The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club (16 page)

 

—Wanda Cruikshank, editor of the
Coldwater Gazette
since 1973

 

 

 

N
ot everything reported in the
Coldwater Gazette
was vital enough to warrant a deadline. Most of what happened in town wasn't terribly earthshaking. In fact, a resident was likely to make the front page simply by calling in to report the first robin sighting of the season.

Lacy had started writing some of her stories, human interest and otherwise, at home in the early evening instead of at the
Gazette
office. Even though the town news was rarely urgent, the atmosphere at the paper usually was. Wanda Cruikshank thrived in chaos and arranged for it to swirl around her like a small tornado most of the time.

As a result, it was always too busy and loud in the office for Lacy to concentrate. Even if Wanda wasn't on a rampage over something, every time a decent train of thought chugged out of Lacy's mental station, someone would come in to fuss that their paper boy had tossed the
Gazette
into their hydrangeas again, or complain because their fifteenth letter to the editor about daylight savings time hadn't been printed yet. And if their readership gave them a break, Georgina and Tiffany could be counted on to fill in the gap with a running stream of gossip.

Granted, Lacy wasn't writing
War and Peace,
but she still wanted to do a decent job.

She'd positioned her desk in front of the bank of windows in her postage-stamp living room, giving her a bird's eye view of the Town Square if she wanted. She could also retreat from the world just by pulling down the Roman shades. Since the Green Apple was across the way within easy view, pulling the shade also helped keep thoughts of the grill's owner at bay. Jake was beginning to be many things to her.

Conducive to rational thought was not one of them.

So Lacy blocked out the world in general and Jacob Tyler in particular with the tug of a cord. Now she only had to worry about being sucked into that Erté-esque painting she'd hung on the same wall as the windows. Occasionally, she wondered if it could be genuine, but dismissed that as a pipe dream. If it was an Erté, its value would go a long way toward repaying the O'Leary brothers.

She shoved away the idea as improbable, took a sip of her tea, and settled to review her notes from an interview with Junior Bugtussle for a piece she intended to write. Junior wasn't the head of the family. That honor belonged to Senior, but he hadn't been able to come down to the
Gazette
office to meet with her.

“On account of his unfortunate incarceration,” Junior had explained. “Seems there's been a misunderstanding with the state police about the family business.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, them dern revenuers misunderstood when they thought the Bugtussles was going to pay taxes on our moonshine.”

Then Junior gave her the lowdown on the upcoming Bugtussle reunion.

The gathering of Bugtussles would be held at a rest stop on the highway near the tiny town of Twicken on the same weekend in June as last year. Junior wouldn't give Lacy the actual dates. Everyone who was supposed to be there, he'd assured her, would know, without being told, when to show up.

“Don't want to encourage reunion crashers, you know,” he'd confided.

Junior admitted that the Bugtussles had been warned by the sheriff's office to quit holding the reunion at the rest stop, but the place seemed tailor made for the event. It had all the necessaries. There was plenty of parking space, which was important because the Bugtussles loved their pickups. The rest stop had picnic tables galore so the grown-ups could hold their annual round-robin poker tournament after the main meal.

“Playing for toothpicks,” Junior told her. “We Bugtussles don't hold with them fancy plastic chip thingies.”

The rest stop also boasted a playground for the kids, which was crucial because the Bugtussle clan bred like rabbits. There were always lots of “young'uns” at the reunion. They needed something to do. After all, a rest stop near a place called Twicken couldn't be expected to have Wi-Fi.

And finally there was a sizable bank of flush toilets in case Grandma Bugtussle's potato salad got left out in the sun too long again.

“Why don't you go to a state park?” Lacy had asked Junior. There were plenty of pretty ones around that would accommodate a family the size of the Bugtussles.

“Well, we tried that one year, but then we had to send out directions, don't you know? Several truckloads of folks got turned around and missed the whole dang thing,” Junior had explained. “Now we just use the rest stop because even the Bugtussles what come from a distance don't have no trouble finding it.”

Head down, Lacy finished writing the story in about fifteen minutes. Then she gave her finished reunion article a quick proofread.

“Mark Twain was right,” she muttered. “Truth
is
stranger than fiction.”

Before Lacy could quit for the night, she still had a piece to write about the Lions Club and their plans to beautify the Town Square with barrels of petunias and geraniums on each corner. The club would purchase the containers and furnish the flowers. The only hitch was getting the merchants whose businesses were nearest to the barrels to buy into the daily watering and upkeep of the mini-gardens.

“That's where the power of the press comes in,” Wanda had explained to her. “By publicizing the plan, we'll shame the business owners into agreeing to take care of the flowers. . . but by shaming I mean encouraging them in a way they can't refuse. In the nicest possible way, of course. Don't want them taking their advertising dollars somewhere else, you know.”

Lacy found the concept of shaming, even “nice” shaming, morally questionable. But despite that needle to thread, Lacy figured the article would only take fifteen minutes to write once she set her mind to it.

The problem was setting her mind to it.

She raised her window shade. Down on the Square, tourists were filing out of the Green Apple and climbing back onto their bus. Every spring as far back as Lacy could remember, a brigade of blue-haired lookee-loos made their way up from places where spring was far drier and browner to see what the season was like in Coldwater Cove's cool green hills.

After the tourists had dinner at the grill, the bus would probably take them around Lake Jewel and up into the hills to stay at the Ouachita Inn, a restored nineteenth-century ranch house that looked like it would be more at home on an Australian station in the Outback than the Ozarks. But it was surrounded by old bunkhouses that had been carved up into antique-filled private rooms and was as much a high point of the trip as the views on the Talimena Byway.

Suffering from an extreme case of “writing avoidance,” Lacy continued to watch the tourists as the older gentlemen helped their ladies onto the bus.

One couple walked past the bus and halfway around the Square while their fellow travelers were loading up. Hand in hand, they stopped to gawk in the shop windows and take pictures of the Victorian courthouse, smiling, gesturing, and talking to each other the whole while. Granted, the Square was picturesque with its turn-of-the-last-century storefronts, but that was a small joy in the grand scheme of things. Certainly not cause enough for this couple's obvious pleasure. Then the pair ambled back to the bus, their heads inclined toward each other lest they miss what the other might have to say.

How long had they been together? Lacy wondered. Given their ages, maybe forty or fifty years. Or was this a second romance for them? Had they each laid their first spouse in the arms of God and now, late in life, a new love had grown?

Either way, Lacy was suddenly aware of how alone she was.

She had no one to share her joys, small or otherwise. No one she could make proud of her. No one she could build up. No one, as Sartre had said, to serve as a witness to her life.

Even if she and Bradford Endicott had made their quasi-understanding official and eventually tied the knot, she had never really thought about growing old with him. She couldn't imagine it. He'd always been all about “now.” And he wasn't one to enjoy simple things. Everything had to be the best or he'd erupt in a full-blown conniption.

At the time, Lacy had overlooked that flaw in his character, telling herself it was how he'd been raised. An Endicott just wasn't the sort to settle for less than he thought he deserved.

A
small
joy? Preposterous.

But Lacy was beginning to appreciate them. Like going up to the roof deck above her apartment to watch the sun peep over the Winding Stair range and gild the lake with ripples of gold. The smell of coffee filling her little kitchen in the morning and being able to linger over a cup to start her day without the hassle of standing in line to buy an overpriced shot of caffeine. The comfortable feel of old denim on her thighs instead of squeezing herself into the latest haute couture she couldn't really afford anyway.

The tension of living in the city, which she hadn't realized she'd suffered from, sloughed off her a little more each day. Sometimes she went for a couple of days in a row without stressing about her next payment to the O'Leary brothers.

Her mother had always encouraged her to count her blessings. Wasn't a small joy the same thing?

But she still had no one to share them with. A lot of that was her fault. She'd never really been comfortable letting anyone close. Whenever anyone tried to break through to her tightly guarded inner self, she pulled away. It was part of why she'd fled from Daniel all those years ago. She was a far cry from perfect sister Crystal. Why let someone in to expose all that?

But she still felt her aloneness deeply.

Other than her parents, who didn't count in this respect, there was no one she mattered to. If she wasn't here, who would mark her absence?

Then suddenly Effie leaped up onto her desk. The cat plopped down, rolled onto its back, and presented Lacy with her unprotected tummy.

“What on earth has gotten into you?”

Had someone sneaked into her apartment while she was at work and substituted a real cat for the old one? Lacy reached out and tentatively gave Effie's belly a soft stroke.

The Siamese rewarded Lacy with a rumbling purr. Then the cat rolled over, sat upright, and rubbed her whiskered cheek against Lacy's forearm. Lacy scratched behind the animal's ear.

“Well, this is a wonderment. And by wonderment, I mean I wonder when you're going to turn on me and bite my fingers off,” she told the cat.

But Effie seemed determined to make up for lost snuggling time. Uninvited, she climbed onto Lacy's lap and tucked her forepaws under her to form a vibrating ball of furry affection. Evidently, Effie had decided that Lacy had shown herself faithful in a few things—tuna, fresh water, and a clean litter box—so now the Siamese could reward her in many things—the comfort of a rumbling purr, unexpected friendliness, and the joy of being allowed to stroke sleek fur.

It was nice to have another beating heart in her apartment. Even if it was only a cat. Lacy decided she could risk liking Effie a little.

“A cat lady. That's what I've become. Next, I'll be skimping on my own grocery budget to buy squeaky toys and catnip for you,” Lacy said with a sigh. “And if I should die alone in this apartment, you'll eat me, won't you?”

Effie just kept purring.

 

—Lester Scott, a bundle of contradictions, more mistakes than triumphs, and a boatload of regrets. In a word, human.

 

 

 

J
ake had rarely been so glad to flip over the
OPEN
sign and call it a day. Not that he was complaining. He suffered from a good kind of tired. The windfall of a bus full of customers was nothing to sneeze at. A few more of those and his ledger would look pretty happy for the month. But it made for a frantic time behind the grill when coupled with his regular supper crowd.

Fortunately, the Green Apple hadn't run out of anything important and everyone seemed happy with what was set in front of them. He'd need to do some extra baking in the days to come to make up for the dent those tourists had put in his store of pies. It might even be time to hire someone to give him a hand in the kitchen.

Maybe another server to give Ethel a rest, too, assuming she'd be willing to take a rest. Ethel went after everything like she was killing snakes.

“I'd rather burn out than rust out, honey,” she always said whenever he suggested she take a few days of vacation. His geriatric waitress lived for the bustle of the grill. If fussing over his customers like a doting grandmother made her happy, who was he to argue?

Still, it wouldn't hurt to bring in a high school kid or a student from Bates College to work alongside Ethel through the busy summer months. Of course, she might take offense, thinking he believed she wasn't up to the job. But if he put her in charge of the extra server, Ethel might enjoy having someone to boss around.

It was worth trying. He'd drop by the
Gazette
office tomorrow and put an ad in the paper. The real strawberry in the plan was that it would give him an excuse to see Lacy before next Thursday.

After Lester's war story and the busload of customers, his day had been both heartbreaking and hectic. Just thinking about Lacy rested him.

With an absent smile he couldn't help, Jake ran a wet mop over the linoleum floor, giving the corners an extra scrubbing. He enjoyed the smells of his own cooking, but a good clean pine scent coming off the floors never hurt either. If cleanliness was next to godliness, Jake figured he had earned an extra star in his crown today.

After all, he'd managed to talk Lester Scott into taking a shower.

While he'd been finishing up the bus tourists' supper orders, the old vet had popped into the Green Apple's kitchen for a half a minute, wearing the old clothes that had belonged to Jake's dad.

“Thanks for the shower, marine, and the clean duds, too,” Lester had said. His hair was slicked back and he'd used one of Jake's razors to shave off the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin. The clothes were a couple of sizes too big for him, but all in all, Lester cleaned up rather well. “Usually, I have to turn up sober at the Samaritan House to rate a handout like this.”

“It's not a handout. Just a hand. And if you want to camp out on the couch upstairs for tonight, it'd be OK with me,” Jake had said without looking up from the mess of chicken-fried chops he was cooking. He didn't want Lester as a full-time house guest, but maybe just this once. If the old vet got a taste of sleeping clean and dry again, perhaps he'd make an effort to return to a more normal life.

“We don't get many squeaky clean army grunts around here.” Jake couldn't resist needling the vet from a rival armed service a little. “Seems a shame to send one out to sleep on the back stoop.”

“Are you kidding me? I ain't soft enough to need a couch under my backside or a roof over my head, for that matter,” Lester countered with a toothy grin as he headed out the back door. “What do you take me for? A marine?”

Even after the back door banged shut behind him, Jake could hear Lester's cackling chuckle.

Jake was glad the man could still laugh. After the war story Lester had told him that afternoon, it was a wonder.

He also wondered if he'd be able to convince Lacy that the conversation with Lester counted as “talking to somebody” about his own flashbacks. If Jake was honest, he knew it didn't. But lightening Lester's load by hearing him out had lifted some of Jake's burden, too. That had to count for something.

Either way, he hoped his next date with Lacy would go better than the last one had.

It certainly could go no worse.

The linoleum was dry, so he returned to the front of the restaurant to turn down the blinds for the night. He looked out onto the Square as he reached for the cords. As if he'd conjured her by thinking about her, there was Lacy.

Dodging traffic.

There generally wasn't that much automobile traffic on the Square in the evenings, but a few carloads of high school kids were out cruising that night, racing their old beaters around the courthouse. The object of the game wasn't so much winning as being seen by the other “cool kids.”

That's how it had been when he was in school. Seemed little had changed in more than a decade.

Usually, Jake ignored them, but not tonight. Not when Lacy was darting between the cars and pickups, chasing after a scruffy-looking little dog. Jake shot out the door in a hot second.

The mutt had probably started out white, but now its long, matted fur coiled in muddy ropes. Tongue lolling, it skittered back and forth in the street, not sure which way to run.

“Hey, you punks! Get out of here!” Jake yelled at the kids. “Or I'm calling the sheriff!”

He knew it would happen someday, but he'd never thought it would hit before he turned thirty.

But those kids had no business driving so fast in town.

But he still moved like himself. Jake hadn't been named an All-Conference college halfback for nothing. Even with his prosthetic, he could be quick when he had to. He dodged between a red Ford F-150 and a much-dinged-up Taurus, scooping up the dog as if it was a loose football and this interception would win the game. When he loped over to the courthouse lawn where Lacy was shifting her weight anxiously from one foot to the other, the look on her face was better than a touchdown.

“Oh, Jake, you saved him!” She threw her arms around both him and the squirming dog. “I saw the poor little thing from my window. I was so afraid he'd get hit by a car before someone could catch him.”

“You might have gotten hit by one, too, you know,” he said, shifting the wiggly ball of fur to his other arm. Just the possibility that Lacy could have been hurt trying to save a dog made his gut churn.

Then a sheriff's cruiser pulled into the Square and the cars and trucks filled with teenagers scattered like roaches when a light pops on. Daniel Scott parked his vehicle, got out, and headed their way.

Lacy didn't seem to notice Dan's approach, which was fine with Jake. Unfortunately, she was more focused on the little mongrel in his arms than on him.

“Is he injured?” She pushed the straggly fur out of the dog's eyes. Jake was relieved to see that he still had both of them under that mop of hair.

“I think he's just scared.” Jake patted the furry head. “Now that he's not going to become road kill, what do you want to do with him?”

She blinked at him. “Do? I guess I hadn't thought that far. I just didn't want to see him hurt. We should take him to the shelter, I guess.”

Daniel joined them, shaking his head. “That won't work. Animal Control won't take a stray unless they've picked it up themselves.”

“Not it. Him. The dog's a him,” Lacy corrected. “What do you mean they won't take him?”

“It's the shelter's new policy,” Daniel explained. “They put it in place after Mr. Mayhew enticed Stella Upwhistle's Chihuahua out of her backyard one day. He turned it in to Animal Control, claiming it was a stray.”

“What a rotten trick. Of course, my dad would say that a man who'll feed squirrels will do anything,” Lacy said. “But still, why would he do such a thing?”

“He claimed the dog was a public nuisance,” Jake said, not willing to let Danny into the conversation more than he could help. After all, he was the one who'd risked life and limb to save the hairy little bugger for Lacy. He didn't need Danny-come-lately messing things up. “Mr. Mayhew said the constant barking disturbed his sleep. Then Mrs. Upwhistle argued that she never put the dog out at night. After that, Mr. Mayhew admitted it was his afternoon nap the little yapper interrupted. Mrs. Upwhistle got an apology and her dog back and as far as I know, Mr. Mayhew hasn't had a nap since.”

“Since that time,” Daniel said, swooping up the conversational ball without missing a beat, “the shelter accepts animals dropped off by their owners if they can no longer care for them, but they won't take one labeled a stray unless the animal officers capture it themselves.”

“But this poor little fellow is so obviously a stray.” Lacy took the dog from Jake. “Under all that hair, there's really not much dog at all. He's no bigger than a minute.” She cuddled him close. Whether he was filthy or not, she held him tight, speaking nonsensical endearments to the animal in a high, sweet voice.

Jake never expected to envy a dog, but there was a first time for everything. He guessed he could deal with four-legged competition, but he had a two-legged distraction to get rid of first.

“I've been talking to your dad some, and I think he'd like to see you,” Jake told Danny. Since the old man had freshly bathed and shaved that day, there was no better time for it. Maybe a fence or two could be mended. It would do them both good to find, if not reconciliation, at least forgiveness. “Lester's out on the Green Apple's back stoop.”

“No, he's not. And I've seen him already,” Danny said, his face a hard mask. “He's in the county lockup. Walmart security caught him shoplifting about an hour ago and called me to come take him in.”

Lester must have hoofed it straight to the big-box store after he had his shower, Jake realized. Since the old vet no longer looked like a derelict, he'd probably tried to pass unnoticed and score some cold beer from the grocery section.

“I expect he earned himself thirty days of enforced sobriety, three squares, and a roof over his sorry head,” Danny said, reaching over to pet the stray pooch. “You won't need to worry about Lester messing up your back stoop for a while.”

“He wasn't any trouble. And you don't need to worry about the dog either. We'll take care of him,” Jake said, giving Danny his best game face. In high school, they'd been inseparable, but they'd grown apart since then.

Daniel had been Lacy's only serious boyfriend in Coldwater Cove and had somehow botched it with her. Jake was in no mood to let the guy have a do-over. Besides, Danny had a wife and a kid to care for, if he could find his way back to them.

“That right, Lacy?” Daniel said. “You and Jake'll take care of the dog?”

“Unless you can pull some strings and help us get him into the shelter . . .”

“Sorry,” Daniel said, looking as if he truly was. “I don't make the rules. I just enforce them.”

“Then we'll take it from here,” Jake said. “G'night, Scott.”

Daniel popped his hat back on and headed for the cruiser.

That's right, Cong,
Jake thought, falling back into Lester's characterization of his law-enforcing son
. Just keep walking.

“This little fellow must be hungry,” Lacy said, turning her attention back to the dog in her arms. “I can feel his ribs.”

“He's also filthy. He's getting you all dirty.” Jake took the stray back from her. The dog wiggled up high enough on his chest to slurp Jake's cheek with its tongue. He held him out at arm's length.

“Careful. You'll drop him. And be sure to support his backside. Poor thing, he's just a mess, isn't he?” She shook her head. “Look at all those cockleburs on his tummy. Those will have to be cut out. He's underweight. He's unkempt. Doesn't that prove he doesn't belong to anyone?”

“You heard the county mounty. The shelter still won't take him.”

“Well, we can't just turn him loose,” Lacy said with a frown. Jake wished he could kiss away that line between her brows. “He'll be back in traffic again before you know it and next time, he'll get run over. Or he'll starve to death. Or—”

“OK, OK,” Jake said. “So I guess you want to keep him.”

“Me? No. I can't,” Lacy said with a sigh. “I'd have to pay extra pet rent each month for him and buy dog food. I hate to admit it, but I can't spare the money to spend on another pet right now. Then there are vet bills to consider. He'll need shots, I'm sure. And I didn't notice, but has he been fixed?”

“Under all that hair, who can tell?” Jake wasn't about to check out a dog's junk. “I could help you with his expenses.”

That was brilliant, if he did say so himself. It would make them co-owners. He and Lacy would have to spend more time together, playing with the silly little thing and taking their joint mutt for long walks every evening.

“Thanks for the offer, but that won't help,” Lacy said. “The main reason I can't take him is that Effie would probably kill him. That cat is bigger than he is, you know. She tips the vet's scale at sixteen pounds.”