The Widows of Eden (10 page)

“It's the same with the Tucker Trust, isn't it? You've spent half your life running up the score against your father and your grandfather and all the Tucker czars who preceded you; against your high school and college buddies; against everyone you've ever met on the golf course. Now you've won big, and you're not about to give up your margin of victory. Good for you! You face a fate shared by thousands of your fellow scorekeepers: you're about to die a big winner, prematurely and anonymously. I wonder: will there be enough grievers to carry your casket?”

“I can find six pallbearers for a shitload less than a hundred million.”

“Then tell them to bury you in all the money you saved.”

“Or I can write you a check. Is that your alternative?”

“No, Clem. It's your alternative. You wanted my help, remember? Now I've agreed, conditional on price. You should be dancing a jig.”

Clem hesitated, then countered, “Dancing a jig? I'm half dead from cancer, you son of a bitch. I'll pay you twenty-five million.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but it's wholly inadequate.”

“Inadequate? Twenty-five million? You can kiss my ass, you greedy bastard.”

“Don't hold your breath, Clem. There's no way that I'll attach my lips to an ass that has been kissed by so many, but I do want to thank you, though.”

“Thank me? Why?

“For being so predictably intractable. Now I can pray for rain with a clear conscience, but I'll be rooting for you on Saturday. Is there anything I can get you before I go?”

“Yeah. You can sit down for a goddamned minute and let me think.” After a bit, Clem stated, “I'll give you fifty million, but that's the limit.”

Mr. Moore replied, “It's ironic, isn't it? I think you're worth twice as much as you do. Since it's also a price you can easily afford, I see no reason to change my original proposal, but not for very much longer. The offer expires in sixty seconds. Take it or leave it.”

The room became so quiet that Louise could hear the grand­father clock ticking in the foyer, halfway across the house. It didn't really tick, though; it was more like a
thock
. After maybe fifty-nine thocks, my fiancé said, “Seventy million; not a penny more.”

“Make it eighty and we have a deal.”

“Seventy-five, Vernon. That's my final offer, and it's conditional.”

“On what?”

“I'll give you a promissory note, but it won't be due for a hundred and eight days. That will get me past my sixtieth birthday.”

“I can't wait that long. I'll take fifteen million in cash or equivalents on Friday and the rest in the promissory note. Can you live with that?”

“I can, but maybe you won't be so goddamned sarcastic about the second condition.”

“Which is … ?”

“I'll have the note drawn up on Friday, but I won't sign it until Monday. If I'm dead or a reasonable facsimile thereof, you won't get a dime.”

“Then the deal's off. I'm leaving Friday afternoon.”

“We're talking seventy-five million dollars, Vernon. You can't stay a few extra days?”

“No.”

“Fine. Then I'll need a guarantee.”

“A guarantee? Yesterday, you had me pegged at one in three. Now you want a guarantee?”

“That was before you gave me a price equal to the goddamned trade deficit.”

“No problem. If you want a guarantee, get it from your other supplier.”

“My other supplier? What other supplier?”

“My point exactly. Are we done?”

It must have been a difficult position for Clem. He was used to being in complete control, not on Death's Doorstep. I have no idea what was going on in his head at the time, but he cogitated for a while, then answered, “There's one more condition.”

“You're the customer. What do you want?”

“As you are well aware, I believe that God left us in the lurch long ago, and I've never seen a speck of proof otherwise. If you won't give me a guarantee, then I'm not going to pay you a plug nickel unless you can convince me that He's still on duty, and He's on your side.”

“What if I can convince you that He's on everyone's side, including yours? Wouldn't that be better?

“Maybe, maybe not. Do you have a plan, or are you going to wing it?”

It was Mr. Moore's turn to think a bit, then he said, “Wing it, mostly. You're asking me to solve an ancient puzzle called the Deist's Paradox.”

“The what? What's a goddamned Deist?”

“You are. A Deist is a person who believes that God has abandoned us.”

“Okay, so I'm a Deist. Take me off your Christmas list. Why should I give a shit about this paradox of yours?”

“The Deist's Paradox is a simple expression of your belief. It presumes that a benevolent God created Earth and can be stated as follows:

A benevolent God would intervene in the affairs of men from time to time;

But God has not intervened in the last two thousand years;

Therefore, He has abandoned us.”

“Makes perfect sense to me. So what?”

“There are a lot of Deists out there, Clem. Do you know why?”

“Nope, but I bet you're about to tell me.”

“Because the paradox has never been solved.”

“Really? Then it'll be a pleasure to watch you in action. But there's one little detail I forgot to mention: I don't want to hear a word of religious bullshit out of your mouth.”

“Don't worry. If the Deist's Paradox could have been solved with conventional theological thinking, it would have happened centuries ago.”

“I'm serious, Vernon. If I hear ‘God moves in mysterious ways' out of your mouth even once, we're done.”

“You can relax, Clem. You'll never hear an excuse like that from me. I believe that everything He does makes perfect sense; we just have to figure it out.”

“Hold on there, cowpoke. Did you just say ‘we'? What do you mean by ‘we'?”

“I have a theory in the back of my mind, but it's never been tested. I'll need your help to talk it through, say a half hour to an hour per day. Can you give me that much time?”

“Look around, Vernon. There's a chance that I can squeeze you into my otherwise hectic schedule. Will you need any visual aids? Flip charts? A white board? Kneepads?”

“Thanks, but I'm not much for props. I'll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow? Why can't we start today?”

“I would, but a few friends of mine are arriving this afternoon.”

“You have friends? No shit! I thought you worked alone.”

“Nobody works alone, Clem. Get some rest. You should feel better later today.”

Louise is quick on her feet. By the time Mr. Moore left the master's suite, she was already on the line to Dottie Hrnicek, who reports directly to Hail Mary Wade, who had left her cell phone in her car — in my parking lot.

Chapter 11

 

A T
EAL
AND
T
URQUOISE
S
EA

O
VER
THE
YEARS
, a lot of folks have asked me what it takes to run a bed and breakfast. There are differing opinions on the subject, but I believe that just about anybody can do it — as long as she or he (which I am legally obligated to mention) can decorate like a decorator, clean like a maid, cook like a chef, handle money like an accountant, and converse like a talk show host with lodgers of all persuasions, all day, seven days a week. You can study hospitality at college and there are a lot of good books on the subject but, in my experience, the one-stop shop for B & B education is motherhood, hands down. It will teach you a thousand little lessons about housekeeping, stretching a dollar, and caring for helpless, thankless guests that you can never learn in a classroom or a book.

I finished up the cleaning while Mr. Moore was at the River House, and then I put my chef's hat on and occupied myself with meal planning and food inventory. When I closed the refrigerator, I found Hail Mary Wade standing silently in my kitchen, holding a long-stemmed white rose and a greeting card. I would have fainted on the spot if she had been any taller than an eleven-year-old boy, and not because I never receive flowers, thank you very much.

“I knocked, but nobody came to the door,” she said sheepishly.

The brass knocker on my front door is the size of a ham hock. On a clear night, it can be heard in Kansas, or so I thought. “My head was in the refrigerator,” I hypothesized. “It's probably soundproof for safety reasons. Is the rose for me?”

“It's for Vernon, from Connie Kimball. I found it on the porch.”

“Did you read the note?” I inquired, as if I needed to.

“It's a request to visit her mother.”

“I'd see that poor woman myself if I thought it would do a particle of good. Leave it on the counter there; I'll make sure he gets it. Would you care for tea?”

“No thanks. I'm late for a deposition, but I wanted to stop in and see how your dinner with Vernon went last night. I tried to call but all I got was a recording.”

“The phone is on auto. Otherwise, it rings all the time. Did you try Loretta?”

“I stopped by on my way over. She said that Vernon has asked you two to prepare a list of all the people who want to see him. Is that right?”

“It is. Do you need to add some names?”

“Keep me out of the loop, if you don't mind. I've had a few e-mails, but they were copied to either you or Lo. In your judgment, how long will this list be when you're done?”

“Fifty names, maybe more.”

“Hmph. Maybe Lily was right. Unless we assemble the membership, Vernon will never be able to reach them all.”

“That won't work, Mary; not with Mr. Moore. Anyway, he has another plan.”

“He does? Did he tell you what it is?”

“No, but I suspect it's related to the list. In case you haven't noticed, Mr. Moore is not entirely forthcoming about his plans.”

Hail Mary is a prosecuting attorney by trade, and a darned
good one. She peered into my eyes like I was a witness for the defense and said, “Is that so? Did he tell you and Loretta that he is planning to ask for rain?”

“We tried our best, Mary. He promised that he would keep quiet about the deal, but he wouldn't budge otherwise. Isn't that what Loretta said?”

“Word for word. I'm disappointed in your lodger, I have to say. I'm very disappointed, but there are two parties involved in this transaction, aren't there?”

When a woman states the obvious, she is usually being vague. I replied cautiously, “Mr. Moore and my fiancé.”

“You're uniquely positioned, Wilma. You're closer to Clem than anyone. Are you going to the River House today?”

“I go down every day.”

“Is he well enough to discuss business?”

“Are you kidding? Clem will be talking business a week after he's passed on. Why?”

“What if he changes the deal? What if he offers to pay Vernon, but only if he asks for rain and his life?”

“Hold on a minute! You want Clem to change the deal?”

“He's Clement Tucker, isn't he? When did he ever let somebody else define the parameters of a business deal? Besides, what I'm proposing is a win-win. I don't see why he wouldn't go for it.”

“Did you run this by Loretta?”

“Uh huh. She couldn't see any harm in it either.”

“No harm? You're asking my fiancé to change a deal. That's not dipping your tippy-toes into the shallow end of the pool; it's leaping headfirst into the deep end. In my opinion, we'll be better off if we step aside and let Mr. Moore do his work.”

Hail Mary shook her head. “That's so, so easy for you to say. You win either way, but hundreds of others could lose everything they own. Did you check your e-mail this morning?”

“Of course, and I was as sorry as anybody to see the Kneppers go. Barb was a fine person and a heck of a needlepointer, one of the best I've ever seen …”

“Who's next, Wilma? How many more will disappear in the dead of night before we get rain? Vernon is our last hope. You have to talk to Clem. He'll listen to you.”

“Shouldn't you bring this before the board first?”

“I could but the clock is ticking, and it's not like I'm asking for thirteen hundred dollars — for umbrellas, in a drought.”

I shouldn't be giving away a secret like this, but you can always tell when a country girl is out of arguments. It's when she says, “It's not like I'm asking for the moon,” or the rhetorical equivalent. It was time for me to decide. “Okay. I'll run it by him, but only if he's up to it. Otherwise, it'll have to wait another day.”

“Thank you, Wilma. The women of Hayes County owe you a great debt.”

“And may God bless us all,” I added. “If we're getting in bed with my fiancé, we'll need all the help we can get.”

Mary gave me the most peculiar look you ever saw, which is when I caught the irony of my own words. What's a girl to do? I shrugged and walked her to the front door, where we both stopped dead in our tracks. Sitting in my parking lot next to her dust-encrusted black Buick was a vehicle the size of a boxcar. Upon closer inspection, it looked more like an extralarge, ocean-blue bus, except it was missing a bunch of windows. On the side, under an eye-high layer of dust, you could make out a large mural of silver bottle-nosed dolphins jumping and spinning in a teal and turquoise sea.

“What the f —— ?” Modesty forbids me from spelling out Mary's remark.

“My Lord! Is that Mr. Moore's conception of an RV?” I said to myself.

“An RV?”

“He said his widow friends were arriving in big RVs. Good heavens!”

We stood there like two schoolgirls who had been paralyzed by alien gamma rays, but somebody in the bus or RV or whatever must have noticed. A neckless, potato-shaped man with shoulder-length hair and sunglasses stepped out and ambled across the lot. In my mind, I had expected a rickety old chauffeur with a black suit and teeny, billed cap, but Mr. Potato was wearing blue jeans, a white tee shirt, a black leather vest, and a red bandana. His forearms were the size of a woman's thighs and covered with black and blue tattoos.