Of course, one could argue I didn’t judge Augusta too well either.
Mrs. Dahl’s face softens. “Why, it really is you, Cal.” Then she smiles, and her entire face glows with it. Roxie Dahl was a gorgeous woman in her younger years—she’s shown me plenty of photos to prove it—and she’s still pretty stunning, wrinkles and all, which is probably how she gets away with her outrageousness. “Who wants to be tied down? Men just want a woman to take care of them. Once they put a ring on it, they start acting like helpless newborns. If I’d wanted more kids, I would’ve had ’em. No. Thank. You.”
“When are you going to get those cataracts taken care of?” Mrs. Carlton gripes. “You beat the mailman with an umbrella the other day. This has to stop.”
“I don’t trust any of those doctors,” Mrs. Dahl says as she lifts her chin. “I’ll have it done when the tarot cards tell me it’s time.”
“What makes you think you can see well enough to read your cards?” Mrs. Carlton demands.
“They’re large print,” Mrs. Dahl says. “I can read them just fine.”
“Then your cards must be blind too, because you’re getting worse by the day.”
“Says you,” Mrs. Dahl retorts with attitude. “You’re just jealous that your dance card isn’t as full as mine.”
“I haven’t had a dance card in fifty years, Roxie,” Mrs. Carlton snaps. “Not since I got snatched up by Herbie, God rest his soul.” Then she makes the sign of the cross.
That seems to restrain the comeback that is obviously on the tip of Mrs. Dahl’s tongue. Her shoulders sag and she pushes out a hmph sound. “It was good to see you again, Cal, but I must be on my way. I have a date at a brewery tonight.”
Then she takes the broom from my hand, turns, and heads to her house, on the other side of Mrs. Carlton’s.
“She’s not driving to that date, is she?” I ask in alarm as she heads down the sidewalk.
“It’s best you don’t ask,” Mrs. Carlton says with a sigh. “Ignorance is bliss.”
But I, of all people, know that burying your head in the sand doesn’t make the danger go away. It only makes you responsible for the outcome. I make a mental note to call my friend in the Asheville PD, to mention that a woman in a bright blue, late model Volvo will be on the streets tonight and give him her address.
Does that make me a snitch? I don’t know, but if I save someone’s life, I can deal with it.
“Did you come by to mow my lawn?” Mrs. Carlton asks, dragging me from my thoughts.
“Not today,” I say, opening the passenger door and encouraging Ruby to come out. I tell her to sit at my feet, and she does, but I can tell she’d like to run after the woman who dared to beat the person who takes care of her all day. “I thought I’d check on the house and see if anything else needs work. Then I can take care of it all the next time I drop by to mow.”
She makes a face. “Well…now that you mention it, I do have a leaky faucet.”
I reach into the back of my truck and pull out the toolbox I carry around to job sites. “Maybe we can take care of that now. Do you mind if Ruby comes into the house with us?”
Mrs. Carlton smiles at Ruby. “It’s more than all right. I have a special dog treat for her.”
Ruby’s tail wags at the words dog treat, only confirming how smart she is, and we follow Mrs. Carlton inside. I examine her kitchen faucet and determine our best bet is to wrap the connection with new plumber’s tape until we can get her an updated faucet that’s not corroded. I shut off the water and clear out the cabinet so I can lie on my back and disconnect the pipes.
Mrs. Carlton stands to the side watching me as I work under her sink. Ruby’s sitting so close to her feet, she’s practically on them. She’s had three treats now and is still hoping for more.
“The new family that moved into your house just had a baby,” Mrs. Carlton says. “Cute as a button. They’re using the same room for her nursery.”
My chest tightens, and the wrench in my hand stills, but then the sensation passes and I resume my task, saying, “It’s a great room for a nursery. It’s a small space but perfect for a crib, and not too much morning or evening sun.”
“They kept the same colors.” She says this with hesitation, as if she’s not sure how I’ll respond.
I lift my head slightly to look at her.
“Are you dating yet, Cal?”
I push out a sigh, then try to laugh off her question. “I’m like Mrs. Dahl. I’m too busy to take care of someone else right now.”
“Because you’re taking care of people like me,” she says, her words tinged with sadness.
“Hey,” I say forcefully as I scoot out from under the sink and sit up, holding her gaze. “You stop that nonsense right now. You’re my source of chocolate chip cookies and fresh vegetables. Do you know how much you’ve saved me at the farmers’ market?”
“Your time is valuable, Cal. And every minute you spend helping me or someone else, it means you have less time for yourself. Or for someone else.” She waggles her brows.
“I’m perfectly happy with my life, Mrs. Carlton. And I like coming by to help you.” Although…maybe she’s sick of the reminder of the neighborhood tragedy. “Unless you don’t want me coming by anymore.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says with a wave of her hand. “I enjoy your company far too much, and let’s be honest, it’s hardly an even exchange. Your father provides you with more than enough baked goods. You don’t need my cookies.”
“Says you,” I counter. “You have some secret ingredient my dad doesn’t know about. Maybe I come around so much to try to get it out of you. Is today the day you’re going to tell me?”
“Find a nice girlfriend and bring her to meet me. Then I’ll tell her.”
“She might not even like baking,” I say as I lie back down and slide back into the cabinet. “Times have changed since you were first married, Mrs. Carlton.”
She makes a sound that suggests she either doesn’t believe me or does and doesn’t approve.
After I finish, I tell her I’ll bring a new faucet by on Friday, when I come to mow. I have a few that weren’t used on previous jobs, and I’ll let her have her pick. She promises to have a plate of cookies ready for me and sends me off now with several summer squash.
As Ruby and I load into the truck, I cast a glance over at my old bungalow, surprised that I’m partially relieved that my dreams are being lived out by someone else. They were good dreams. Worthy dreams. They didn’t deserve to die with Alice.
They just aren’t mine anymore.
My anxiety flares on the drive home, but its stranglehold starts to loosen as I begin the ascent to the house my father and I share, which we’ve affectionately named the Cluster, short for clusterfuck. It fits a little too well.
I was a mess when I moved in, and so was my father, although for much different reasons.
One drunken night, Dad and I got on the subject of bad luck—we’ve had plenty—and one of us, I don’t remember who, suggested forming a club for people like us. We’d proceeded to write a list of rules. I thought it was all a joke, a distraction, right up until he placed a Craigslist ad and other messed-up people started showing up. Still, I got on board quickly because while there was little hope for me, I liked the idea of helping other people dig themselves out of their circumstances. And Dad and I have helped people. The club was one of the few good things in my life, right up until Augusta published that damn book. My father is furious she stole the credit for our creation. He’s proud of what we’ve done, but I…to claim credit would undo the work I’ve done. Each act of kindness is an act of contrition to redeem myself, and to publicly take credit for the club would bring me back to square one.