Ladies' Night Andrews, Kay (great novels .txt) 📖

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