In the House On Lakeside Drive
In the House on Lakeside Drive
In the House on Lakeside Drive
Corie L. Calcutt
Copyright 2016 by Corie L. Calcutt
Cover Copyright 2016 by Untreed Reads Publishing
Cover Design by Ginny Glass
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Also by Corie L. Calcutt and Untreed Reads Publishing
Christmas, Past and Present
Hostages at the Kitchen Table
Taken
For all of my students:
those past, present, and yet to come
In the House on Lakeside Drive
Corie L. Calcutt
Chapter 1
“Evan, you're a miracle worker.”
The younger man flushed. “Mr. Parker, it wasn't that hard. You just needed someone to climb up the ladder and set that loose board for you.”
“Still. My nephews, you think
they
would do such a thing? Hah!” The eighty-year-old veteran waved a dismissive hand in the air. “'Course, let them be in need of a few dollarsâ¦
then
they are all too willing to come 'round and see me⦔
Evan smiled softly. Francis Parker was at once the most unique and the most stubborn man he had ever met, outside of his own father. Mr. Parker valued honesty and hard work, and was happy to make use of Evan's services when his arthritis and bad back kept him from doing the maintenance on the old Lumber Baron
ï
style house he prized. He was also a storyteller of the highest caliber, and Evan liked to hear the man reminisce about growing up in wartime England. “It was nothing.”
“Ah. Without you, I could never keep this old place up and running like it should be. There's a part of me that thinks I should sell it, just to spite my lazy nephews. Get myself a little apartment, or rent one of your young lady's rooms⦔
The idea of the man living in even the best of the rooms in the house Rachel owned and they shared startled him. “I dunno,” he said. “We've got three kids with us now, you know.”
“Yes, yes. Let me seeâ¦that blind chap, Davis's son⦔
“Sam. Yep.”
“Then the Lavelle boyâ¦how's he faring out there?”
“Good. Really good. Sam recommended him, and he spent so much time at the place it was easy to move him in.”
“Friends? Really? I wouldn't have thought.”
Evan led the older man to the covered porch, taking a seat in an old deck chair. Francis took a seat in a well-used rocking chair, swaying in time with the sharp breeze that caused the younger man to pull his paint-stained overcoat tightly around him. “Yeah. They all go to the school. That's where they met.”
“Little old for school, aren't they? I mean, the Lavelle boy, he's at least nineteen or twenty now⦔
“OLCB, Mr. Parker. Otter Lake Bridges Center.”
“Oh! The special school! I almost forgot about that.” Francis's eyes brightened at the mention. “My Lola, she taught there. Helped start the place up, some forty years back. First of its kind. She called them her âkids' too, and I often wondered why until I went to visit her at the school once.” He chuckled. “Grown adults, some of them well into their twenties, and here they were, acting as though they were in middle school.
âChildlike tendencies,'
Lola called it. Said that's why they were still in school despite being fully grown adultsâa lot of them needed guidance in making good decisions most of the time.”
“I know what you mean. I work there sometimes too.”
Mr. Parker scanned the tall skinny drink of water up and down, taking in the longish blonde hair and watery colored eyes. “As a teacher?”
“Well, teacher's assistant. But yeah, pretty much.”
“I knew the Colosanto girl worked up there; started the year my Lola retired. Pity the girl didn't get to know her better.” The elderly man thought fleetingly of his late wife, gone seven years now. “You would have liked her, Evan. Made me look tame.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Oh, hell, yes. Nephews called her Crazy Aunt Lola.” Then a thought occurred to him. “Sometimes, you said?”
“I sub there. I work when I can.”
“Ever thought of hiring in?”
A wistful smile flashed across an angular face. “There's reasons why I don't.”
“Not the kidsâ¦?” Mr. Parker began, stopping himself. “Now, see, there I go.” He shook his head. “I suppose we all do it. Lola said it meant we loved them, calling the students our âkids.' I notice you've picked up the habit as well.”
Evan smiled. “Yeah, I guess I have. You should hear Rachel. Way she talks, every tenant and student she's had is one of her âkids.'” Then he shook his head. “But no. My reasons for not hiring in are personal ones. Maybe someday I will. Besides, if I gave up my business, who would patch up that roof of yours, or fix Ella Stevens' washing machine?”
Barks of laughter came from the old rocking chair. “True enough, true enough.” Mr. Parker pulled out a well-worn pipe and fished around inside a starched dress shirt pocket for the tobacco. “You want a cigarette?”
“No, thanks. I finally quit.”
“Brilliant! Nasty habit, these things. Too old to quit, myself.” The scent of cherry vanilla wafted through the breeze. “So, the Lavelle boy and Davis's son,” Mr. Parker ticked off on weathered fingers. “You say there's a third?”
“Josh Long. Mark and Penny's son.”
“Don't know them.”
“They live the other side of town, just before North Kingston. They haven't been here long, no pun intended.”
“You,
my boy, haven't been here long.”
“No, that's true. I've been here about five years.”
“There's an accent to your voice.” The Englishman stifled a chuckle at the younger man's surprised look. “You hide it well, but I notice these things. Southern?”
“Yeah. Iâ¦I don't like to talk about it.”
The older man suddenly became still in his chair. “Everyone's got their secrets, Evan. But mind: eventually, they come back home to roost.”
“Is that experience talking?”
“It may be, son. It may be.” Then his eyes brightened. “But enough of that! How much do I owe you, this trip?”
Evan made a mental tally. “Twenty minutes on a ladder, six nails and two new two-by-fours. Let's say forty dollars.”
A worn leather wallet appeared from a well-pressed back pocket. Three twenties emerged. “Take it,” Mr. Parker said, pressing the bills into Evan's hand. “You've earned it.”
“Mr. Parker⦔
“Frank, please. You've helped me patch and rebuild nearly half this house these last couple years, I see no reason not to be on more familiar terms.” The smile on the old man's face could have beaten the chilly air into submission. “Take that young lady of yours out. Or the kids.”
“Iâ¦thanks,” Evan said finally, tucking the money into his own worn and battered wallet.
“Thank you, Evan. Now, better see to Ella's washer. I know for a fact the woman's been driving Teresa, down at the laundromat, completely insane. Poor thing. She tells me every time after the old gal leaves; she's barmy enough to pull her hair out.”
“I'd better hurry, then. Wouldn't want Teresa going bald or anything,” the young man said with a chuckle.
“Yes, do. And have fun tonight!”
Chapter 2
“Hey, Sam.”
The nineteen-year-old turned his head toward the sound of the voice behind him. “Hey, Evan.” The electronic book reader clattered onto the butcher-block tabletop that sat in the center of a spacious kitchen. Mixing bowls of all sizes lay strewn along the surface, along with several containers of flour, sugar, and butter. Long fingers neatly tapped the tactile measuring spoon into the plastic container, adding salt to the mix. A sharp note screeched above them, and Sam held his ears and winced, trying to block out the offending assault on them.
“Remy's pissed again?”
“Yeah. At least he's not breaking out the heavy metal.” Sam hissed at another high note, shuddering at the thought. He set the bowl down and reached for the high-legged chair he knew was beside him. He heard Evan do the same.
“Josh?”
Sam shrugged. “What else?”
Evan sighed. “They're gonna have to learn to get along.”
“It's hard, Evan. There's days even
I
wanna slap the kid upside the head. Joshâ¦he's nice, but⦔
“â¦but he can be a pain in the ass?”
A smile crept across a slightly rounded but thin face. “I wasn't gonna say it, but yeah.”
The sound of weight shifting from the chair to the tabletop reached Sam's sensitive ears. “Part of the reason he's here, you know. He can't help it.”
“Tell that to Remy. Today it was an argument about what to put in a batch of cookies.”
“Your cookies?”
The smile on Sam's face widened a little. “Kind of. Remy wanted chocolate chip; Josh wanted oatmeal raisin. Then it went to nuts or no nuts, and
then
it went to whose mom made better cookies. Finally Remy stormed off, and⦔ He waved a hand above him, indicating the racket wafting downstairs.
“So where's Josh?”
“I'm not sure. I heard a door slam, and it's been quiet ever since. For the record, I'm making peanut butter cookies.”
“Where's Rachel?”
Sam thought a moment. “At the store,” he said finally. “We all got a text.”