The Cul-de-Sac War

by Melissa Ferguson

  Theo’s ruffled brow conveyed he felt the undercurrent of tension. Mr. Richardson stepped into the circle. “Mr. Richardson, meet Chip McBride.”

  The older man turned by degrees as he held out his hand to Chip. Theo said, “Chip here was just telling me about both his professional interests as well as his extracurricular passions. I think you’ll be interested to hear about them both.”

  Right. It was time to pretend Bree wasn’t standing there, staring, knowing he was a complete fraud.

  Chip pivoted to crop Bree out of his line of vision.

  “Oh, painting is never an extracurricular passion,” Chip said as he took Mr. Richardson’s hand. “Art is the lens through which I see the world. Art is in everything, from the monochrome land conveyed in this pastureland to each brick of the Village I built at Emory and Henry last year. It’s just a matter of the medium. Nice to meet you, sir.”

  “Mutual,” Mr. Richardson said, his eyes shining as bright and blue as the sky. “Tell me, you’re Art’s son, right?”

  “I am, sir,” Chip said. “But I’ve launched my own construction company in the last year,” he added. Technically, thirty-four days. But that was inconsequential. “Redpoint Construction. You may have heard of it.”

  “No, I don’t think I have,” he said. Mr. Richardson’s eyes dimmed. “What sort of work have you done?”

  “Oh”—Chip waved a hand, his paintbrush darting daringly toward Bree’s coat—“this and that. We specialize in new construction, remodeling and renovation, historical restorations—”

  “You specialize in historical restoration?”

  “Oh yes, sir.” Chip had added that specialty to his business cards the evening prior.

  “Interesting.” Mr. Richardson stepped forward. “Where are you located?”

  Chip took a small step back, inclining his chin as far away from Bree as possible. “Just a few streets up from the Barter.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bree lift a finger. “Oh,” she said innocently. “The one by Plumb Alley?”

  He hesitated. Darted one polite but swift glance her way. “Yes. I believe somewhere near there.”

  “Just off, say, North Court Street?”

  Chip paused to think while his face tightened. “I think so,” he said, tugging lightly around the collar. “I’d have to say, Mr. Richardson, restoring an old property to its original glory is the highlight of my days.”

  Bree opened her mouth.

  “Here”—Chip rushed to stop her from speaking again—“I think I have a business card somewhere if you’re interested.” Before Mr. Richardson could reply, Chip reached into his breast pocket and whipped out a card. There was one in each pocket of his trousers and in about ten locations in his bag, just in case he forgot where he’d placed it for this critical moment. “Are you doing some remodeling, sir?”

  “I am, actually,” Mr. Richardson said, peering at the card in his hands.

  Maybe it had been too much to put pictures on the back of both The Last Supper and the new Emory buildings side by side.

  “Thank you for this.” Mr. Richardson tucked the card in his pocket and looked up to the easel. “And what do we have here?”

  “Oh,” Chip began, trying not to clam up. “I was just working on my”—he mentally scanned the words scribbled beneath his watch—“crosshatching.”

  That word worked here. Brushstrokes crisscrossed one another to create a web of mixed colors. He laughed politely. “But you know how it goes.”

  “Seems like a lot of brown here, not a lot of colors,” Mr. Richardson mused, resting a finger on his chin.

  “Well,” Chip began. What was that artist’s name again? He moved his hand behind the easel, pulled back his sleeve, and scrolled through the few words. “As an avid fan of Albrecht Dürer’s style,” he said, tugging an invisible stray thread from the canvas, “I like to follow in his footsteps for landscape scenes like this.”

  Mr. Richardson frowned. “Dürer. I’ve never been too fond of his work. All so eerie and disapproving.”

  “Did I say Dürer? I must’ve just had his name on my mind after my nightly reading. I meant Johns. Jasper Johns.”

  Mr. Richardson pressed his lips together in a thin line. “Johns. I’ve never liked any of his works either. Like any young, untrained man could just—just—”

  “Stand out here pretending he’s a twenty-first-century Da Vinci with a few zigzag brushstrokes?” said Bree.

  The group turned to look at her, holding her hands clasped at her waist, smiling with all the innocence of a wolf hidden in Grandma’s clothing.

  “Exactly,” Mr. Richardson replied, shaking his finger at her as if noticing her for the first time. “You’re one of ours, aren’t you? A fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

  She bowed her head. “Mustardseed at your service, sir.”

  His eyes softened. “I’m so sorry about the trouble at the Barter lately. I must say, in all my years we’ve never had a mix-up like this.” He patted her arm. “At any rate, my dear, I certainly hope the cast cut won’t affect you.”

  Theo took a protective step toward her. “I’m sure it won’t, sir. Not with a talented fairy like herself.”

  Mr. Richardson smiled up at him, a twinkle in his eye. “Yes. Well, as we all know, Theo only spends his time with the best. Professionally and otherwise.” He winked her way. “You’re fortunate you keep such fine company, Ms.—”

  “Leake,” she replied, but Chip noted the falling smile.

  So. Tesla man was going to work behind the scenes to keep his fairy girlfriend in the next show. It wasn’t surprising. And certainly not something to be embarrassed about. Still, the look on her face told him this was news to her. She blinked his direction, the color in her cheeks deepening.

  Mr. Richardson adjusted his hat and turned back to Chip. “Mr. McBride, if you’re available, I’d like to come by your office sometime tomorrow to discuss some plans we have for a renovation project we’re about to get going at the Barter.” He’d brought the business card up to his eyes, peering for some address. “Although, I may have to avert my eyes if you have any Dürers around.” His lips twitched at his own joke.

  Chip stumbled to respond. “Oh—I’m sure I couldn’t give you my best thoughts without walking through the site in question firsthand.”

  Mr. Richardson was nodding before Chip finished his sentence. “True. True. How about this. I’ll call you tomorrow around noon and set up a meeting for this week. I’d like to have eyes like yours on it, see what you think, before we start taking bids.”

  Chip nodded. “I’d be delighted, sir,” he replied. “Here.” Only after he handed him the second card from his trousers did he realize he’d done it already. “In case you lose the first.”

  Mr. Richardson hesitated, then smiled. “You know, I like a man who’s prepared.” Mr. Richardson tapped his pocket and the business card tucked underneath. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Chip couldn’t help his ballooning smile, though his brothers had warned him it had the look of a six-year-old Boy Scout proud of fitting six marshmallows in his mouth. Hundreds of thousands of dollars were at stake! He turned his attention back to the canvas, dipped his paintbrush, and gave the canvas a flourishing brown curlicue as Theo and Mr. Richardson shook hands and made their farewells.

  Voilà.

  He stepped back, admiring the squishy brown circle.

  A few more curlicues later he felt a presence behind him. He looked over his shoulder.

  Bree had her arms crossed tightly over the chest of her yellow pea coat, that look in her eyes as she stared at Theo.

  Ohhhh, Chip recognized that look.

  He would know that look a mile off.

  Considering the way Theo was casually typing on his phone, he had no idea what kind of storm was about to blow his way. Poor chap. Chip almost felt like tapping him on the shoulder and whispering in his ear, Run.

  Theo finished tapping and slipped the phone into his poc
ket. He looked up, saw Bree’s burnishing glare, and frowned.

  “I’ll have you know, Theo, that I am a terrible fairy.”

  His mouth opened. It shut. It opened again. “Of course you’re not—”

  “I am. You know I am. They could’ve bought a mannequin to replace me and saved a few thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t know what you’re trying to get at here. Are you affronted that I complimented you?”

  “Yes.” She nodded her head firmly. “And I resent it.”

  Theo looked dumbfounded.

  Chip’s Boy Scout grin sprouted.

  Theo took a step toward her. “I just thought you would appreciate a nice word to the chief administrator—”

  “A nice word? That wasn’t a nice word. That was an embarrassing display of favoritism. How do you think I’ll feel if I get cast into that role in two weeks?”

  “Relieved? Pleased?”

  “Cheap.”

  “Cheap?” Theo’s eyes flickered to Chip, who directed his attention to his canvas. His voice lowered. “Come now, Bree. This is just the art of business, not some sort of prostitutional barter.”

  “I see what you did there—” Chip began, grinning, but the look on both of their faces whipping his way made him cough and turn back to his easel.

  Theo reached for her arm. “This is what I do. Leveraging networking relationships to achieve the optimal outcome for both clients and businesses. I assumed you’d appreciate a little help in a time of need—”

  “Because I need it?” Bree replied.

  “You just said you did!”

  Bree turned her chin away. “I never said any such thing.”

  Theo, dumbstruck, held out his hands. “Can you tap-dance, Bree? Do you have alternate employment options between shows?”

  Chip grinned wider as he listened, his throat tingling with the urge to laugh as he watched the quarrel from the corner of his eye.

  Bree’s face was flushed as she shoved her hands into her pockets. “Whether I can tap-dance is unimportant here. The point is, there’s no honor in awarding someone a job they aren’t qualified for. I can’t imagine the rumors that would go around.”

  Theo raised a brow. “About you and Mr. Richardson?”

  “No,” she retorted. “About you and me.”

  He smiled. Saw her expression. Stopped smiling. “And that’s . . . a bad thing?”

  “If people believe I’m using you, yes!” she sputtered. Without pausing she pointed at Chip. “Stop smiling.”

  Chip put his free hand to his chest, fighting his smile down. “Forgive me, neighbor, but I believe I’m the one stationed here, incapable of moving my conversation elsewhere—”

  “Chip?”

  The three of them stopped.

  Oh boy.

  Twice today he’d heard a woman’s voice he didn’t want to hear.

  Wincing, he turned around, all jovial spirit gone. “Heyyyy, Ashleigh.”

  And there Ashleigh stood, gawking as the head of his mother’s little tribe. His mother stood behind her to the right, the group lining up like bowling pins in formation.

  Ashleigh looked from him to his easel. “I’m . . . confused. I thought you had work today.”

  He felt his own neck starting to flush. “I did. I do. I just had a quick side project going.”

  Her frown deepened. “Painting? You never told me you painted.” Everything about her face and voice was like a soft, fluffy white kitten with a hurt paw.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bree’s frown turn. Her posture straighten. One brow twitched ever so slightly as if to say, Trouble in paradise, Chippy boy?

  They all split up quickly after, Bree and Theo continuing their stiff conversation on one side of the Creeper Trail, Chip taking on Ashleigh and her endless questions on the other. Chip’s mother directed the tribe to a spot beneath the canopy of some trees while covering her son’s lapse of judgment with phrases like, “My youngest son has always carried the mysterious virtues found in such men as Picasso and Kandinsky. I’m not surprised, honestly, that he’s expressing the cerebral needs of his right brain through the lens of the canvas. Much like Van Gogh, in the 1800s, who was misunderstood by so many in his time . . .”

  * * *

  Chip paid for his little lie to Ashleigh. By that evening, he’d ignored twenty-five work calls, sixteen text messages, and fourteen emails so he could focus on fifteen thoughtful apologies, mostly in the form of “I’m sorry” and “No, I don’t have a hidden alternate lifestyle.” It also cost him one exquisite, covered-in-guilt-and-gravy dinner for two at the Tavern.

  Finally back at home, Chip pulled himself out of his truck and shuffled to his own dark house. The street was silent, void of signs of life from the parallel-parked cars and lightless houses. But Mrs. Lewis’s porch light glimmered.

  Beneath the caramel full moon, Chip dragged himself up the porch steps and sat down. Soon Russell lay beside him with his head on his paws, drooping eyelids slowly closing off the midnight-blue world.

  He felt the jab in his pants pocket and pulled out his business card.

  He twirled it around a few times between his fingers.

  He was five days overdue paying four subcontractors.

  Six hundred forty-two dollars away from the business account dropping into the red.

  Twenty degrees from freezing in his fixer-upper home.

  But, he thought, spinning the business card around and around . . .

  He had his dog.

  A girlfriend who was better than he deserved.

  A house with a terrific view of the Appalachian Mountains.

  And perhaps, just perhaps, a date with destiny.

  Now all he needed was a bank crazy enough to lend him two million dollars.

  Chapter 11

  Bree

  “Yes, Cass, I have walked through my options. And this is the only logical plan of action.”

  On the other end of the phone line, Bree heard a sharp whistle and the telltale noise of sneakers squeaking against the linoleum flooring of a gymnasium. Bree pulled the phone from her ear while Cassie yelled, “Go, Star!” before her voice shifted with scary speed. “Sorry, Bree. Anyway—this idea is completely insane. Surely you have more sensible options.”

  “You tell me then,” Bree replied, holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder while pulling up the workout leg warmers Birdie had supplied. She pulled the phone away from her ear to check the time: 11:42 a.m. Almost game time. “You try. Tell me what you’d do in my position.”

  “You could sit down with him and have an honest conversation.”

  “I have. And by the end of that conversation, I was balled up on the floor of his kitchen trying to hide inside my own jacket. Then he laughed, and then he promised to move that fence, which he didn’t do, and then he laughed some more—”

  “C’mon, Ref! Fine,” Cassie said, cutting off Bree’s rant. “Then just do whatever every neighbor on the face of the earth does. Ignore him.”

  Bree hopped down the porch stairs. “I do that already. Regularly.”

  “No, I mean really ignore him.”

  “I did. Cass, he got a card in the mail from my parents—and he sent one back. They’re corresponding now. They’re planning a trip here in three weeks to bring their dog to his house for ‘dog-training camp.’”

  Bree flung open her car’s passenger door, twitching away when Russell presented himself beside the vehicle. The English mastiff stood on the line, barking. She frowned at him, slipped into the passenger seat, and popped open the glove box.

  The dog kept barking.

  “Honestly, Bree, how bad can this guy be if your parents love him so much?”

  “You know their value judgments mean nothing. Remember Flapjack Jack?”

  Cassie went silent. Neither she nor Bree could forget the man her parents tried to set her up with at an IHOP. The man whose face suddenly popped up on the restaurant’s corner television with the headline “Escaped Inmate
from Louisiana State Penitentiary Last Seen in Stolen Blue Civic Heading North on I-81.”

  They all looked from the screen, to the matching man, to the parking lot. And the blue Civic he’d parked there ten minutes earlier.

  For at least two years, her parents pressed pause on setting up their daughter.

  As she and Cassie talked, Bree slid a CD into the car player, her eyes ticking up to Chip’s farthest right-hand window while she did so. She could see Chip sitting there at a plastic pop-up table. The room was empty of everything except his computer, chair, and a slew of papers covering his makeshift desk. He was on the phone. He stood, and she scooted out from her seat and shut the door.

  The dog’s barks grew louder, in rhythm with his vertical jumps.

  “Hush,” Bree said, her ears crackling with his reverberating barks. She moved back to the porch, excitement rising as she slipped on her tap shoes.

  “For the record,” Cassie said, “my official statement is that I am not in support of any of your decisions here and henceforth regarding this situation.”

  “Noted and appreciated.” Bree spotted Birdie’s car coming down the street.

  “See, I don’t think you understand what appreciated means. Appreciated means you see my logic and will change—”

  “Gotta run,” Bree cut in. “Shake your fist at the ref for me!”

  Bree set the phone on the porch railing and danced down the steps once more, ignoring the clap of her heels and toes as she strode down the sidewalk. Her face broke into a wide smile as the car’s doors opened and out spilled Myra, Evan, Luke, and Birdie, all dressed in warm-up attire.

  Luke, who preferred the millennial man-bun look, eyed the property. “So this is the notorious Evie’s house. I’ve always wanted to see the inside of this place.”

  Bree frowned, and Luke amended, “And your house.”

  She motioned to the cleared front porch. She had meticulously moved every pot and plant to the yard. Thankfully this was not a typical Virginia April, when the sky eked out one final, surprise blizzard before giving in to green trees and mossy undergrowth. The sun hovered overhead, the sky rich and blue, the air a crisp fifty-four degrees.