The Cul-de-Sac War

by Melissa Ferguson

  Evie put more effort into her scowl and furrowed her brow deeper, but she only succeeded in looking a little more like a peeved squirrel.

  Bree winced as she raised herself on her elbow. She began rubbing her eyes with one hand. “What’s wrong, Evie?”

  “I’ve got a car blocked in and a meeting in ten minutes. And I’m not sure exactly what’s going on, but I have a feeling you can tell me.”

  Evie moved over to the window and pulled back the sheer white curtain. She pointed. “Tell me, Bree, might you know why our street is covered with farm trucks and chickens?”

  As Bree crossed to the window, the events of the evening before sprang into her mind. In reverse.

  Bree answering Chip’s note in the window. Dinner with Chip. Chip beside her on the porch beneath a clear sky, as she shared things about her life she hadn’t even told her oldest and dearest of friends. Gravel tapping her window while she stood in her room, overwhelmed with the news. Anna in the hospital. Anna getting transferred. The New York girl. Chip sitting in the audience, holding up the absurd sign about family dinner—

  Wait.

  Backtrack.

  There.

  Just after the play.

  When she made it to the dressing room, she had swooped to her phone with the deftness of a vulture alighting on its dead. As she clicked open Craigslist, her fingers never paused or faltered. She had published a post.

  The fate of her job, the news about Anna, the bizarre evening beside Chip had eclipsed her memory of the little, insignificant post.

  The post she had assumed would amount to nothing but a few annoying phone calls—at best, a random visitor.

  Bree spied out the window.

  Tried to swallow but felt her throat too dry to do so.

  She had done an excellent job—too excellent—getting revenge.

  Her eyes bounced from the cars to the trucks covering the cul-de-sac.

  One impatient driver honked at a truck trying to parallel park in too small a space.

  In front of Mrs. Lewis’s, a family stood at the open back door of an old Camry, tugging on the rope of an unwilling goat in the back seat.

  “Oh no.” Bree reached for a sweatshirt hanging on the door of her closet and yanked it over her head. She tripped over a stack of whittling tools on her way down the stairs as she checked the time.

  6:59 a.m.

  “Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.”

  Her advertisement said to come at seven.

  She yanked the door open and ran out barefoot. The gravel dug into flesh as she jogged toward an old red pickup. She grabbed the driver’s side mirror as the door shut. Lifted a finger to the man in Carhartt overalls in need of a good wash.

  “Sir, I think there’s been some mistake.” Her head jerked up to Chip’s second-story window as if expecting his glowering face to tower over them. But there was nothing. Nothing besides the lingering note saying SLEEP WELL in the window.

  She glanced back to the farmer. “If you could move out of my driveway, and quickly, please—”

  With a bit more prodding the farmer gave up and got back in his vehicle. The engine turned and he backed up, but just as Evie was hopping into her car, another car smelling of dozens of freshly baked strawberry swirl, chocolate chip, and asiago bagels swerved in like a shopper taking the last Macy’s parking spot on Black Friday.

  “Ma’am,” Bree said, knocking on the person’s window. The woman had apparently decided to pretend this wouldn’t be a problem. “Ma’am, you need to move. My housemate needs to leave.”

  The woman—looking everywhere but at Bree—started digging in her purse. She pulled out her phone and put it to her ear.

  “Ma’am,” Bree said, knocking again at the window.

  The woman nodded and started talking.

  Bree exhaled impatiently. “I saw your phone. You. Aren’t. Talking. To anyone.”

  A hum of commotion grew behind her, and Bree whipped her head around to see the crowd forming into a pushy sort of line to his front door.

  A woman on his porch peeked through his living room window.

  Panic rising, Bree heard a door slam and swiveled her head to see that the bagel woman had slipped out the passenger door and was now running toward his yard with her basket of bagels.

  “Hey!” Bree yelled after her, just as her eyes glimpsed a man raising his fist and knocking heavily three times on the door.

  Oh no.

  No, no, no.

  Bree felt herself slipping toward her own porch, but Evie just stood there, arms crossed with her keys dangling from her clenched fist.

  Bree moved backward toward the bagel woman.

  “Ma’am!” she called, but the woman either didn’t hear her as she pushed her way to the front of the crowd or—and Bree would’ve wagered her own house on this—was ignoring her with the deftness of a toddler wielding a cleaver.

  Bree slipped past two men holding chickens.

  Maybe she could just yell to everyone that this was a mistake. All a terrible, terrible mistake and they needed to go on home. There was nothing to see here. Just a typical, neighborly spat gone wrong.

  Hi, everyone. Let me take a moment to explain. I’m Bree Leake, totally out of my mind and accidentally terribly clever, a person who will manipulate the lot of you to get back at my neighbor with my seditionist needs. Now, please, if you could just pack up your cattle . . .

  Or maybe she just needed to go back inside and feign ignorance.

  Yes, that was it. She had no idea what this was all about.

  Nobody had seen her do the Craigslist post.

  Nobody knew it was her.

  This was all just a mistake. A bizarre little mistake. Just one of those funny things.

  They could laugh over it during breakfast.

  She’d stay inside until the last car was leaving, walk out onto the porch, and pretend she’d slept through the whole thing. Listen with dismay and pent-up amusement while he reenacted the bizarre morning. Eventually coax him to calm his nerves over breakfast. Because . . . perhaps she would ask him to breakfast.

  She could.

  He’d fed her dinner after all.

  Just a few hours before.

  Bree started inching her way toward the front door. She avoided Evie’s furious gaze as she started to cross the driveway, tiptoeing on gravel.

  But then his door opened.

  People started shouting.

  “I have a 2010 John Deere 3520 tractor, only 480 hours on it!”

  “I can make you a custom board-and-batten, seven-by-sixteen chicken coop. You pick the color. And I’ll throw in twenty-five beautiful Rhode Island reds like the one here for you.”

  “Care for a bagel, sir? We have plenty!” the shrill woman who had parked in Bree’s driveway said, holding up her basket.

  The crowd surged and Chip—holding a coffee mug and looking clearly undercaffeinated—sloshed coffee all over his hand as he stepped backward.

  “I have a variety of animals to get your hobby farm started!” A man holding a leashed goat and pot-bellied pig called from beside a tree. “And a twenty-four-page PDF book to get you going.”

  “I’m sorry, I just—” Chip raked a hand through his hair, bug-eyed.

  His attire was different, more polished. He wore a suit that looked as though it couldn’t possibly have come out of that residence so dust-free. The five-o’clock shadow that typically accompanied his face was shaved clean.

  “What is it you all are here for?” Chip’s eyes grazed the crowd.

  Caught like a deer twenty paces from the blazing vest of a hunter in the bare winter forest, Bree halted. Held her breath. Prayed he wouldn’t notice her among the crowd.

  She watched as his eyes roved over them one by one. Her chest tightened as the spotlight of his gaze drew closer. Closer and closer, bouncing off farmers’ hats and livestock and children and bread baskets and—

  They stopped on her.

  She stood in a scene surro
unded by farmers and cattle, mowers and livestock. And she might as well have been naked.

  Chapter 18

  Chip

  Unbelievable.

  Simply unbelievable.

  Whatever shred of belief he’d had that Bree Leake was a decent person after all was gone. The woman was out of her mind, sitting-in-a-stock-barrel-down-the-Niagara crazy.

  Everywhere, as far as the eye could see, vehicles were pulling in. The cul-de-sac was lined on both sides with cars and trucks, the street congested with people and, bizarrely enough, farm animals. Stonewall Heights looked like the newest location for the Appalachian Fair. All that was missing was a Ferris wheel and a place to bob for apples.

  Oh look, there was somebody with a basket of apples.

  The man closest to him pressed closer still. He held up his guinea fowl. “I’ve got a hatchery with as many of these as you desire.” He eyed the living room. “They’re one-a-day layers, no finer fowl in the county.”

  Chip noticed two men inspecting his bushes, another two giving a scrutinizing look at the gutters.

  Two full-grown Old English Sheepdogs barked when Russell appeared at Chip’s leg.

  Chip grabbed at Russell’s collar just before he lunged.

  “I’m sorry,” Chip began, grunting as he planted his feet against the doorjamb and fought to hold Russell back. “Whatever you are talking about, I’m not interested.”

  The man looked taken aback. “You’re—you’re not interested?”

  Chip spoke firmly. “No.” His eyes cast over the group, landing squarely on the large man in suspenders. The insane woman hid behind him. “Please share the news.”

  Chip yanked Russell back and tripped over him trying to push the door closed. Quickly, Chip twisted the deadbolt, cursing himself for putting the installation of blinds lower on the priority list.

  In his pocket, Chip’s phone began to ring.

  He didn’t have time for this.

  The people stared through the window at him, and the man with the guinea fowl started to shout, “It’s a crock deal. The man’s changed his mind.”

  A wave of disappointment and a few cries of injustice swept the crowd as they started to disperse.

  One woman holding a duck under each armpit stared unnervingly through the window at him.

  It was time to hide.

  Holding firmly to his coffee, he snatched up his computer and went up the stairs to the safety of his room.

  He peered out the window at the group below. It appeared that for each truck and car leaving, there was another pulling in. What on earth had Bree done?

  Another loud knock sounded on the door downstairs.

  He ignored it and opened his computer.

  Frowning, he checked his email. Aside from about thirteen work-related emails, there was nothing.

  He glanced down to the growing crowd and typed into Google, Abingdon VA Livestock Trade April 15.

  The first few hits involved the weekly Abingdon cattle auction market report, and the Virginia Cattlemen’s Association covered the rest.

  His phone began to ring. He ignored it.

  Frustration building, he typed Insane Abingdon Neighbor Bree Leake and, surprisingly, nothing showed up.

  Trying to hang on to his composure, he avoided banging the keys with his hands.

  The time on the phone said 7:16 a.m. He had approximately fifteen minutes to sort this out before he had to be in a meeting with the Bank of Abingdon—the only bank of the five he’d contacted interested enough to want to meet. Could he leave his house unprotected from these people?

  From her?

  In the yard, a woman was kicking his gutter lightly with her shoe. The elbow joint fell off.

  His phone rang again, the number unavailable.

  He snatched it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Yeah, I’m calling about your ad on Craigslist.”

  An ad. On Craigslist.

  He swiftly began typing as he spoke. “What about it?”

  “I’m just wanting to make sure this isn’t some sort of joke.” There was rustling in the background. “I got several cattle here that I could trade, but I don’t want to haul them out if this isn’t legitimate. You mind confirming before I load up?”

  Load up. Cattle.

  “Um.” Chip typed in his address. Sure enough, a result popped up clear as day on his screen.

  Bingo.

  He sat back. Stared.

  Unbelievable.

  “Sir?”

  “Right. Um, no, this isn’t legitimate. And if you talk to anyone else, please tell them.”

  He hung up, and his phone drifted down from his ear as he took it all in.

  There, on the screen, under the Housing Swap tab, was the headline “Livestock Trade for House in Need of Massive Renovation.”

  Massive. He took offense at that.

  He scanned the ad:

  Will Trade House for Livestock

  Single man in over his head with financial burden and no marital prospects has decided to give up suburbia for hermit living. Wants: livestock for his hobby farm. Willing to trade: decrepit house in otherwise nice Abingdon, VA neighborhood. Great neighbors. All offers considered. Note: Please bring at least one example animal from livestock offered for demonstration and inspection on offer. Will be considering offers until midnight, April 15.

  She had included his phone number.

  Simultaneously, his phone started to ring and knocking resumed.

  He buried his head in his hands.

  Well, the way he saw it, he had two choices. Make the bank meeting and risk the real possibility that his deranged neighbor might auction off his home, or cancel the bank meeting, forfeit his microscopic chance of winning this Barter bid, and spend the next six months watching McBride and Sons tackle the renovation that would’ve launched his career.

  He had to sacrifice something here.

  He dropped his hands from his head when he realized what he had that could turn these events around.

  Neighbors.

  There was more than one kind in the world.

  Mrs. Lewis.

  Chip made his way outside. People were milling around, and several looked up at him expectantly, a few lifting their chickens as though they were raising handfuls of hundred-dollar bills. Chip held up his hands.

  “Sorry. There was a miscommunication. I am not selling—or bartering—this house.”

  While most faces fell and people who hadn’t heard his first announcement started to depart, one man trailed him as he walked across the yard.

  “Having a case of seller’s doubt?” he said in a voice that made Chip almost certain he sold used cars for a living. “I don’t blame you. I haven’t seen much here that I would take in exchange for a promising home such as yours either.”

  “I’m not moving,” Chip said firmly, navigating around a family who was starting to break down their tent. “And even if I was, chickens aren’t the kind of thing I trade in.”

  “Of course not,” the man replied, keeping step beside him as they moved onto the congested street. “Chickens are too easy to find. Why, even I could get you five hundred chicks no problem.”

  He paused, the question in his eyes.

  Chip waited for an RV to complete a painful three-point turn. “I’m not interested.”

  “Of course you’re not,” the man continued without skipping a beat. “That’s precisely my point.”

  The RV moved on, and Chip started walking again.

  “No,” he said, “what someone like you needs is a trade of equal value. Now, let’s take that house for instance. I know that in these tumultuous economic times, it wouldn’t be easy to get the kind of value you’re looking for. Realtor fees. People coming in and out, invading your personal space for showings. House inspections”—he raised a hand to the side of his face and leaned in, lowering his voice—“and we both know you’d be in a lot of trouble there.” He straightened. “Months and months of nothing but debt p
iling up at your doorstep as you wring your hands, waiting, begging, pleading for the tides to change. And you deserve more.”

  “I don’t want more. I want my house.”

  “But tell me now, have you ever considered”—he held his hands out, practically purring—“a houseboat?”

  So Chip was wrong. It wasn’t used cars. It was houseboats.

  “I’ve got three now, gently used, but with a unique flair. Right now I have an outstanding 1971 Nautaline with your name on it. A newly painted upper sun deck, loads of room in the galley and upper helm. They patched the hole last year. It should float again just fine—”

  Chip stopped abruptly at Mrs. Lewis’s front door. He turned. “Please go.”

  The man stopped midsentence. Put up his hands as he backed away. “Listen. I’m just trying to get you a good deal. Have I mentioned the Nautaline comes with a seventy-five-inch flat screen?”

  Chip’s eyes narrowed.

  “I’ll just leave you my card.”

  The man slipped a business card on the step between them, then raised his hands as though caught by the police as he moved backward. “Call me.”

  Chip turned and rang the doorbell.

  The door swung open immediately.

  Mrs. Lewis tightened her robe around her, her hair in rollers.

  “Mrs. Lewis. I’ve run into a bit of a problem—”

  “Honey,” she said, peering over his shoulder, “I believe you’ve run yourself into a zoo.”

  “Yes,” he said swiftly, his mind on the clock. Ten minutes. He had ten minutes to get to the bank. “I’ve told them it was all a mistake and to go home, but it looks like we may have people coming in and out for a while.”

  Mrs. Lewis fixed him with a stern expression. “What do you need?”

  He hesitated. “Do you mind keeping an eye on my house for a bit and making sure nothing extreme happens? Like, oh, I don’t know”—Chip threw out a hand—“an unbalanced woman showing up with a megaphone taking bids for the house? I should be back within an hour.”

  Her brow rose at his suggestion, but she just nodded. “Sure thing, honey. Leave it to me. I won’t let anyone start messing with your house.” She paused, peering over his shoulder. “Or your new landscaping. Hey!” she called, flapping a hand in the air. “You there! Step away from the man’s hydrangeas!”