stakes. Maintenance counts them. Environmental thing. Leave no trace, etc. Giant steel stake sounds dangerous. Not one of ours.

  I texted back:

  Did we confirm with you that it’s NOT a historical artifact like the remnants of the Victorian pier/pavilion?

  And Renée responded:

  Not sure, but I’ve never seen it. Let me text the group that did feature on us for local history exhibit to be sure.

  “Mom, you are such a slow typist,” Brian moaned. “You have two thumbs, you know.”

  I continued pecking out my text message with my right pointer finger. “When it comes to texting, I’m all thumbs. But, you know, a track star who can’t make it across the parking lot without readjusting his crutches might want to think twice about throwing shade about speed of any kind.” My phone pinged with a response.

  I read it and looked up at both kids. “Renée tells me that some local history expert doesn’t know anything about a steel or iron stake on the beach.”

  My phone continued to ping with updates, including pictures of various brands of dog tie-out stakes one of Renée’s contacts suggested we might have seen: I’ve seen folks use these, along with long leads, to get around the leash laws.

  I showed the photos to the boys, but we all agreed they weren’t sturdy enough to have been the stake that had tripped Brian.

  “Would something that flimsy even hold a decent-size dog?” David asked. Belle barked. Apparently not, in her opinion. But I sympathized with those who wanted to offer their dogs more freedom than the state park’s six-foot-leash law allowed.

  David typed and scrolled furiously on his phone with both thumbs. My mobile binged again. “Send them that,” David said, referring to the photo he’d messaged to my cell. “Ask if they’ve ever seen anything like it holding down anything on the beach.”

  I followed instructions. “Let’s stop texting and get home,” I said, brushing my hands on my jeans. “I’m desperate to wash my hands and face and take a walk somewhere I can breathe fresh air instead of dust.”

  “Can we go to the aquarium?” David asked. “Or rent kayaks in Elkhorn Slough? Grab a surfing lesson?”

  “We’ll see,” I said, gesturing to urge them onward.

  “That means no,” Brian said.

  “It means we’ll see,” I said. “We won’t have time today since we need to see the orthopedist about Brian’s leg. But make a list. We’ll talk it over tonight.”

  “I can’t surf,” Brian said. “Stupid leg.”

  Brian seldom indulged in self-pity, but I felt he was entitled to a pinch of it, given the circumstances and our high expectations for the holiday, which had so far disappointed all of us.

  “Sorry, bud. But we can’t expect David to sit around with his leg up just to keep you company.”

  Brian grumbled unintelligibly under his breath.

  David was uncharacteristically generous to his brother. �
�Maybe we can find stuff I want to do that is close to other stuff you and Mom can do while you wait for me. I’ll be the guinea pig. If I try something that’s no good, I’ll save you the trouble. And if it turns out to be fun, we can do it together, later.”

  Brian pressed his lips together to stop them quivering. He stood up as straight as possible on his crutches. “Okay,” he said. “Sure. Good idea.”

  The two boys flopped on the couch when we returned to the apartment. They fired up their computers, searching local recreational activities and tourist attractions.

  I showered off the dust, taking extra care to scrub my scalp in case any stray spiders had tried to make a home there. I changed clothes. My beach wardrobe boasted nothing fancy. It was just an interchangeable array of washable layers. There was something freeing and refreshing about being able to dress quickly without looking, knowing that anything I pulled from the drawers would match.

  “Shh,” David whispered when I returned to the living room, combing out my wet hair.

  Brian was zonked out. Healing required energy and his wound was a bad one that was forcing his body to handle pain while it rebuilt bone, soft tissue, and skin. For the near future, we’d have to plan on him falling asleep whenever he stopped moving. Poor guy.

  I hated to wake him to head into town to see the doctor, but the kid was a good sport. The doctor was kind and efficient. X-rays revealed the bone was healing well with no sign of infection.

  We’d been back home for only a few moments when I heard someone tromping on the wooden boardwalk outside the condo. A knock on the door startled the kids, but I’d been expecting it after hearing the footsteps. I opened the door, anticipating a maintenance worker or someone else who worked for Renée. I was wrong.

  Chapter 17

  Gel window stickers (for those old enough to be trusted not to eat them) can provide easily removable entertainment on a car, airplane, and hotel windows

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Friday, June 21, Late afternoon