Marriage Seasons 01 - It Happens Every Spring (21 page)

About the time Nick began work on the basement, Brenda realized she had come to resent spending her Sundays listening to stories and sermons she'd heard since she was a child. So she just
stayed home, even though it made Steve mad. He said if they didn't
go to church together, it affected their standing in the community.
She told him if it was that important, he could go stand in the community by himself.

"Brad doesn't like the fact that I give part of my paycheck to my
parents," Ashley was saying when Brenda focused in again on the
talkative young woman. "He thinks they should make their own
way, and we shouldn't have to support them. But my folks did so
much for me, you know? I mean, they paid for me to go to basketball camp and do beadwork and even get a car. None of that was
easy on them. They work hard for every penny. The restaurant
doesn't bring in as much income as people think, and when I was
growing up, we always barely got by from week to week. I bet
you're enjoying all that money Steve is raking in. I heard over at
Just As I Am that you've remodeled your whole basement."

"Nearly," Brenda told her. "We still have to lay the vinyl flooring and install a potting bench to store my gardening tools and
bags of peat. That will happen next week."

"You must be so proud of your husband-all the money he
makes and how smart and cool he is. I mean, he's really pretty
handsome for an older guy, if you know what I'm saying. Not that
you two are old or anything, but Steve is nice-looking and polite
and generous. You're working with A-1 Remodeling, aren't you?"

"Yes, and they're doing a great job."

"Nick LeClair is kind of cute, don't you think?"

A prickle ran up Brenda's spine, but she shrugged as if the name
meant nothing. "I suppose so. Nick is nice, and he works hard.
He's married, you know. He has a couple of kids and even grandkids. I think he loves his family a lot."

"You could hardly call Nick LeClair married," Ashley said. She
lifted her hair off the back of her neck to feel the cool breeze from
the lake. "His wife left him months ago. Maybe a year."

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah. I know it's true, too, because Brad is good friends with
Nick and Nelda LeClair's son, Leland. Brad and Leland are both in
construction, so they hang out together at the Lounge after work.
Leland told Brad that his parents were fighting like cats and dogs,
until one day she up and called the sheriff on him."

"Oh no." Brenda was torn between her curiosity and the realization that she was encouraging Ashley to cross the line from friendly
conversation to outright gossip. But since the girl seemed eager to
talk ... "What had he done?"

"She claimed Nick popped her, but he didn't. See, Nelda had a
meth lab set up in a little shed back in the woods behind their
house, and he didn't like it. Then she got it in her mind that he was
cheating on her, which he might have been-nobody knows. The
sheriff hauled Nick off to jail, and while he was gone, Nelda packed
up his clothes and stuff and threw it on the lawn. He went over
there and got it the next day, took it to an old single-wide trailer on
his brother's property, and he and Nelda haven't been together
since."

"My goodness," Brenda said, unable to reconcile the picture Ashley portrayed with the kind, gentle, supportive man with
whom she had painted her basement.

"I'll give Nick one thing," Ashley went on. "He could have told
the cops about the meth lab, but he didn't. That probably would
have landed Nelda up at the women's prison at Vandalia, but then
there wouldn't have been anyone to look after the grandkids. Their
no-good daughter is a tramp, and she lives in Texas somewhere.
Leland isn't married, and he works all day like Brad. So he sure
couldn't take care of the grandkids. We thought it was pretty
good-hearted of Nick not to rat out Nelda, when he could have
gotten revenge on her so easily. He must have been tempted, but he
didn't do it."

"That's quite a story," Brenda said. "I'm surprised Nick never
mentioned any of it to me."

"What man wants to admit that his meth-cooking wife sent him
to jail and then kicked him out of the house? It's not really something you can brag about."

"I guess not." Brenda rubbed her temples. "Wow."

"Anyhow, I'm glad you hired Nick. He's supposed to be a good
handyman."

"You'll have to come over and see the basement when he's finished. You won't recognize it. The TV and sectional sofa are gone,
all the pictures and plaques are in storage, and the LEGOs went off
to the elementary school in Camdenton."

"I'd love to see it. And I'll bring over my beads to show you. Did
I tell you I'm starting a bead business? I used to think about going
to college and then teaching kindergarten. But we don't have that
kind of money right now. So I've got another idea. See this necklace, right here?" She pointed to one of the many strands. "I made
these beads. Made 'em out of this kind of clay you can bake in the
oven. One of the regulars at the country club asked me where I got
them-and what do you know? She bought two strands for fifty
bucks! That put me into business. Brad thinks it's dumb to bake beads instead of pork chops and beans in our oven. But I'm going
to give it a try."

"I'd love to see your beads," Brenda said as Ashley stood. She
rose to join the younger woman and knitted her fingers tightly
together. Swallowing hard, she took a deep breath before plunging
ahead. "Urn, Ashley, you mentioned something earlier about Steve
at the country club?"

"He's a good tipper; I'll give him that. I'm glad he's over there
nearly every evening. We all fight over who gets to wait on him."

"About these people he takes to dinner. Are they ever women by
themselves?"

"Once in a while. They're those types with fancy leather shoes
and matching purses and way too much French perfume. You
know the kind I'm talking about. We get a lot of them at the club,
especially in the summer when the Kansas City and St. Louis
crowds swarm in."

"Isn't he usually with couples? Or families?"

"Oh, sure. Or with men by themselves. Steve does a good job
schmoozing rich people like that. But he's just a regular guy, even
though he does throw money around. I still can't see Steve as anything but Jessica's dad, heading off to mow the lawn in his sneakers, shorts, and an old ragged T-shirt. You should be grateful, Mrs.
Hansen. At least he's not hanging out at the Lounge after work.
That really bugs me. You'd think a husband would be eager to get
home to his wife. But not Brad. He'd rather drink a few beers with
the same people he's been working with all day than come home
and see his wife for a few minutes before I head off to work."

Giving her long hair another flip, she rolled her eyes. "Oh well.
One of these days I'll get pregnant, and then Brad will want to get
home to be with the kids." As she spoke the final few words, Ashley
gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. "I wasn't supposed
to tell anyone that we're trying to have a baby. Don't tell, Mrs.
Hansen! Promise?"

"I promise."

Ashley let out a deep breath. "Whew! Tell Jessica hi for me the
next time you see her."

"I'll do that," Brenda called as the young woman strolled back to
her golf cart. "And thanks ... thanks for stopping by. It was nice to
have company."

Patsy had just finished painting blonde highlights on one of her
regulars when the pounding began. Alarmed, she glanced across
the salon at the tea area. Sure enough, the entire wall was shuddering, the pictures of cottages and flower gardens were sliding cockeyed, and Patsy's customers clenched their cups as they stared
openmouthed at the crack slowly running down the corner of the
room near the dessert counter.

"What now?" Patsy muttered.

Ever since Easter, she had allowed pleasant thoughts of Pete
Roberts to infiltrate her mind. At Aunt Mamie's Good Food, he
had been polite. Funny. Even gentlemanly-insisting on paying
for Patsy's meal and then opening her car door for her. She decided
she had misjudged the man, and he really was just a good of boy
trying to get along the best he knew how. He meant well, and the
occasional chain-saw and weed-whacker incidents could be forgiven.

Now this.

She led her customer to a dryer to set the highlights. Then she signaled the other stylists that she was going next door. These days,
it had become almost a routine. The noise would begin, everyone
in the salon would jump half out of their skins, and then Patsy
would head over to Rods-n-Ends to give Pete Roberts a piece of her
mind. By the time she got back to work, things usually had quieted
down. Until the next incident.

As she hurried along the sidewalk, Patsy noted the nearly completed flower boxes that Pete had brought over the other day. At
the time, she had been delighted. He told her he was going to line
them with a special black fabric that would keep the dirt in but let
the water drain out. Then he planned to fill them with his specially
blended soil mixture. And finally, he would plant the flowers. He
had asked Patsy if she would like to accompany him to a couple of
nurseries the following Sunday afternoon, and she said she would
enjoy an outing like that.

Not anymore. She rolled up her sleeves, pushed open the tackle
shop's door, and stared at a pile of lumber on the floor. Wearing a
pair of faded overalls, Pete stood high on a ladder as he attempted
to set a stud in place against the wall. He had a mouthful of long
screws. Hammers and drills hung from loops on his tool belt, and
sweat ran down his temples into his beard.

"Pete Roberts!" Patsy called to him. "What on earth are you up
to now?"

Pete glanced at her, then spat the screws into his hand. "Oh, hey,
Patsy. I'm building you and me a soundproof wall. I got the
instructions from a guy at the home-improvement warehouse
over in Osage Beach. He said once this wall is up, you won't hardly
hear a thing coming from my side."

She didn't know whether to be angry or grateful. "Are you aware
that my drywall is cracking?" she asked. "Right in the corner."

"No kidding? I hoped I could get this frame up without having
to touch your wall." He scratched his beard for a moment. "Well, if
you can hold on till I get things done over here, then I'll come next
door and fix your place."

"The wall is cracking, Pete. That's not just a simple patch, you
know."

"Hey, you're blonder than you were at lunch the other day."
Pete began climbing down the ladder. He tugged a blue bandana
from his pocket and rubbed it over his damp face. Then he stuffed
it back into his pocket. "It's hot enough to fry bacon up there near
the ceiling. Feels like summer. I think I liked that ashy color better,
by the way. Looked more natural on you. Blonde is good, but it can
tend to make a woman a little brassy, if you know what I mean.
'Specially if she gets to curling and spraying it till it's so stiff it
would crack like an egg if you touched it."

"Yeah, well, you don't sweat much for a fat man-" Patsy
caught herself and threw up her arms. "Truce, Pete. I'm glad you're
soundproofing the wall. But are you sure you got good advice at
the home-improvement store? It's like an earthquake next door.
My pictures are hanging all whoppy-jawed, and that crack has me
worried."

"Is it running straight up and down or side to side?"

"It's vertical-right next to the corner."

"That means it's the tape the builders used on the Sheetrock
seam. No problem. I can glue that back down, spackle it, and give it
a little paint touch-up. Nobody'll know the difference. Hey, how
do you like the idea of yellow for those flower boxes? I'm talking
bright yellow, like a sunflower."

"It would attract attention."

"That's the idea. We need to get more people coming to the mall
at Tranquility. Did you notice that the For Rent sign is gone from
the window on that space next to yours? I have a bad feeling we're
going to get stuck with the video store nobody wants."

"Didn't you give the landlord all those petitions people signed?"

"I did, but he threw them in the trash can while I was standing
there talking to him. Said they weren't legal, and he didn't much
care what the community thought. Did a lot of swearing and cussing at me too. Threatened to shut down Rods-n-Ends and throw me out on my ear, but I don't believe a word of it. He's just blowing
smoke. This place needs all the renters it can get, and I pay my bills
on time."

He let out a deep breath. "If you ask me, Patsy, this is war. Only I
don't have a clue how to fight it. We have no weapons and no soldiers, and our battle plan just went into the Dumpster."

"Well, rats," Patsy said, hands on her hips. "That makes me
madder than you putting cracks in my walls."

"So you're not upset about that anymore?"

"Looks like I'm stuck with you, Pete-unless the landlord figures out some way to run you off."