Читать книгу: «Loving Thy Neighbor», страница 2

Chapter Two

Two afternoons later, Quincee decided she’d made enough headway on the inside of the house. She’d done a thorough inspection of the outdated plumbing and wiring and knew that the wiring must be her first priority in repair.

She’d learn to do it herself, except there were licenses and requirements about those things. But couldn’t she do it and then have a licensed electrician inspect the work? That was a plan to ponder—but not until autumn. By autumn she’d have painted the house outside and have a bit of money put by again.

Her long list of needed repairs and updating would take her to her knees, if she let it. “I can do all things through Him Who strengths me,” she murmured for the hundredth time. “And I can barter, like Mom used to do.”

They would simply have to make do with fans and one window air-conditioning unit for the summer. The house was as comfortable as she could make it for now. She thought it time to see if the garage was usable.

Besides, she needed another outlet for her frustrations. She’d spent a long, fruitless hour on the phone this morning with the national aluminum siding company that employed the children’s dad. Her sister, Paula, had said he traveled from city to city with a crew of men. But the company didn’t seem to know if he was an employee or not, nor did they have any idea where he may be found. In this day of the information age, Quincee didn’t understand why finding Mac Stillman was so complicated.

Unless he didn’t choose to be found, which was probably the case. Paula hadn’t pushed the matter, though, saying it wouldn’t change anything if they knew where he was. He still would find excuses not to give her any child support.

Quincee hoped that was true; she didn’t want to give up raising the kids, and Paula had left behind a notarized letter naming Quincee as legal guardian. But she thought it only right to inform the man that her sister had died and the children were now in her care.

Sadness threatened to descend. She and the kids were still dealing with their loss, nearly four months later. But they’d found solace in each other, and her friend Laura had been a great help. And now their moods had lightened with the exciting adventure of owning a home of their own for the first time.

“I found the hammer,” Kyle said, waving the tool. That brought her thoughts back. “Can we do it now?”

“Sure, tiger. Let me change clothes.” She eyed his summer shorts. “You two put on some jeans, too. And socks and long-sleeved shirts.”

She’d expressly forbidden the children from getting into the old shambles without her supervision. Who knew what they’d find in there? The Realtor had told her the heirs of the former owner hadn’t bothered to find out, and no key for it could be found.

Five minutes later, she and the kids marched out to tackle the rusting padlock. She whammed a major whack with her lightweight hammer, but nothing happened. She tried again, setting off nothing more than a rattle.

“Let me try,” Kyle said.

“Okay. Couldn’t hurt.” Quincee handed the child the tool. Sometimes it felt satisfying to hammer at something. An inanimate object. Something that couldn’t sustain lasting damage.

“Can I try, too?” Kerri begged.

“Sure ’nuff, Kerri bear. Just be careful not to get your other hand in the way. And Kyle, you step out of her way, too.”

Quincee left the kids whacking at the lock to walk around the aging structure. A loud rattle and resounding metallic ring told her they’d hit the wooden doors, giving her a chuckle. If those old carriage-style wooden doors couldn’t take the stress, then she may as well count the garage off as a loss, anyway.

She hadn’t done more than give the structure a cursory outside look before she bought the place. Probably full of mice, she mused. Oversized, it sat against the back property line a foot from an old chain link fence.

As Quincee squeezed between the back wall and the fence, she caught a flashing sun reflection from the corner of her eye. She glanced over the fence to the tall, narrow house behind hers, spotting a stooped, thin figure with binoculars clamped to his eyes. Waving jauntily, she grinned. A moment later, the old man had disappeared from view.

Quincee chuckled. She sure did have interesting and concerned neighbors.

She continued her examination of her garage. As she traipsed around it, listening to the children’s voices float, she decided the old structure wasn’t in as bad a shape as she’d thought.

Kyle demanded that Kerri give him the hammer, and an argument ensued. Then, hearing additional grown-up voices, Quincee rounded the corner to see an older couple talking with the children.

“Oh, hello there. I’m Bette Longacre,” the woman said. “This is my husband, Gene. We live just across the street, there.” She pointed to a large brick bungalow in thirties style directly across from the judge’s. Bette had a sweet smile in a plump face and short white hair. “We came over to welcome you and your children to the neighborhood.”

“That’s nice of you,” Quincee responded, smiling in return. She swiped her hand on the back of her jeans and offered to shake while she introduced herself and the children.

The adults agreed on using first names.

“We are trying to open our garage,” Quincee explained. “We have no idea what’s in there.”

“Oh, I can tell you what some of it is,” Bette said. “Old furniture. Magazines. Bottles. Junk and more junk. Denby never threw away anything in his life if he could help it.”

“Any toys?” Kerri asked hopefully.

“Possible. Never knew with Denby,” Gene answered, rubbing his chin. His gaze was speculative behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “He could be a peculiar man sometimes.”

“Somethin’ going on here?” asked a new arrival. The man who strolled toward them tucked a folded newspaper under his arm as he hitched his baggy shorts over a rounded belly. He had a thick fringe of nondescript hair around his shiny dome of a head.

“Oh, ’lo, Randolf.” Bette greeted him tentatively with a quick glance at her husband. “Come meet our new neighbors, Quincee Davis and the children, Kyle and Kerri.”

The two men nodded their greetings toward each other rather like two hounds who claimed the same territory. The new arrival turned her way.

“Randolf Bader, ma’am. Saw the commotion an’ heard banging,” he said. “Thought I should see what all the ruckus was about. Don’t have many little kids on the street anymore. Big ones, though. Some of ’em can’t be trusted to stay outta trouble.”

“Randolf lives two doors down from here,” Bette explained to Quincee. “He heads our neighborhood watch program.”

“That’s good to know,” Quincee said. “Well, Mr. Bader, I’m trying to remove this padlock. There doesn’t seem to be a key to it, and anyway, it has rusted and corroded until it’s completely sealed. So far, a hammer against it hasn’t broken it.”

“A saw might do it,” Gene said.

“I think you should get aholt of one of those tools like giant pliers,” said Mr. Bader.

“Don’t think so, Randolf,” Gene contradicted. “Wouldn’t cut it. Besides, those things take a lot of muscle power.”

“That let’s you out then,” Mr. Bader said.

Gene pursed his lips. “And I suppose you could do it?”

“Wasn’t saying that, now, was I?”

“You may have to call in a locksmith,” Bette said hastily. “They know about these things.”

“What’s going on?” said the deep voice behind her. Quincee would recognize that voice from only a syllable spoken.

Hearing it certainly caused her tummy to dip. She hadn’t heard his approach.

They all turned his way in unison, as though his presence commanded the highest respect even in the neighborhood.

Dressed in a lightweight summer suit, the charcoal shade over a stark white shirt coupled with a cranberry red tie, Judge Hamilton Paxton appeared as appropriate to the law profession as if he waved his degree like a flag.

“Hello, there, Hamilton,” Gene greeted. “Just getting acquainted with your new neighbors.”

“Is there a problem?” Hamilton asked.

“Not really. It’s—” Quincee began.

“She needs a locksmith,” Bette said.

“I’m not sure that’s necessary yet,” Quincee said as she tried again. She didn’t want to spend money on locksmith services unless she had no other choice. Her last paycheck had gone to pay for her traffic fine and for the moving expenses, and what little was left had to stretch to the first of next month.

“Old Denby hadn’t touched that lock in years,” Gene added.

“What would really do it is a sledgehammer,” Mr. Bader said. He went to investigate the lock for himself, rattling it as though to shake it off. “You got a sledgehammer in all them tools you got, Gene?”

“I don’t want to smash more than the lock,” Quincee said hastily.

“Well, I’ve a hacksaw someplace,” Gene said. “If I can find it. M’son borrowed it last winter and I’m not sure it’s been returned.”

“Please don’t bother,” Quincee said. “I’ll—”

“Never mind, Gene,” the judge said. “I have a hacksaw. I’ll see to it later for Miss Davis.”

Quincee shot a quizzical gaze toward the judge. Why was he so nice all of a sudden? Why would he offer to help her?

“Uh-oh. I just remembered the roast I have in the oven,” Bette said in a sudden flurry. “Let me know if you need us to help you with anything in that pile of junk, my dear,” she said to Quincee. She smiled at the children, who had drifted away to run about the yard, before saying, “Coming, Gene?”

“Be right there, Bette, love.” Gene turned to the judge. “Say, Hamilton, did your grandfather ever find those old snapshots he promised to go through? Was a bunch from years back when our sons were just little tykes.”

“I don’t know that he ever did, Gene. There’s a dozen boxes of old stuff he had in the attic that you’re welcome to look through if you’d like.”

“Now, Hamilton,” Bette protested with humor as she edged toward the street. The others followed. “Don’t get Gene started on your old stuff. We have enough of our own that we need to do something with. We’re all getting too old to hang on to these leftovers, and our children don’t want any of it.”

“Why don’t you have a garage sale?” Quincee threw the idea into the pot, strolling along.

“Thought about it,” Mr. Bader said. “Daughter-in-law’s got her eye on my coin collection, but she don’t want nothing else of mine.”

“A yard sale has come to mind,” Bette said, seeming to forget her urgency to tend to dinner. “But Gene doesn’t want to mess with one.”

“Too much work,” Gene said. “And too many people pawing through things, making a wreck of it.”

“If it’s done well, that can be directed and controlled,” Quincee suggested.

“How do you mean?” Bette asked.

“You could combine your sales and efforts into one location. Have a neighborhood block sale. They’re always popular. And if you combine your forces, there would be several of you on hand to help people with purchases while one person takes the money. That would give you more control.”

Quincee stopped near the sidewalk. Dandelions sprouted around her ankles in all their golden beauty. Almost marking the property line, healthy grass from the judge’s yard warred with her spotty weeds.

“I don’t like the idea,” the judge said. “It would disturb the neighborhood.”

“Combining efforts into a group sale sounds wonderful to me,” Bette said. “But, oh my, that takes a lot of work to organize such an event. I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

“I could do it,” Quincee said. She’d never handled one before, but she’d headed the committee for the school fair last year. “I’m very good at organization.”

Hamilton gave her a pointed stare. She bit her lip and tried to ignore him. Why was he so skeptical? She was an organized person.

“Oh, but my dear,” Bette protested. “You’ve just moved in here, and have so much of your own work to take care of.”

“That’s for sure,” she replied. “But the kids and I have the whole summer to see to our own things. And I can organize the sale and still paint my house this month.”

Providing her one credit card would stretch to cover the paint and supplies. And there was always the hope she might sell some things in the sale herself. A few dollars extra this month could be a lifesaver. Her enthusiasm for the sale suddenly became personal.

I can do all things through Him Who gives me strength, she mentally quoted.

“It really isn’t a good plan,” Hamilton insisted. “It would bring too many strangers around.”

“Say, young lady,” Mr. Bader said. “What would you charge to do a thing like that? Ten percent?”

“Randolf, you’re behind the times.” Gene crowed at scoring one on Bader. “Nobody does anything for only ten percent anymore. It’s fifteen now.”

“You’re both wrong,” Bette said. “It’s twenty percent or more in these things. Estate sales and all that.”

“More?” Aghast, Mr. Bader shoved his hand over his bald head and scratched an ear.

“I’d be quite happy to settle for ten percent,” Quincee interjected quickly. “As a favor to the neighborhood.”

“I’m really not in favor of garage sales. They’re a hazard on neighborhood streets and they leave a mess behind. Who will be in charge to see that it’s all cleaned up afterward? And there’s no way to know if you’ll make any money from one by the time all expenses are in,” Hamilton insisted. “It may be better to simply pay someone to come and cart your unwanted goods away. That way you’d deal with a reputable flea market business, and all the risks are the dealer’s.”

“But you’d make more money with a yard sale of your own,” Quincee said. “And they can be fun. Bringing several families together on the block to work the day can be almost a party. Perhaps we could make a trade for my services?”

“Trade?” asked Mr. Bader. “Like how? Trade what?”

“Like bartering. I’ll take care of this garage sale, the organization, the preparations and the cleanup, in exchange for something you can do for me. That way no money is exchanged.”

“Say, that’s a dandy idea,” Mr. Bader exclaimed. “What will you take?”

Bette’s face lit with interest. “Bartering?”

“Well, if we barter, my fee will increase to the equivalent of fifteen percent or…even trade. What do you do?” Quincee asked. “Or have that I may want?”

The old man looked at Kyle, then at Quincee. “Got some fishing poles I don’t use much anymore. My grandchildren don’t live close enough to use ’em, and their parents don’t like fishing.”

“That’ll do for a start,” Quincee said. “Anything else?”

“Got an old upright piano. Needs repair. Nobody plays it anymore.”

“Now that’s a thought to keep!” Quincee let her smile spread with enthusiasm as her heart leaped. A piano!

“Your house is too tiny to hold a piano,” Hamilton muttered. “You’d have to haul it, anyway.”

Quincee ignored his frown and pronounced, “I’ll find a way.”

“Beverly Kinney, down on the corner, gives piano lessons,” Bette said in thoughtful tones. “I’ll bet she’d give the children lessons in exchange for coming into the sale.”

“That’s the spirit. It’s easy to barter once you get the hang of it,” Quincee said.

“Quincee, it’s lovely having a young family across from us,” Bette said. “You put new life on the street. I really have to go attend my roast now. But come along for coffee later this week, and we’ll get started on this garage sale.”

“I really wish you’d give more thought to this, folks.” The judge’s protest grew stronger.

“Not now, Hamilton, dear,” Bette said as she hurried across the street. “Later.”

Hamilton watched the neighbors stroll away with consternation written on his features. He turned to Quincee and grumbled, “I wish you hadn’t done that.”

“Done what? What have I done now?”

“Offered to organize a yard sale.”

“Why not? It’s a great idea.”

“No. It isn’t. It’ll create a pain in the—”

“That’s only your opinion, Hap.” As a neighbor, that was all he was entitled to, an opinion. She suddenly gave him a sassy smile, feeling liberated from the restraints that he seemed to have imposed on her, when in reality only her driving had been restricted.

“Hap?”

“You.”

He stiffened. “I prefer to be called by my given name, please.”

“Those are your given initials. HAP. Hap sure is a sight easier to say than Hamilton Paxton. Surely you don’t expect to be called Judge all the time? By the way, what does the A stand for?”

“Adam. That’s beside the point, Miss Davis.”

“It might as well be Quincee. We’re not in the courtroom now, Hap. Er, Hamilton.”

“Would you please listen?” His exasperation was growing like those dandelions, she mused. She almost chuckled aloud, only surprised he hadn’t ordered her to immediately root them out because they were spreading into his perfectly kept yard.

“This is a peaceful, quiet neighborhood. A yard sale isn’t what we’re about,” he continued, stepping closer to stand face-to-face.

Quincee lost her amusement.

With no hedge between them and no mammoth court furniture to set him apart, he towered over her by a full head. She had to tip hers back to look into his eyes. A tiny scar sat just beneath his left brow, and she spotted a hint of silver threaded with the dark hair at his temples. But more than anything, she noted the animation leaping from those cool depths of gray irises. It excited a tiny kick in response as she realized the vitality of the male she faced.

My, my, my… Where had the judge gone?

“Garage sales are a pure nuisance,” he continued his argument. She hadn’t heard much of what he’d said in the last five minutes, but she responded.

“You don’t have to join us if you don’t wish. No one is forcing you into it.”

“I don’t plan to.”

“Fine.” She took a deep breath, feeling as though she had to have a fresh one to clear her thinking. “But a garage sale will benefit the ones who want to do it. Actually, I think we can have a bit of fun with it as well as make a little money.”

“These folks don’t need the money,” he argued hotly. “They’d be better off following my suggestion of having a reputable dealer come and take care of any items they no longer use. Or give it all to charity.”

Quincee tipped her head and softened her tone. “Is that your problem, Hap? You’re too used to being the center of attention and having your way on the bench that you can’t stand the thought of your neighbors ignoring your suggestions?”

Hap stepped back as though she’d hit him. His features seemed to go bland while he retreated behind his cool gaze. “Don’t be offensive, Miss Davis. You’re way over the line.”

“Sorry about that, Hap.” She did feel sorry to have chased him back into his cold reserve. “But you’re the only one yet who seems to dislike the prospect of a block yard sale. Get used to it. This event is going to happen. And I can use the work.”

“You’ll have to pay taxes on your fee, you know.”

“Not if everything is simply an exchange of favors with no money exchanged. I love bartering. It has a set of rules all its own and it answers many problems. Why, we solved our little problem the other day when the children worked off their debt, didn’t we? That’s barter. A bargain for me, as well, Hap. You gave us those beautiful strawberries, which the children and I enjoyed very much. In turn, I shared my labor of making the pie. It’s as simple as that.”

“Not quite, when taken to a larger scale,” he insisted. “Bartering still demands taxes be paid on the equivalent of what that service is worth.”

“Fine. I’ll declare it and pay the taxes if I must,” she said, fuming. “But our society loves a bargain. And bartering is based on a long forgotten simpler exchange of goods and services, in my opinion. As I’m a schoolteacher, my salary has to be supplemented some way, and this works for me.” She raised an expressive brow. “Believe me, I’m willing to bargain for anything and everything I can.”

With that, she turned on her heel and marched toward her front door. Behind her, Hap remained silent. She guessed he wasn’t used to losing the privilege of having the last word on anything. He wouldn’t subject his dignity to calling out to her retreating back.

By the time she strolled through the door, her smile had stretched into a grin.