Summertime Dream (4 page)

“I wish I could tell you. There’s old rumors and gossip, of course, but I doubt anyone here knows the truth for sure, if anyone actually ever did.”

“It’s all ancient history now, anyway. We should start back.” Time to walk so he didn’t make any more mistakes. He was only here for a week. He was here to work.

As they finished strolling around the building, headed for the gate, he took more pictures, ruminating over the impending load of work. “I was expecting a normal sort of house that I could put on the market straightaway, but instead I’ve got this massive Victorian ruin.” A porch board gave a worrisome crack under his step. Ruin was the word for it.

“I’m sure someone will want it. Aren’t people always looking for historic homes to restore? Maybe the inside is in okay shape.”

“True. I’m worrying before I have all the facts.”

Right. It’s a holiday. Relax. Have fun. Work tomorrow
.

He raised a smile for Margie. “I hadn’t asked you, what do you do?”

That’s all you can think of? Talking work doesn’t fall under “fun.”

“I work at my family’s restaurant, Olsson’s. We’re on Main Street, close to Mr. Sorensen’s office. You might have seen it?”

He pictured the quaint stretch of Main Street he’d driven along. “Maybe…The big, brick-front place with the blue and white awnings? You’re a chef?” He winced at the grinding squeak of the rickety gates hinges and stepped aside to let her pass through.

“Me, a chef?” Her light laugh trailed into a hesitant clearing of her throat. “Ah, no, I’m the hostess. Well, normally one of the hostesses. I’m taking a little time off.”

He could see her being an adorable hostess. Her cheery smile and upbeat manner was perfect for that social job.

Margie squared her shoulders and shyly added, “I’m also a writer. That’s what I studied in college. Creative writing.”

“What do you write?”

“Cozy mysteries. I haven’t sold yet, but I am determined to succeed.”

“That’s cool. I like reading mysteries. What are cozy mysteries?”

The breeze rose, gently ruffling Margie’s curls as they walked along through the lengthening shadows, a welcome cooling breath in the late day heat.

“Very basically, the ones with the amateur sleuth in a small town or village.”

“Oh, like Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple stories? I read those years ago. I enjoyed them.” The image of Margie, with her innocent face, writing murder mysteries tickled him.

“Exactly. And, no, my stories aren’t set in Falk’s Bend.” She grinned. “And how about you? What exactly do you consult about in your business?”

He caught himself before he launched into his rote services introduction. Keep it simple. She wasn’t a prospective client. “Well…You know that chef on television who coaches and straightens out struggling restaurants? I do something like that for businesses. There are businesses out there with great ideas and awesome products but which need better planning and direction. I help get them on track.”

Instead of turning onto Apple Street, she led him across the intersection. “Why did you choose that?”

“I started out in accounting. I was always good with numbers. They make sense to me. I like the order of it all, the planning, making them balance. The practicality of accounting appealed to me over academic mathematics. Not enough imagination for that, I suppose.” Was it sad he’d agreed when his advisor had pronounced him more dogged than brilliant?

Houses along this block of Peach Street looked to be mostly from the same general Victorian era as the Falk House, but none remotely as grand. Or as dilapidated. Had Grandma once had childhood friends living in this quiet neighborhood?

She grimaced. “Numbers were not my friends in school. So you’re one of those people who can look at all those crazy squiggles on a chalkboard and they make sense?”

“Equations make perfect sense. On the other hand, theme and motif? Give me a break.” He chuckled. “I made some money tutoring back in college, but that just taught me I wanted my own business someday and that I wasn’t cut out for teaching in the long run. I liked accounting, but wanted to do more. It started with one client, and by word of mouth, now I have nearly more work than I can handle these days.”

He couldn’t get over the quiet, although the breeze did carry snatches of festive music over from the park. They hadn’t passed a single car on the road.

“That’s great that you attained your dream. You must be very happy. I still have a ways to go. We’ll turn up here at Plum Street, but if you keep walking along this way, it brings you to Main Street.”

A dream? More like reaching a target. As for happy…Well, he wasn’t unhappy. “Tell me more about Falk’s Bend. Wild how you know my family history better than I do.”

“Small town gossip, local history, and interesting records in the library. I love to read and mysteries fascinate me. Let’s see, Magnus Torvald Falk founded the town. He’d be your great-great-great-great-grandfather. He had emigrated from Sweden, and he was already well to do by the time he settled here and built his first mill. He was one of the ones that made money off the Civil War. Some say illegally, other say legally. I imagine the truth was a little of both. His son, Albert Einar Falk, after improving his father’s fortune, tore down the old homestead and built the current house in 1873 for his bride, Cicely Wallace from Chicago. They had one son, Magnus Einar Falk, who also brought home a bride from Chicago, Anne Elizabeth Lindholm. Magnus Einar and Anne had six children, but only your great-grandpa Carl Gustaf Falk survived to marry Reba Armstrong who was from New York. Carl and Reba had two children, Matthew, who died unmarried in World War II, and your grandma, Loretta…”

He attempted to focus on Margie’s stories, but he was too wrapped up in the sweet tone of her voice, the pleasure of her company, and the ongoing argument with himself that once he returned her to the park he should head to the motel. He was only here for a week and Margie was proving a serious temptation.

However, back at the park, he let Margie’s parents and friend Debi talk him into staying for the music and fireworks. Given Margie’s smile, and that his sole option was working in his motel room with only the television for company, yielding was far from a hardship.

As sunset deepened, conversations grew lazy, wandering around to people and memories he had no connection to, but he enjoyed sitting on the sidelines of the stories. The scents of damp wood, cut grass, and cooling coals filled the muggy evening air. Squeals of laughter rang as children played with sparklers under dads’ and uncles’ supervision. The band warming up added odd, scattered notes and scales. Here and there, fireflies rose and drifted, putting on a small light show all their own.

The ease of a long, hot day seeped through his muscles; he hadn’t been this relaxed since his vacation last year at Lake Mohave. The humid green park of Falk’s Bend and the arid desert shore of Lake Mohave couldn’t be more different, but, for Christopher, they struck a similar, comfortable chord.

The amateur band was decent and played a rousing selection of patriotic and sentimental tunes, old and new. Twilight darkened. They finished with an encore of “The Star Spangled Banner” as the first firecracker arced toward the stars and shattered above the river in a crackling boom and a blazing white rain of sparkles.

One bright burst after another, the noisy, multi-colored fireworks drew ahs and oohs and applause. A few babies cried and the louder cracks and booms set dogs to barking. Down where the men set off the fireworks, smoke drifted like fog.

A short, but brilliant grand finale thundered in the sky.

Applause and cheers swelled and faded. With that, the holiday was over.

People stirred, and conversation swelled into a subdued hubbub as they gathered blankets, chairs, belongings, and tired children, and exchanged goodnights with family and friends.

Feeling abruptly awkward and alone, Christopher turned to Margie’s dad. “Time for me to head to the motel. Thanks, Mr. Olsson, for letting me join you all today. I had a great time.”

Mr. Olsson offered his hand. “Call me Mats. Been a pleasure. Hope you enjoy your stay and all your business goes smoothly.”

“Thanks. Off to a better start than I expected.” He shook hands with Margie’s mom, her grandparents, and last, Margie.

As they said their goodnights, he couldn’t quite release their casual handshake, and ignoring the gut-deep urge to take a goodnight kiss was tough.

Oblivious to their still linked hands, Mats clapped a hand on Christopher’s shoulder. “Visit our restaurant while you’re here. We’re open breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Best brisket sandwich in Missouri.”

“Thanks for the invite. Goodnight all.” His eyes caught with Margie’s for a last time and he let go.

Back at his motel room, Christopher washed up, opened the last beer, and turned on his laptop, too tired to actually work and completely tossed by the day, in a good way. Margie filled his mind, sweet and cheerful, feminine, so…different from the women he’d dated lately. And those kisses…

A big mistake, but memorable all the same.

He downloaded the house photos from his phone. He’d never owned a house before. Reviewing the pictures tumbled him through an interesting mix of gloom and curiosity.

He paused on the photo he’d caught of Margie on the porch and those unexpected kisses replayed in his mind, her soft warmth in his embrace. Damn, she was cute. He’d had a great time simply talking with her today. He hadn’t been so comfortable with a woman since...well, ever.

He sighed and closed the viewer. Habit had him opening his work email. Despite the holiday, three emails waited in his inbox, but all were solved with easy new-client hand-holding responses.

Business done, he opened his personal account and was cheered to see emails from Mom and his friends Dave and Lloyd. He wrote back to Mom first, sharing some of his day and what he’d learned of Grandma Loretta’s past and Falk’s Bend, and attached a few pictures.

Dave’s email was short as usual, letting everyone know he was back safe and sound from the latest fire, but the postscript made him laugh.
P.S. Chris, if you are reading this today, shut the damned computer and go fishing! See you at the river.

Lloyd’s email held JoAnn’s proposed meal plan and food shopping lists for the upcoming camping trip at Lake Mohave.

He grinned. Meals had gone from hit and miss potluck to guaranteed good eating ever since Lloyd married JoAnn and she’d taken charge of organizing their annual group vacation. He hit reply, and agreed to the plan. He added several house pictures. As a custom home builder with a degree in architecture, Lloyd might get a kick out of seeing the old wreck.

A glance at the time showed it was early enough in Oregon. He called Lloyd’s home number.

Lloyd answered. “Hey, pal, ready for the Mohave countdown?”

“Beyond ready. Jo’s meal plan sounds great as usual.”

“Thanks. So, how’s things there in Falk’s Bend?”

“Signed everything last night. Saw the property today.” He poked through the slideshow once more. What a mess.

“What do you think?”

“Not what I expected at all. First off, it’s a huge decrepit Victorian mansion, not the ordinary old country farmhouse I’d pictured. The buildings are in sorry shape and the property has gone completely wild. Unloading it may be difficult. I hope the inside looks better than the outside. I emailed you some pictures. Let me know what you think.”

“You can always let it go as-is. The lawyer said there’s no mortgages or other liens, right? So, no matter what you make on the sale, you’re ahead.”

“True.”

“Hang on, I just got online. Let me open it up and take a look…Hey, awesome! You got yourself a Second Empire style home there. Not what I expected either and very cool. Nice mansard roof and tower…I’d love to get inside there…I see what you mean about wild…Hey, hon! Christopher sent pics of the house. You got to see this!”

“Hi, Christopher.” JoAnn joined in on the call. “What a great house! So, what’s it like there?”

“Hey, Jo. Like living in one of those old movies you love. The whole town did this huge old-fashioned Fourth of July party. Parade, softball game, barbecue, fireworks. The whole shebang. Met some nice people.”

“Sounds fun. We spent the day at Lloyd’s cousin’s and just got in from watching some fireworks. Now, tell me everything.”

He shared everything—except Margie, and especially except kissing her on the dilapidated back porch. And as he talked, for the first time since learning of his great-grandmother and the house, he was eager to see what tomorrow would bring.

He might just take up Mats Olsson’s invitation and stop in to have a meal at their restaurant tomorrow. He had to eat, right?

****

She’d really kissed Christopher yesterday. Really kissed.

The crazy stew of shock, embarrassment, curiosity, and pleasure that had kept Margie tossing and turning all night still bubbled and fizzed, leaving her antsy as all get out.

The restaurant door opened again, and Margie’s heart leapt and fell for the hundredth time.

Just the Johansens.

Oh, for goodness’ sake, relax. He never promised he was coming by.

Poking restlessly at the ice in her coffee, she listened to Amy doing her job as hostess. She should have poured herself decaf instead of high-test. Joe and Aunt Ida had firmly shot down her request to return to work and Dad had wimped out, agreed with both of their arguments, and then played the
You wanted more time to finish your novels, right?
card.

True enough. But, really, what was so strenuous about being a hostess here besides being on her feet? Gee whiz. She supposed she should be delighted she was getting a salary without working. Dad and Joe had passed off the unearned pay as profit sharing, their stubborn work-around to cover her medical bills. The steady income certainly aided her bills and savings account, but she missed
working
.

Well, nearly dying does tend to have a worrying effect on people.

True. She was still pretty stunned herself over the near miss. Except, she was bouncing back better than her family from the horrible, horrible year. One more “Sit down and take it easy, sweetie,” or “Sweetie, you know you can’t do that,” and she might just scream.