Salem's Daughters (9 page)

Bob had to refrain from rolling his eyes as he observed Erma’s face melting into teary eyed gratitude. She looks like she might swoon, wilt, and pass out from all the schmaltzy melodramatic emotion, he figured.

Erma laid a hand on Debbie’s shoulder and said, “Bless you my child. I’m sure my grandfather is looking down from heaven and smiling on you.”

Chapter 12              Thirteen Kittens

Bob pulled Ross and Erma’s Winnebago into the driveway of their new property on Oak Hill Road, cutting a swath through gigantic renegade weeds, gravel crunching under the weight of the RV. On the lawn close to the street was a large white sign with blue letters: DeShawn Hill Construction.

Debbie pointed at two men on the other side of the concrete slab. “The architect and general contractor are already here. They’re not wasting any time.”

A dozen pickup trucks of various makes and sizes were parked close to the existing foundation. The usual serene quietness of the peaceful countryside was broken by sounds of men hard at work. A crew of a dozen people with bulldozers, wheel barrels, and shovels were filling ten green, thirty yard contractor’s containers with debris and rubble from the previous house.

Michael Fronteria waved and smiled as he walked toward them, blueprints for the bed and breakfast rolled up in his hands.

“This is incredible,” Bob said as he helped Debbie step out of the RV. “We’re actually breaking ground on Murcat Manor. I have to admit, I was leery of becoming business partners with your grandparents. But they got the loan docs to go through and helped sell our house in just thirty days.”

Debbie beamed at him. “They’re great. Now, I know Grandma can be cranky toward you. But she has accepted you into her clan.”

“You could’ve fooled me by the way she talks to me.”

Fronteria stopped in front of them, smiled, and smacked his blueprint roll with one hand into the palm of the other. “Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, welcome to your new property. Let’s go around back,” he said, using his plans roll as a pointer. The three walked a ways and he pointed again.

“As you can see, DeShawn Hill has begun the demo work, clearing out all the debris from the previous house and barn. They’re also clearing out all the dead trees and shrubs. He’s one of the finest general contractors around. I’ve worked with him several times. You’re in the best of hands with him.”

Hill stopped giving orders to his crew and shook Bob and Debbie’s hands. He looked every bit the general contractor. Early forties. Big guy with a growing belly. Blue jeans, Keen Tacoma steel toed leather boots, and a collared blue shirt with his name stitched in white on his left pocket and the company logo on the back.

His crew all wore the same color and style, company logo’d T-shirts with their names stitched on them, but his had the distinction of being a collared polo shirt with a pocket—which held two pens and a pencil clipped in it.

Fronteria unrolled the blueprints and flipped to the foundation plan. “We’ll have this place cleared by the end of the afternoon. Tomorrow, we’ll demo the foundation. Then we’ll dig the basement. The full basement area won’t be the entire footprint of the house—just under the kitchen.”

DeShawn Hill swung his forefinger in a circular motion around the large kitchen floor plan. “The rest of the house will be supported on a forty-eight inch deep, sixteen inch wide, steel rod reinforced concrete footing with a full thirty-six inch tall crawl space. But trust me, the basement will be plenty big to store all the things you need and provide shelter in the event of a tornado.”

“I’m impressed,” Bob said. “You don’t see any problems with winter a couple months away?”

Hill shook his head. “No sir. While we’re building the basement we’ll have the water main put in. The old structure was balloon framed which is not up to code. So we’ll be using platform construction which means we can frame entire sections on the ground. Once the basement is finished and the cement has cured, we’ll begin fitting the prefabricated components of the house together. We'll use a crane for the decked joists and the roof trusses."

“And the barn?”

Hill swatted at a fly. “More like a very large storage shed. The biggest you’ve probably ever seen. The older barns—well most barns, really—don’t have concrete floors, just packed dirt. So that chore isn’t one we have to deal with, far as demo. Your new large shed, though, will have a concrete pad for a floor.”

Hill took another vicious swat at a fly. “And again, the shed will be smaller than a barn, but still plenty big to store two riding lawnmowers, snowplows and snowmobiles, lots of work benches, tools, and abundant space to move around. Two large sliding wooden doors will be in the north and south ends so you can easily access whatever you need.”

Debbie pulled out her iPad and looked at something that brought a smile across her face. She tilted the screen so Bob could see a computer generated image of a yellow with white trim grand Victorian Manor, complete with a wraparound porch, turrets and spires. She sighed and held it close to her chest.

“This is our dream come true. Thank you both. This is not just a bed and breakfast. It’s our home and I love everything about it.”

“You’re welcome,” Hill said. “Next spring I’ll build a white latticed gazebo in the front yard. And we haven’t forgotten about your husband. Although the outside is fashioned in Grand Victorian just like you want, the interior will be modern in every sense of the word, per Mr. Stevens’ instructions.”

DeShawn Hill directed Bob’s attention to what remained of the barn. “And on the east side of the storage shed will be a cement patio with basket hoops on each end. It’ll be smaller than an NBA court. But the hoops will be adjustable. You can raise them to be regulation ten feet tall. Or, you can lower them so you can dunk and pretend you’re a super star.”

“That’s great,” Bob said. “I’m sure I’ll be spending a lot of time out here.”

“And we’ll add two soccer goal posts. When families bring their kids with them here, they’ll have a place to play outside.”

“You really did think of everything.” Bob smiled wide, imagining a small crowd of reckless freckled rascals playing outside, rather than destroying the inside of Murcat Manor.

“Let’s take one quick walk around,” Hill said, leading Bob, Debbie, and Fronteria. “Remember, everything’s set in stone. If you make any changes, it’s going to cost a lot of money and probably hold back construction. And we all want Murcat Manor finished by next Memorial Day.”

“I understand,” Debbie said. “It’s perfect as is.”

Hill had to yell over the sound of three bulldozers attacking and breaking down barren oak trees that looked like they’d been standing there dead since the fall of Rome. They crashed to the ground with an awful sound.

“The framing and roof will be up by Halloween,” Hill said. “We’ll have the walls up and wrapped with Tyvek, entry doors and windows installed before the first snow falls. That’ll allow us to complete the interior by spring, then finish the exterior before Memorial Day weekend. You’ll be open for business just in time for summer.”

Hill jutted his chin and winked at Debbie. “And you can take my words to the bank.”

Bob stopped as he again heard the cries of small cats. He wondered if he was losing his mind, what with all the deafening sounds of bulldozers and rowdy men noises—yelling and carrying and dumping debris in large metal bins.

Debbie was ten steps ahead with Hill and Fronteria when she looked back. “Bob,” she shouted. “Are you okay? Stay with us.”

“Shhhh. I hear the kittens again.”

Debbie cupped her hand to her ear. “What?”

Bob ran to Debbie and lowered his mouth to her ear. “I said I hear those kittens crying out again.”

Debbie’s eyes rolled a one-eighty. “Bob, there are no cats here.”

“Maybe feral cats,” Hill yelled.

The meowing grew more intense. They tugged on his heart to help them. He discerned thirteen individual meows among the cacophony of crying kittens.

“Yes, there are cats.” Bob said forcefully. “I can hear their unmistakable mews.”

Hill pulled a whistle from his pocket and blew. His crew and the loud noise they made stopped. He held up his arm and motioned. “Everyone, take five. I need you to be quiet for a minute.”

“What’s going on,” a crew member asked.

“I want you all to listen for the sound of kittens.”

A strange silence fell as the crew looked bewildered at the boss, then around at each other.

DeShawn Hill’s eyes widened and he made a little huff sound. “I hear it too. The sound of little kittens meowing.”

“So do I,” Debbie said. “Honey, you’re not losing your mind, like Grandma said.”

Bob knew Debbie let that slip out. “I can assure you, I’m in a perfectly sound state of mind.”

One of the workers with a shovel and wheel barrel bent over a pile of burned timber on the main foundation. “Hey boss, there are some little kittens here in the rubble.”

Within seconds, everyone crowded around the mound of weather rotted, mismatched planks and boards and began pulling out tiny pussycats.

“Thirteen,” a hired hand said. “There’s thirteen of ‘em.” He held one up, cradled in his upright palm. “These’s sure some cute li’l rascals.”

DeShawn Hill’s big burley crew cuddled the tiny multi-colored cats. They ooh’d and ah’d over them. The kittens looked like helpless wee puffs of fur in their large hands. Bob and Debbie joined the crowd along with Hill and Fronteria.

One of the workers went to his truck and returned with a cardboard box and clean rags lining the bottom. “Put the li’l fuzz balls in here.”

Hill turned to Bob. “Well, what do you wanna do with them? Don’t mean to be abrupt, but as cute as these little buggers are, we do need to get back to work.”

He nodded toward the tarped stacks of new lumber. “This house ain’t building itself. And winter’s only a couple months away.”

Debbie stepped in. “I don’t think that is a matter of question. We’re keeping the cats.”

Bob’s jaw gaped open. “What?”

“You heard me.” She looked directly at DeShawn Hill. “I don’t want to know what alternative plans you had for these itty bitty bundles of joy. But we’re keeping these kittens.”

Bob didn’t hesitate. “No. No way.”

Debbie was walking toward the RV and looking over her shoulder. “Yes way, Bob. Our first day here, and we already have a family. Come on.”

Bob tried to protest. But the sound of their helpless mews resonated in his heart as if they’d found a crack they could crawl into, clutching tight with their teeny claws and not letting go. For a moment, Bob thought they were trying to manipulate him. He shook that thought off.

Impossible.
I don’t like cats.

Once inside, Debbie set the box on the kitchen table. She smiled and laughed, her hands held together over her heart. The helpless mass of fur crawled back and forth across the bottom of the box, their eyes barely open. The stared up at Bob and Debbie and meowed, soft and innocent, yet demanding.

“Oh Bob, just look at them. They’re so adorable. What breed do you think they are?”

Bob peered in the box. “I don’t know. They’re a mix of colors with differing patterns and patches. I think they’re a bunch of mutts.”

“Admit it. You love them.”

“Umm, in case you don’t remember, I don’t particularly care for cats.”

Debbie lifted one, pitch black with three white spots on its back. It looked at Debbie and spread its paws wide as if to say hello.

“Aww, so cute. Let’s see. What am I going to call you? You seem to be the leader. Hmm, how about Emily? You look like an Emily.”

Bob walked over to the refrigerator. “Emily? That’s a weird name for a cat.”

“Well, it just popped in my head. So Emily it is.”

Debbie set Emily back in the box and pulled out a second cat. “I think I’ll call you Rebecca.”

“Debbie, these are human names. You need to call them Tabby. Or Patches. Or Mittens.”

“I don’t know. I admit, it’s strange. Their names, they just come to me as soon as I hold them up.”

Bob pulled out ham, cheese, and bread to make a sandwich. “How are you possibly going to remember all their names five minutes from now?”

“Good question.” Debbie took out her cell phone and took a picture of Rebecca, then recorded her voice to the image. “Rebecca.”

She picked up the third cat and spoke baby talk to it. She snapped a picture and recorded the name. “Annie.”

She repeated the process as she called off their names one at a time, took a picture, and captured their names.

“Angel.”

“Scarlett.”

“Esther.”

“Chloe.”

“Helen.”

“Jacqueline.”

“Isabella.”

“Rachel.”

“Madelyn.”

Debbie held up the last kitten. It stared at her as if in anticipation of what Debbie would name it. Debbie tapped her finger to her chin. “Hmmm. I’m thinking Amy.”

“Amy? The cat’s pitch black. You should call it Midnight.”

The cat looked at Bob and gave off a small hiss.

“Oh Bob, isn’t that so cute. She hissed at you. I don’t think she likes the name Midnight.”

The kitten looked at Debbie and hissed again. Bob finished making his sandwich and cut it in half. “Whatever. Anyway, I get to name at least one cat. And I say this one is Midnight.”

“Congratulations, honey. You’re officially a daddy.”