Ladies' Night (42 page)

“Then I’ll buy some new ones,” he said, his face set in a mulish expression.

“You’ll need five window units, at the very least,” Grace said, consulting the notes she’d scribbled on her last shopping trip. “I checked at Sears and Home Depot, for the BTUs we need in the main rooms, meaning, the living room, dining room, kitchen, and both bedrooms, that’s a little over two thousand dollars.”

“Nonsense,” Arthur said. “I can buy those units for under a hundred bucks apiece.”

She handed him the most recent sales flyer she’d picked up at Sears. “Maybe thirty years ago you could buy them for that, but not these days.”

He scowled down at the flyer. “I suppose you’re going to keep after me about putting in central air-conditioning?”

“Yes, I am,” Grace said emphatically. She handed him another brochure. “That’s an estimate I had worked up by a very reliable HVAC guy who my mom uses at the Sandbox. It’ll cost less than five thousand dollars! You’ll get an up-to-the-minute energy-efficient unit, and there may be tax breaks involved as well. And, since you pay the utilities, there will be a substantial savings on your electric bills.”

He ran a bony finger down the printed estimate, frowning. “I never figured to put all this much money in this little house.” He looked up at her. “There’s hardly any sense fixing it up this grand, just so the next bunch of tenants can come in here and ruin all our hard work.”

Now, Grace told herself. Ask him now.

“About the next tenants,” she said, fixing him with her most winning smile. “What would you say to renting this place to me?”

“Ah-hah!” he cried. “At last the other shoe drops. I should have known you had an ulterior motive for wanting me to spend all this money.”

“I want you to spend what is really a very reasonable amount of money to maintain and improve this lovely property,” Grace said, willing herself to keep calm and use all the arguments she’d gone over and over in her head. “I really didn’t intend to ask about renting it, but then, once I got it cleaned up and saw just what a nice place it could be, it occurred to me to inquire about renting it.”

His smile grew crafty. “All this money of mine you’ve been spending, you realize the rent’s going up, right?”

“Of course. If you’ll recall, that was one of the arguments I gave you for fixing it up. You’ve rented it so cheaply in the past, it’s no wonder you’ve gotten deadbeats and lowlifes as tenants. But if you rent it to me, at a fair market price, I’ll be a model tenant. I’ll pay on time, every month, no excuses. I’ll keep the property in pristine condition. And I’ll continue to make improvements, provided you pay for them.”

“Like what?”

He hadn’t, Grace realized, said no yet.

“The kitchen still needs more work,” she pointed out. “Better lighting, especially under the cabinets. There’s that big dead space by the back door; I think it could be made into a nice laundry room, with a stacked washer/dryer and a shelf for folding clothes. All the windows need caulking, which should also help make the house more energy-efficient. The garage needs paint; it’s a major eyesore. And then there are tons of little things. Like replacing all the nasty old electrical outlets, maybe installing ceiling fans in the bedrooms…”

“You love spending other people’s money, don’t you?” Arthur complained.

She ignored him and went on with her list of improvements. “My friend drew up a wonderful landscape plan for the yard. Did you know there are half a dozen fruit trees in the backyard? Lemon, lime, grapefruit, tangerines. He’ll show me how to trim them and fertilize them so they produce again. I’d plant more flowers in the front beds, maybe do away with some of that grass…”

“Get rid of grass?” he squawked. “What do you want to do, pave the yard?”

“Not at all,” she said calmly. “Maintaining all that grass takes so much time and energy, water and chemicals, my friend thinks flower beds might be a better solution. Oh, and did you know there’s a sprinkler system out there?”

“Of course,” Arthur said. “Not much good, since it hasn’t worked in years and years.”

“My friend thinks he can probably get it working again without spending much money,” Grace said. “This could be the beauty spot in the neighborhood.”

“Not to mention my water bill would go sky-high,” he muttered.

“Come on, Arthur,” Grace coaxed. “Quit making excuses for why it won’t work. Won’t you at least consider it?”

He folded the brochures and stuffed them in his back pocket. “I’ll give it some thought,” he said finally. “Have to discuss it with my wife. She’s the real boss, you know.”

“That’s all I ask,” Grace said. “Show her the pictures you took today, tell her my ideas, see what she says.”

“Can’t promise anything,” he warned. “We’re busy, getting ready to head up to the mountains.”

“That’s fine,” Grace repeated. “Just let me know. And Arthur?”

“What now?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’m really thrilled you like what I’ve done.”

Truegrace

One of my favorite old movies is
Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House.
Poor Mr. Blandings (played by Cary Grant) is a harried advertising copywriter living with his happy nuclear family in a cramped city apartment who just wants to build a simple little cottage in the country, but when the dream starts to take on grandiose proportions, Mr. Blandings’s sunny version of utopia suddenly turns cloudy. I’ve thought of that movie a lot lately, as my own home life was dramatically disrupted, and then destroyed. Up until three months ago, I was living in a 6,500-square-foot mansion, that I thought was my own dream house. Now, with the clarity that only hindsight can bring, I realize that dream was mostly spun of high-fructose fantasy.

These days, I’m finding intense satisfaction in the transformation of a weather-beaten little 1,200-square-foot Florida “cracker cottage” into what I think will be a cozy jewel of a home—maybe even, eventually, my home. I feel a little like Goldilocks, who found one chair too big, another chair too small, but, finally, an exactly-perfect-fit chair that feels “just right.” My work on Mandevilla Manor is far from done, but already it’s feeling “just right.”

44

Nelson Keeler was having one of his good days. “Goddamn it,” he roared, when Wyatt told him of his impending doctor’s appointment. “I do not have Alzheimer’s! I’m fine! That scheming woman … you call up that judge, tell him I’ll go to the courthouse right now. I’ll recite the Declaration of Independence by heart, balance my checkbook, balance his checkbook, and then I’ll drop and give him fifty, by God!”

“No, Dad, that’s all right,” Wyatt protested, but it was too late.

Nelson proceeded to do just that, right there in the living room of the trailer, flattening himself on the floor, doing fifty straight-arm push-ups, counting aloud in a wheezy voice, then sitting up, cross-legged, wiping his perspiring brow with the sleeve of his shirt.

“How many other seventy-four-year-olds you think can do that?”

“None.” Wyatt gave his father a hand up. “I know you’ve got all your marbles. But we’ve got to prove it to the judge, and to do that, you’ve got to go see this doctor and get a bunch of tests done. Just remember, you’re doing this for Bo, not for Callie.”

“Callie!” Nelson spat the name. “Somebody should have knocked some sense into that woman years ago. When this is all over, I’m gonna…”

Wyatt steered his father toward the door. “When this is all over, we’re gonna laugh about it, but until then, neither of us can afford to do or say anything that might make anyone believe we’re a couple of dangerously violent misfits. Right, Dad?”

“If you say so,” Nelson muttered.

“One more thing,” Wyatt said. “If you’re going to convince this doctor, and then the judge, that you’re harmless, you’ve got to keep your temper under check. This means no debating Alex Trebek or the designated-hitter rule. And it especially means no discussion of your bowel movements. Right?”

“Unless the doctor asks,” Nelson countered.

“But only if she asks.”

*   *   *

It was after six o’clock. Nelson Keeler was sitting upright in a chair in the doctor’s office, snoring.

“He’s had a really long day,” Wyatt told Margaret-Ellen Shank. “He gets up at six, always has, and some nights he doesn’t sleep all that well. He usually has a midday nap, but he didn’t get that today.”

“No need to apologize,” Dr. Shank said, her voice soft. “Your dad is quite a guy. I really enjoyed meeting and talking to him today. One thing. What’s his diet like?”

Wyatt shrugged. “Dad has a sweet tooth. He likes Pop-Tarts or Twinkies for breakfast. He might eat some canned soup for lunch, and a lot of nights he’ll have a frozen chicken potpie for dinner. Or, and I’m not proud of this, a quart of ice cream or some more Twinkies.”

Dr. Stark was still making notes. “What did he have for lunch today, do you know?”

“I don’t,” Wyatt admitted. “I was out in the park working until right before time for his appointment with you.”

She frowned and consulted her notes. “Your dad has good balance and coordination, is able to communicate clearly, and his short- and long-term memory seemed to be in an acceptable range for his age. But as the day wore on, his personality changed drastically. I’m not an endocrinologist, but I think there really is a good possibility that your dad might be suffering from diabetes.”

Wyatt stared at her. “So … you don’t think he has Alzheimer’s?”

“We’ll need to take a look at all the test results, but my initial impression is that he does not. Your Aunt Betsy called him cantankerous, but I’d prefer the word ‘spirited.’ He clearly adores you and your son and is not an admirer of the boy’s mother.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Wyatt said. “As far as Dad is concerned, Callie is the enemy, because she wants to move to Birmingham and take Bo with her. And, of course, she’s now trying to prove that he’s senile.”

“He’s pretty adamant on that subject,” Dr. Shank said, smiling. “And I can’t blame him. By the way,” she added, her eyes twinkling, “I don’t agree with him on the subject of Alex Trebek. At all. I think he’s every bit as intelligent and talented as Art Fleming.”

Wyatt let out a sigh of relief. “We’ve got to meet with the judge at eleven tomorrow morning. Is there any way you can give us some kind of report?”

She glanced at her watch. “I’ll fax over something by ten tomorrow. Will that work?”

“That would be great,” Wyatt said, jumping to his feet and pumping her hand. “I can’t thank you enough, Dr. Shank. For seeing Dad so quickly and, just, everything. You’ve been a huge help.”

Margaret-Ellen Shank leaned over and tapped Nelson gently on the shoulder. “Mr. Keeler?”

Nelson yawned widely. “What’s that?” he asked groggily.

“It’s nearly seven o’clock,” she told him. She offered her hand; he took it and stood slowly.

“I told Wyatt you need to eat more sensibly,” she said, giving him a look of mock disapproval. “No more Pop-Tarts for dinner. Right?”

“Right,” he agreed.

45

Grace heard the muffled pinging of an incoming text coming from somewhere beneath the towering pile of merchandise in her shopping cart. She shoved aside the quilt with its vivid orange and green chinoiserie print, the four turquoise and green quilted throw pillows, the green and blue striped dhurrie, and the stack of turquoise and white polka-dotted bath towels.

The pair of green chevron-striped shower curtains she’d bought for the condo’s dining room windows slid off the top of the stack and onto the floor. Finally, burrowing deep down into her pocketbook, she brought up the phone.

The text was from Camryn Nobles.

Where r u?

HomeGoods. What’s up?

While she waited for a reply, Grace studied the store’s furniture selection. Mitzi Stillwell’s kitchen had an island crying out for barstools. Here were a pair of barstools with a perfectly acceptable look, clean lines, and a great price, $59.99 a pair. The problem was that they were white. And that was the problem with Mitzi’s condo. Every single thing in it was white.

The walls were dead white. The tile floors were white. The sectional sofa in the living room was white, the pair of armchairs facing it was white, the sheer draperies hung from the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the sparkling blue Gulf of Mexico were white. In the kitchen, the countertops were white Corian, with a white subway-tile backsplash. The master bedroom had a king-sized bed with an upholstered, tufted white headboard and footboard. The carpet was an off-white flat weave. The guest bedroom featured a pair of twin beds with no headboards at all, just an expanse of white quilted-cotton bedspreads.

Just thinking of all that arctic white made Grace shiver. Maybe, she thought, running a finger over the back of one of the barstools, she could paint the stools a high-gloss tangerine.

Her phone dinged again with a reply from Camryn.

Been digging into Stackpole’s financials and hit paydirt. Lunch?

Grace shook her head, annoyed. She had just begun shopping for Mitzi’s place. She still needed lamps, bedspreads for the guest bedroom, and a new chandelier to replace the hideous builder-brass one in the dining room—and art. And those was just the accessories. She still needed dining room furniture, dressers for both bedrooms, coffee tables and end tables …

Can’t it wait til tonight?
she typed. With her pocket calculator, she began adding up the tab for the merchandise in her cart. She frowned. She was already at $431.99, not counting the two barstools.

Another ding interrupted her mental mathematics.

Got good stuff. How ’bout meet @Sandbox @2?

Grace shrugged and typed.

See u there.

*   *   *

Cedric Stackpole drummed his fingers on his desktop. He looked down at the faxed report from Dr. Shank, then up at Nelson Keeler. “Mr. Keeler? I understand you are a Vietnam veteran, is that right? In what branch of the service did you serve, sir?”

Was this some kind of trick question? Nelson looked to his son for some kind of signal, but Wyatt remained expressionless.