The Room with the Second-Best View (6 page)

Lulu reached into her second bag and pulled out a half-finished afghan, arranged it in her lap, and went to work with a pair of knitting needles. The act was so Millie-like that Al frowned. He would have sworn to any and all that his sweet Millie had nothing whatsoever in common with Thacker's brash wife.

“I still say we should do a fund-raiser,” she said. “Kids at our old church did them all the time to pay for mission trips and such.”

Frieda planted her elbows on the table with a scowl. “What do you suggest we do? Wash cars?” Her lips twisted. “Paint a sign and send one of us out to US 127 to flag down dirty vehicles?”

“I'll do that,” Tuesday volunteered.

Al gave her a sideways look and received a guileless smile in return. Was the woman really unaware of the sarcasm in Frieda's suggestion?

Frieda's lips tightened. “It's undignified. This celebration is about our town, our heritage. The citizens of Goose Creek should be proud enough of our legacy to want to celebrate it in a properly dignified manner. I will not stand by and watch it become a cheap carnival funded by cake walks and rummage sales.”

“Cake walks!” Lulu sat up, her expression brightening. “Great idea. My parsnip-and-maple cake is to die for.”

The comment elicited a stunned silence from the assembled.

“You can't imagine how good it is,” she insisted, needles flying. “My Honey Bun would eat a whole cake in one sitting if I'd let him.”

“Anyway,” continued Frieda with a hard stare at Lulu, “we need a celebration that demonstrates our civic pride. And to do that, we need money.”

Though Al had resolved to remain silent, curiosity got the best of him. He voiced a question. “We have our fall festival every year, and that's always a big hit. Couldn't we combine the two?”

A second silence settled in the room. Lulu became absorbed in her knitting, while Phyllis suddenly began scribbling on a notepad with energy. Beside him, Tuesday shifted to the far side of her chair and began an inspection of her fingernails.

“We've covered that ground before.” Ice could have dripped from Frieda's lips as the words left her tongue. “This town was founded in the
spring,
not the fall.”

“Well, yes, only—”

She cut him off. “Goose Creek is turning one hundred fifty. Don't you think that deserves special recognition?”

“Of course, but—”

The woman made a show of examining her watch. “If we're going to rehash the same issues previously addressed, then perhaps we should plan for longer meetings.”

Phyllis's eyes fluttered closed, and Tuesday groaned.

Feeling like a scolded eight-year-old, Al slumped lower in his chair. “Sorry. I'm only here to deliver something for Millie. No need to rehash anything on my account.”

Lulu looked up, a question on her horselike features. “I hope Millie's not sick.” Apparently Lulu had not become part of the Goose Creek gossip chain.

“She suffered an…unfortunate incident,” he explained.

Further questions were halted by Frieda's loud interruption.
“Since you're here, Al, why don't you tell us what Millie discovered in her research?”

Though he'd been subjected to the celebration committee for less than fifteen minutes, Al had had his fill. His promise to Millie had encompassed the delivery of information and a follow-up report of the discussion when he returned home. He had not agreed to participate.

“I have no idea.” He dipped his head toward the manila envelope in the center of the table. “It's in there.”

Settling a pair of neon green reading glasses on the bridge of her noise, Frieda retrieved the envelope and slid out a few sheets of paper. The only sound in the room while she scanned the documents was the clicking of Lulu's knitting needles.

“Hmm.” A scowl settled over Frieda's features, and then the creases in her forehead gradually cleared. Her second “hmm” contained a note of interest. By the time she uttered a third “hmm,” this one accompanied by a nod, the rest of the room was watching her with interest.

“It says here that property owners in Goose Creek may be eligible for grants and tax credits if we commit to an effort toward historic preservation.”

“Really?” Phyllis leaned sideways in her chair, neck craned in an attempt to read the paper in Frieda's hand.

“We do have a recognized historic district, you know.” Frieda looked up over the top of her glasses. “It extends several blocks on either side of Main.”

“I didn't know that.” Tuesday turned a grin Al's way. “Imagine. I own a building in the historic district.”

Frieda handed the top page to Phyllis, who squinted to read. “I've been on the city council for four years and I don't think we've ever discussed the National Historic Registry. Certainly we've never done anything about it. Does it expire?”

“Not according to Millie's notes.” Frieda tapped on the second
document. “She says a building or district stays on the Registry until it loses its integrity.” She glanced up. “Whatever that means.”

“But where does the money come in?” Tuesday asked. “Are we supposed to get a check from the government or something?”

Lulu snorted. “The government doesn't give out money for nothing. There's a catch somewhere.”

Though it pained Al to realize, he agreed with the annoying woman.

“No, we have to apply and be approved for the financial benefits,” Frieda answered, her voice distracted as she read. “But that's for property owners. I don't see how that's going to help the celebration's funding problem. I wish Millie were here to explain.” She flipped to the third page. “Oh, wait. This last bit here is about something called the Main Street Program.”

Tuesday giggled. “Sounds like something we ought to know about since our Main Street is kinda run-down.”

“It says here if we were part of this Main Street Program, we'd get help from the state to apply for special grants and tax credits and so on.”

“So let's join,” suggested Lulu. “What's it cost?”

“It doesn't say.”

Phyllis asked, “Will Millie be well enough to come to the next meeting?”

Al opened his mouth to answer, but Frieda cut him off. “We can't wait two weeks. This says there's a sizable private grant that will be awarded this September to communities who make a good case for how they'll spend the money. We need to hurry and fill out the application to join the Main Street Program so we'll have a shot at that money. That means we need to put someone in charge. They call it a…” She glanced down and tapped on the paper. “A Main Street Manager. It's usually someone hired by the city council.”

Phyllis shook her head. “After the last meeting I can tell you the answer to hiring anyone. We can't afford it.”

“Then it'll have to be a volunteer position.” Frieda rubbed a hand over her mouth, her gaze unfocused. “I'd volunteer, but with my store I can't carve another minute out of my day.”

“Same here.” Tuesday rewarded Al with a scowl. “If I turn away a single customer I won't be able to make my loan payment.”

Frieda looked at Phyllis, who shook her head. “I have a hard enough time getting off work to come to
these
meetings. Between that and the council work, I can't add anything.”

Tuesday straightened. “I know the perfect person.” She turned a grin on Al. “You could do it. You're smart, and I'll bet you know all about applying for grants and stuff.”

Shocked, Al jerked away from her so hard the chair arm dug into his back. “Me? No way.” He raised splayed hands. “I have a job. Besides, now that my wife is down to one hand, my honey-do list just tripled.”

“What about Millie?” Phyllis suggested.

Al shook his head with vigor. “Between her job at the animal clinic and getting that mammoth house in working order, she doesn't have time.”

“She's already done a lot of the research,” Frieda pointed out, gesturing toward the documents. “I'll bet she's already figured out the application process.”

“No.” He imbued his tone with firmness. “She needs time to recover from her injuries.”

Lulu spoke without looking up from her knitting. “I'll do it.”

Frieda's eyes widened. Al thought he glimpsed a touch of panic in the gaze that circled the table. “I'm sure you're far too busy, what with your…cooking and knitting and all.”

“This?” Lulu raised her woolly project. “I'll have this finished by supper. I just knit to pass the time. And cooking is second nature to me. Takes no time at all.” Her equine teeth put in an appearance. “I'd be glad for the job. Give me something to occupy myself while my Honey Bun's at work.”

“Well…” Frieda exchanged a glance with Phyllis, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “As long as you let this committee review the application before you submit it, I guess that'll be fine.”

“Perfect!” Tuesday clapped her hands, a delighted smile on her generous lips. “Congratulations, Ms. Manager.”

A pained expression crept over Frieda's face as she gathered the documents. “If you have any questions, call.” She slid the papers into the envelope and extended it toward Lulu. “Please be prepared to give a progress report at the next meeting.”

“Sure thing.” Lulu shoved her knitting and Millie's report in her bag. “I'll bring a treat for everyone. Frankie just loves my marmalade cookies.”

As the meeting broke up, Al congratulated himself on a job well done. He'd represented his wife at the meeting and rescued her from an onerous task to boot. Taking the two jars of mustard marmalade Lulu thrust into his hands, he exited city hall. Better tell Millie to avoid the cookies at the next meeting.

Chapter Four

Y
ou gave away my job?”

At Millie's question and recriminating stare, Al's jaw dangled. “You
want
to be the Main Street Manager?”

“Well of course I do.” Her free hand slapped at the veranda railing, the other resting in the safety of a sling.

When he'd pulled the car to the end of the long driveway, she had appeared—moving slowly and with great care—to take up a stance near the veranda railing. The questions began as Al rounded the car's front bumper.

Now, standing on the grass with the veranda railing between them, Al could only stare at his wife. Had that tumble down the stairs jarred something loose in her brain?

He made a show of wiggling a finger in his ear to clear it. “Excuse me, but I'm not sure I'm hearing you correctly. Why would you want something else to suck up your time? You're too busy as it is.”

Her chest heaved with a loud sigh. “I've spent hours researching the application process and finding out about the benefits and responsibilities. I even went to Frankfort and met with the Heritage Council. I'm the one who discovered the Main Street Program, so the job of managing it rightly belongs to me.”

He stared at her, dumbfounded. The poor woman was experiencing delusions. “Last week you told me you did not want to be in charge.
I remember the conversation perfectly. We were sitting at the kitchen table, finishing supper, and you said—”

“I know what I said, but this is different.”

The conversation replayed in his mind. How could he have misinterpreted
I'm going to sit back and let someone else be in charge
?

“I said I didn't want to run the celebration committee.” From her tone, she might have been explaining the difference between a circle and a square to a preschooler. “The Main Street Program is different. It's a job.”

“Aha. Now we circle back to the beginning. You have a job. Two, in fact.” He waved a hand to encompass the house. “Repairing and decorating this place is a full-time undertaking. And next month you're going to have your first guests. You don't have time to be the Main Street Manager.”

“Albert, don't be dense.”