Ever After: An Excerpt from the Foxhill Series

            “Don’t you think I’m a trifle old to be ‘fixed up’ with some woman?  Besides, I’m used to being alone.”  Hal Stensson gave his mother an aggrieved look.  Ever since he’d been widowed he’d been treated to periodic attempts on her part to see him ‘settled’ as she called it.  Never mind that he’d lived quite happily–well, with a minimum of angst, since his wife died, fifteen years now, he recalled.   The real disappointment was that Josh was working for a large IT company in Portland, much to his regret.  It was painful to have him so far away, especially as he and his son had always been close.  But, as Josh and Hal agreed, he had to go where the job took him.

             At the same time these thoughts occurred, he was trying to deflect his mother’s genteel wangling of a date for him.  Someone she called Marian, which had an ominous, dull sound in itself, Marian the Librarian.  That was pretty much his mother’s speed, and what she might plan for him.  The woman would have to be a knockout to overcome that name, he told himself irrationally.

            “I’m not exactly fixing you up,” his mother continued.  “She’s new to town, and the last time I played bridge with her mother, she mentioned that Marian was interested in getting acquainted since moving here after her divorce.”  Hal’s mother lowered her voice to a near whisper as if someone might be listening at her front door.  “He was a drinker and a rounder, you know, and Marian stayed with him until her two girls graduated from high school.  They’re in college now.  Apparently, there’s money somewhere so she’s not in dire straits, or anything.”

            Hal sighed.  He knew his mother.  She’d not let up until he complied with her wishes.  “When is this little outing?”

            “Saturday night.  We’ll meet for early dinner at Merchants and then go on to the ballet.  Jane has already gotten the tickets.  I think with your sister and Don there, it won’t seem so much like a date.  A kind of family party.  You like her mother, I know.”

            He nodded.  “Yes, as old gals go, Nancy is rather a charmer.  Let’s hope her daughter takes after her rather than her father.  A captain of industry with the jaw to prove it.”

            Hal’s mother took the jibe well and merely laughed.   Adele looked like aging royalty as she sat in the gold bergère chair in her living room, petting her little dog, the papillon Louie, who was happily squashed beside her.  Adele Stensson’s blue cashmere sweater exactly matched her eyes, and her hair was still mainly light brown with only a sprinkling of silver.  Of medium height with a only few tell-tale signs of arthritis in her fingers, she looked younger than her years.  She was Norwegian while Hal’s father had been Norwegian with one Swedish grandsire, who provided their surname.  Hal’s parents were originally from Minnesota and had arrived in Nashville soon after their marriage. 

            Although Hal favored his mother in his looks, he had his father’s coloring, commonly called “black Norwegian” with very dark hair and blue eyes.  His father, deceased for six years, had had a printing company that he’d bought into when an army buddy had made the offer.  Hal had grown up immersed in the sound of presses and the smell of ink but chose the writing side of the business until his employer, the Nashville Banner, went out of business.  It was, he occasionally reflected, a sign of the times that even now with his own city magazine that he published monthly, he rarely saw those things that were part and parcel of his father’s business.

            So with a few more details to arrange at what was to be a date, no matter what his mother called it, Hal left for his own house, a few blocks away in the historically important neighborhood of Foxhill.  His place was an early  20^th century but still significant design called a Craftsman bungalow, while his mother’s house was a two-story 1850s Italianate with mansard roof, bracketed window heads, and high ceilings. 

            On the way home, he had to admit that his few independent forays into that strange world of dates and relationships had definitely bombed, the only word for it.  Never considering himself a lady’s man, he’d gotten less and less interested in the pursuits and the necessary repartee when nothing seemed to click.  He and his wife, Chrissy, had met in college and like so many romances in that rarified atmosphere permeated by hormones and set in a cloistered environment, they married shortly after graduation.  They’d had a strong attachment that Hal believed could never again be duplicated.  It was that sense of belonging wholly to one another, almost from the first encounter, that he had not found again, even with seemingly suitable women. 

            His last date was over a year ago with Paige Crowell, now Geitner, and should have worked.  They were of the right age; they had fairly common interests; and she was a lovely woman.  Yet he knew on that first date that it was falling flat.  And then he heard from Tessa Wenger that the woman had married less than six weeks after he’d taken her out! 

            A couple of years before that, he had even dated Tessa when she’d first started working for him.  She, too, had married shortly after that.  There’d been other abortive attempts in other years.  Maybe he had turned into a misogynist without noticing, and women were telling him so.  That was all right, as far as he was concerned.  It set up fewer expectations–for himself and for the women who crossed his path.  He would patiently suffer this setup by his family, for he knew it would be a fleeting encounter.  The chances of him and Marian hitting it off were quite slim.

            There were compensations in living alone, he reflected, letting himself into his neat and spare bungalow. He’d always liked the neighborhood, and though he and Chrissy had raised Josh in an outlying area of Nashville, after her death he decided Foxhill would be the place where he might live out his remaining years.   For one thing, the houses were interesting and varied, not only in design, but also in age and size, so there seemed to be something for everyone.  Further, the restoration atmosphere and the homeowners association engendered a community spirit not found in most neighborhoods.  He appreciated that.

            On the negative side, it was close to the projects and occasional gang members might wander into the area, but with a vigilant Neighborhood Watch on the lookout, no ruffians would stay long.  Large families seldom lived here, he reflected.  It seemed one- or two-child families sent their youngsters to a boarding school or maybe a day school if they were able to transport them.  The nearby public schools had little to recommend them, unfortunately.  Friends had to be imported for play times and parties.  But once ensconced in Foxhill, almost no one wanted to leave.  Its historic houses and mellow brick sidewalks with tree-lined streets lent a homey, old world ambiance and made the place unique.

            The next morning Hal was having breakfast at a restaurant near his magazine office.  He was soon joined by his second in command, Juliet Norman, who handled every detail he forgot, with tasks assigned to her that he usually avoided, such as those of an office manager.  Reporters he had, along with a circulation manager and an advertising assistant who helped him with his own advertising efforts, but he detested the day-to-day arrangements about staff problems and bills, which Juliet managed very well.

            “I think I’ve got someone to do both jobs that we’re needing done,” Juliet said, cutting her french toast into a messy plateful of bite-sized pieces.

            “Both jobs?  I thought we just needed a typist.?”

            “True, that’s what I was after initially,” Juliet nodded in agreement.  She was a brusque woman in her forties, squarely built.  She and her husband had both retired from the army after twenty years and had a boy and girl in high school.  Her name, Hal often thought, seemed a kind of reproach to her parents, for she was hardly the delicate romantic. 

            “She applied for the typing post,” Juliet continued, “and her test was remarkably good.  But when she was filling out some forms, she pointed to the corner of my office, which was its usual filthy mess, thanks to Daniel’s frequent absences, and said, ‘I can clean for you, too, if you’ll let me stay a couple of hours later two or three times a week, and I’ll do a better job than that!’  Well, I agreed, and she’ll do it for the same money as our errant college boy.  I texted him and gave him the bad news.”

            “Does this woman know anything about publishing?”  Hal wasn’t questioning his lieutenant’s judgment, but he was curious.

            “She is new to the field, but she’s very keen.  Took a couple of English classes, as a matter of fact, to sharpen her writing skills.  But in Romania, she was close to getting a degree when she immigrated.”

            “Romania!  Who is this paragon?”

            Juliet gave her hearty laugh and said, “I don’t say she’s a paragon.  She’s something of a character, but as I say, she’s eager and a good typist as well.  She’ll be fine.  Don’t worry.”

            “I don’t, not for a minute.  What’s her name?”

            “Mihaela Forenscu.  She’ll start work on Monday.”

            “Fine.”  But he finished his breakfast in a kind of dread at meeting someone who saw dirt in corners and offered to clean it up.

Chapter 2

            Early November evenings in Nashville could be chilly, so it wasn’t surprising to see both Nancy Lankford and a woman who was obviously her daughter wearing light furs over their shoulders.  Nancy wore an old fashioned ermine stole, while the younger woman had on over her dress a mink vest that exactly matched her thick chestnut hair, worn in a bob.  They arrived at the front of the restaurant at the same time as Hal and his mother but came from a different direction.

            “Perfect timing,” Nancy exclaimed, greeting her friend Adele with a hug.  “I want you two to meet my daughter, Marian Keeler.” 

            Marian held out her hand, first to Hal’s mother and then to Hal, who tried not to register surprise.  She may not have been termed a knockout, but staid and insipid in looks Marian definitely was not.  She was a little taller than her mother, about five-foot six or seven with a slender but curvy figure, wearing a long, green wool sheath slit at the knee.  Hal noticed a diamond bracelet when they shook hands.  In the light of the marquee, Hal saw that Marian had beautiful topaz-colored eyes and a creamy oval face that just missed being beautiful.  She didn’t look forty, but he suspected she was actually older than that.

            Amenities were exchanged, and then Hal opened the door for the women to enter the restaurant foyer where the light was considerably dimmer, more intimate.  The group was immediately shown to a table upstairs where Hal’s sister Jane and her husband Don were already seated.  For a few minutes there was a flurry of introductions and people moving here and there as they settled into their seats around a rectangular table for six.  Hal sat at one end, and his brother-in-law at the other.  Sitting to Hal’s left was his sister and to his right Marian.  She was looking around at the historic setting with interest.

            “I’ve heard of this place, but as many times as I’ve visited Nashville, this is a first for me, so it’s a real treat.” The hostess handed out large menus to them.

            Promptly, the beverage server arrived and took their orders, and amid general conversation about the history of the hotel, they were all served wine with the exception of Hal’s mother who always had iced water with lemon.

            “I’m afraid I don’t know where you moved from,” Hal said to Marian, after ordering Steak Frites as his entrée.  Hal’s sister asked for a baked chicken dish, while Marian ordered Mushroom Papparello, which was, according to the waiter, a Merchants’ specialty.

            “Atlanta, for most of my married life.  I have two daughters, one of whom is going to William and Mary while the other is at Davidson.  It seemed the perfect time to make a real break with my former life.”

            “I hope you’ll enjoy Nashville.  It’s always been our home,” he gestured to his sister, who now joined in the conversation.

            “Yes, if there’s anything I can do to help you get acquainted, Marian,” Jane offered, “any clubs I might introduce you to, for instance, I’d be more than happy to do so.  Are you in Woman’s Club?”

            “I have been, but several years ago, and for now, I’m going to take my time and see what I might like to be involved in, but thank you for the offer.  I’ve been a professional volunteer for years,” she said with a laugh. “I was the wife of a member of the U.S. Polo team and playboy extrordinaire.  I had few options for doing anything other than managing a household and taking care of social obligations.” 

            “So were you college trained for a career?”  Hal said, in between sips of tomato bisque.

            “Yes, sort of. I graduated from Sweet Briar with a degree in, of all things, Sociology.  I had some thought about helping the displaced, the homeless.  But after I married, my life took a different turn, and I sort of settled, you might say.  I became as much of a dilettante as my husband.  I’ve been quite useless, except for taking care of my girls.  I am a good mom,” she said with definite nod of her head.  Then she looked at Hal with an amused expression and said, “But I can’t cook or iron or sew or do anything very practical.”

            “Like the lilies of the field–they toil not neither do they spin.  You’re quite nicely arrayed yourself,” he said with a polite little bow of his head.

            “I really don’t think that passage was referring to the likes of me,” Marian laughed.  “That eye of the needle thing is probably more applicable.”

            “And now,” Hal said, with an appreciative smile, “you want to do something significant with your life?”

             “I’d like to continue my work with the homeless, only professionally.  To that end, I’ve applied for a job at the Nashville Mission.”

            As if the words carried an electric charge, everyone’s attention suddenly was focused on Marian, and her mother cried, “I’ve told her that’s not a proper thing for a woman to be doing.  Dreadful things go on there, I’ve heard.”

            “Oh, Mother,” Marian said, shaking her head, “I think it’s perfectly safe.  I’ve looked it up on-line and visited it when I was here prior to my move, and I think it would be a very interesting place to work.”  Then she turned to Hal and said, “But enough about me.  I know you’re a publisher of Cityscape magazine, and I’ve seen copies of it at Mother’s.  How did that come about?”

            And for the remainder of the meal, the conversation centered around Hal’s venture, the stories he’d covered, and his personnel, until the few who had succumbed to a sherbet and ice cream dessert were finished.  He felt he hadn’t talked about himself that much in years.  In order to simplify matters, Hal picked up the bill for the party, which was fine.  He had few expenses in his bachelor life, and this was an unusual occasion.  He felt strangely happy and full of well being this evening.

            “We’d better hurry to TPAC,” Hal’s brother-in-law said, snapping shut his cell phone,“since it’s nearly time for the curtain.   I’ve ordered a taxi to drop us off there and pick us up after the ballet, so we won’t have to either walk or move our cars around.  I just checked with the cab company, and it’s out front as we speak.  How does that sound?”

            Everyone congratulated him on his forethought, and the group moved to the sidewalk where one of the roomier cabs awaited them.  Hal and Marian were the first to get in, which required crawling into the far back seat.  He went ahead and helped her to get situated, both of them laughing at the awkwardness of SUVs.  Hal was very pleased the way the evening was progressing.  He couldn’t fault his mother for her manipulating this occasion.  So much for Marian the Librarian.

            After Swan Lake, a nice but familiar performance for most of the company, they exited the taxi at the various places where their cars were parked.  Hal and his mother were the first to reach their parking garage.  He’d had little opportunity to be alone with Marian to set up some further meeting, but he had found out she had purchased a condo somewhere on West End, and believing they’d gotten along well, he planned to find her number and give her a call.  He couldn’t claim sparks, exactly, but she was a lovely woman as well as intelligent and interesting.  Going against his habitual lack of momentum when it came to such things, he decided she was worth pursuing to get better acquainted.

            “So what did you think?” Hal’s mother queried as they drove home.  “It wasn’t a bad evening, was it?”

            “No, Mom, you did good.  Actually, Marian’s something of a puzzle, a pretty one, for sure, and you know I’ve always liked a mystery, so I may have to check her out further.”

            Adele clapped her hands together.  “I knew it!  I just had a feeling about this.  So you’ll be asking her out then?”

            “I think I will.  Of course, I don’t know if she’ll be interested in going out with me.”

            “What girl wouldn’t?  Of course, she’d be pleased as punch.”  She got out of the car in her own driveway and leaned in before closing the door.  “Let me know what happens.  Promise?”

            “Yes, my dear, I’ll keep you informed.  Now scoot.  It’s past your bedtime.”

            But what surprised him the most was that he couldn’t wait until the next day, but called information and got her number as soon as he was inside his house.  He hesitated a moment before ringing her, wondering if she stopped at her mother’s or had he even given her enough time to reach her place.  He punched in the number resolutely and was gratified to hear her low voice answer, “Hello?”

            He knew he sounded a bit gruff when he asked her if she enjoyed the evening, but that was him, and she surely knew that by now.  In fact, she made it easy, saying she was glad he called since she wanted to know if he’d like to go with her to an exhibition of medieval religious icons and objects from the Metropolitan Museum Cloisters collection--if he hadn’t already been.

            She explained further as if having to tempt him.  “Mother’s seen it, and I’ve read up on these items, which are supposed to be fabulous.  Does that interest you?”  She laughed then, rather self-consciously, he thought, which was rather endearing.

            “Sure, I’d like to go, and no, I haven’t yet been.  Good idea.”  They agreed on the following Saturday afternoon at 2:30.  After wishing her a good night, he rang off and sat for a moment, wondering about her–she went straight to the point, that was for sure.   He normally gave a wide berth to socialites, particularly wealthy ones since their lives had little in common with his own.  But Marian seemed different, iconoclastic, he thought, despite the fur and diamonds.  That business about wanting to work at the Nashville Mission, for instance, was what?  A genuine interest in helping the underclass?  Or was she merely getting off on playing Lady Bountiful?  Time would tell, and for now he was willing to take that time.

NEIGHBORS: An Excerpt from the Foxhill Series

Chapter 1

            They looked a bit out of the ordinary to her, but in this neighborhood, she knew from living here for almost five years, first in the apartment, now in her own place, non-conformity was the rule, not the exception.  People of different ilk seemed eager to move into a historically important place, including herself.  Paige Crowell considered herself a responsible sort of homeowner, the kind the Foxhill Association loved—widowed, just under fifty, presentable, and gainfully employed.  In fact, she was still able to attract the opposite sex as she sometimes told herself.  She thought less and less, though somewhat ruefully, of her short-lived romance she’d ended a couple of years ago; but no, she wouldn’t lament over that. 

            Now, she was settled quite happily into her own early 1900s piano box or spinet style home, looking with interest at an aging hippy and his wife, who were moving in across the street.  This identity of theirs Paige felt quite certain about as she noted the man’s sandals over a pair of socks, his shaggy beard and little pony tail, as well as his wife’s long straight hair, now graying, and her gauzy shirt over a long cotton skirt.  How inappropriate, Paige thought, for transporting boxes and furnishings over the broken sidewalk going to their house and through the tall grass if she took a shortcut.  Sometimes, the woman stepped on her skirt as she traversed the three stairs leading to the porch.  One or the other or both of them probably wore a peace symbol on a chain close to their heart.  They seemed like impractical, other-worldly types, always rather endearing people to Paige’s buttoned-up banker’s heart.

            She was observing them from the white painted wooden bench on her front porch. She’d gone out this Saturday morning to enjoy the late spring air and, by happenstance, view the activity on the corner, an obvious activity with a U-haul truck parked in the drive.  The house had sat empty for nearly six months before being sold.  The elderly Glenn sisters had died, one after the other in the space of a year, leaving the 1900-era four-square house looking rather seedy and unkempt.  The neighbors had anxiously awaited a sale in the hope some eager fixer-uppers would buy the old place and restore it.  Next door to Paige and a twin to the house across the street, the Metcalfs’ house gleamed with its white paint and dark green trim, its red tile roof and new copper flashing on the chimney.            

            Paige knew all about the history of the matching four-square houses: the grandson of the original plantation owners of Foxhill, now the name of the neighborhood, presented to his twin daughters matching homes upon their marriages, a double wedding, no less.  Paige’s neighbors, Martha and Hank Metcalf, had lived in their house for twelve years, Hank having plenty of income as an insurance executive to restore it to pristine condition.  The bane of their existence was the ever increasing dowdiness of the yellow painted twin across the street from them. 

            “When we bought our house,” Martha had confided to Paige, “we were the ones who had to scramble to get up to standard.  The Glenns were still living off the benefits of their parents’ will and keeping their place immaculate.  Gradually, though, it went downhill as the poor dears got in worse and worse shape, both financially and physically.” 

            Martha Metcalf was an attractive, athletically inclined woman with crisply curling black hair and warm, tobacco colored eyes.  She was near Paige’s own age and had one son, Rick, in his senior year at Duke.  Looking every inch the handsome, successful scion of a pair of successful, talented people, Rick had recently arrived home for the summer and planned on doing some computer work in his father’s office.

            Paige always looked at the Metcalfs admiringly, almost enviously, the family characterized by beauty of person, including not only Martha and good-looking Rick, but also the very attractive Hank.  Then too, even the grounds surrounding their house seemed perfection, being immaculately groomed like a park.   Martha herself slaved over the iris and tulip beds, regularly keeping the gold mound shrubs under control, even wrestling with tree shears and whacking off the tough, low-hanging limbs of the male Osage orange that grew like a giant umbrella in the back yard.  Luckily for its existence, only the female tree produced the nasty green “oranges.” The mowing was handled by a lawn service, who also took care of periodic fertilizing and pest control.  Paige had tried to mow her own small yard herself, but gave up after a harried summer at her job and engaged the same service.

            She wondered how the new neighbors would landscape their place.  These two corner houses in Foxhill called attention to themselves, being large and in a prominent location from the main and side streets.  She hoped they would remove or at least trim the scraggly forsythia on one corner of the house as well as the overgrown bridal wreath in front.  It was a very large house, but she saw no sign of a family to fill it up.  Maybe they worked at home and needed the space.  She was sure to find out soon, for Martha would make it her task to inquire, probably with a neighborly pan of brownies or a casserole.   Also in her hand would be the sheet of Foxhill Association rules and regulations, which as secretary of the Association she felt it her duty to present to all newcomers in the area.

            Always a concern to Martha and others in the Association were places like the large Victorian Queen Anne next door to the corner house.  It seemed quite naturally to turn a blind eye to the moving-in activity, with renters as the sole occupants.  It had been divided into apartments years before and though the owners lived elsewhere, it was fairly well kept up, so far, but with renters and absentee owners, neighbors were on the alert for signs of disintegration.  The apartment occupants were young working people who took little interest in the neighbors, coming and going from work to entertainments, Paige supposed, for she seldom saw any of them for any length of time, except a man who jogged through the neighborhood each morning.

            Paige couldn’t see the Metcalfs’ driveway from her vantage point with the two projecting ells on either side of her porch enclosing her, but she heard the low purr of Rick’s sports car as he backed out.  Before he got to the street, however, he saw her and gave a friendly wave.  A nice young man, Paige thought, though she had very little personal knowledge of his attributes, other than he had a friendly manner and the fact that he was managing to stay in college.  So many of the professional people she knew had problems with their children.  Odd, really, that prosperity ruined so many.  At least in her lonely, childless state she was spared that worry.

            She went back into the house when she noticed the new neighbors had noticed her.  The man nodded and she smiled, but she decided her scrutiny might seem a bit pointed if it went on too long.  Besides, she had things to do today, her cleaning and errand day, always busy for a working woman, and it was nearly nine o’clock.  But after her chores around the house were completed and she was sitting in her art deco kitchen eating a bowl of cereal, her doorbell rang.  She couldn’t imagine who’d be calling on her, but she hurried to the front door.  Martha stood before her, holding with oven mitts a large covered dish, her eyebrow raised, her lips pursed in one of her assumed dramatic poses that she used for various effects. 

            “What’s all this?” Paige asked, standing aside for her to come into the room.

            “Have some chicken confetti spaghetti.  They don’t want it,” she said with a head gesture toward the house across the street. She spoke emphatically but not really in an angry tone.

            Paige looked with dismay at the large casserole being offered to her.  It would take days to down it by herself, and she hadn’t planned on having any dinner parties.  Her innate sense of fairness obligated her to at least make the attempt to eat all of it.  Well, there was always the freezer, the saving grace of leftovers.

            Martha zoomed though the living room into the kitchen, with Paige following, where she set her dish on the stove.  “I thought I’d be neighborly, even though I’d already decided they didn’t look our sort, and I fixed this complicated casserole, not that I minded.  You know me, Paige, it’s what I do.  Well, guess what?  They’re vegetarians.  Thanks but no thanks, they said.  Didn’t even invite me in. What do you think of that?”

            “I–I don’t know.  They’re very busy, it looks like.  And I suppose people have a right to not to eat meat.”

            “They seem a certain type, wouldn’t you say?” Martha continued, her normally smooth brow furrowed.  “The artsy-fartsy type, maybe?”

            Paige laughed.  “I wouldn’t be surprised.  Actually, I’ve dealt with the ‘flower children’ crowd before and usually they lead simple lives in an attempt at some sort of purity, according to their thinking.  For the most part, they pay their bills and cause no problems at the bank, that’s for sure.  Hate to take out loans, for example.”

            Martha gave a sigh and turned to go.  She seldom stayed long at Paige’s house, always claiming to have a multitude of tasks awaiting her.  “We’ll see,” she said after a long pause, “if you’ve analyzed them accurately.”  She turned and sailed out of the room, flinging back at Paige, “Enjoy the casserole!”

            “Wait, wait, Martha,” Paige cried, pursuing her, “you’re the one with big eaters over there.  Don’t you think you should keep it?”

            “Made two,” she said, letting the screen door slam behind her.

Chapter 2

           

            But it was Paige who discovered the facts about the new neighbors in a most satisfactory and unexpected way.  She had been at work the next week, as usual seeing customers in her office, those wanting to open a new account or apply for a loan.  Paige worked in a branch of the bank located near her home, and as one of two vice presidents in charge there, she had to handle a variety of transactions. 

            She didn’t recognize at first the couple that entered her office on Wednesday and sat down across from her desk.  She smiled at them and gave her usual pleasant opening, “And what can I do for you?” when it occurred to her they just might be the people she’d seen moving in across the street.  She looked from one to the other as the man said they wished to open a checking account.  Yes, she was sure it was her new neighbors that she’d viewed from her porch, dressed more formally now, but only just, the man in a plaid shirt worn outside a pair of wrinkled slacks, the woman, who up close was rather attractive in a gaunt, au naturale sort of way, wearing a butcher linen dress with a long, straight skirt and strands of colored beads around her neck.

            As Paige took out the various forms for the couple to fill out, she asked, “Are you folks newcomers to the city, by any chance?”

            “Yes,” the man said, “I’m Stewart Carpenter, and this is my wife, Noreen.  We just recently moved to Nashville.  I’ve just gotten on with the Symphony.  I’m an oboist.”

            “Oh, that’s very interesting,” Paige said enthusiastically.  A respectable musician, no less.  That will be something to report to Martha.  “I believe I’m your neighbor,” she went on, continuing to take her measure of the two.  Noreen hadn’t yet said a word.  “I live across the street in the little piano box house it’s called, for the style of 19^th century pianos.  I saw you last Saturday when you were moving in.”

            “Ah,” said Stewart, nodding.  He turned to his wife.  “We were too busy to notice neighbors, weren’t we, hon, but one lady came over with something to eat, which because of our dietary restrictions, we were sorry to refuse.”

            “We don’t eat meat,” Noreen said in a voice stronger than Paige might have imagined.  She looked meek, but that might be a misjudgment.  “Or fish or eggs, for that matter,” the woman persisted.

            Paige hardly knew how to respond to such information.  “I see,” she said, and then changing the subject and getting back to business, she explained about their choices in checking and savings accounts.  The couple looked at one another and made up their minds, presenting a cashier’s check to Paige to open the account.

            “We have savings at our bank in Birmingham, which we can move out later,” said Stewart.

            “Of course.  Whenever it’s convenient.   Now if I can have your signatures on this card–and we’ll get your check deposited.”  While they were complying, Paige said in a friendly fashion, “Do you have family?  That’s a nice sized place you’ve bought.”

            “Just our daughter, Aurora,” Stewart replied, “we’ll be picking her up at Berea this weekend.   We’re real proud of her.  She’s got a full academic scholarship, but she’ll be looking for work this summer.  I don’t suppose there’d be anything here,” he added with a grin through his blondish beard.  His wife looked around the office as if she might spy an available job.

            “I’m afraid we’ve already selected our two summer interns,” Paige responded. “Is your daughter majoring in finance?”  That seemed most unlikely, given her parents.

            “Not really,” her father said, “but summer jobs are kind of hard to come by.”  He looked at his wife.  “I guess Aurora could help Noreen in her business.”

            Paige raised her eyebrows inquiringly.  “Oh?”

            “That’s why we love our new house,” Noreen said. “It will give me room for a kiln–in the basement, I mean.”

            “Ah,” Paige gave a knowing nod, “so you’re a potter.”

            “Indeed she is,” her husband said proudly.  “She’s won prizes–her things are in porcelain.  That’s pretty rare, you know.”

            “I’m sure it is.  I’d love to see some of your work.”  Paige rose and ushered them from her office, leading them to a particular cashier to make their deposit.  The couple took turns shaking Paige’s hand before she went back to her office.  She wasn’t put off by them, but she wasn’t particularly impressed either.  She was pretty sure they’d not become fast friends.  Aurora?  As best she remembered, that was some sort of goddess.  She quickly checked on her computer and found it was the goddess of the dawn, “the rosy-fingered one.”  Of course.

            Paige wasn’t the sort of person who dropped in casually at her neighbors.  For one thing, she wasn’t particularly close to any of them.  The Metcalfs had their own busy lives, both Hank and Martha involved in numerous activities that seemed to keep them constantly on the go.  Paige felt little connection to them other than gratitude that they were highly respectable and responsible neighbors.  On the other side of her house, the resident in a red brick, 1929 English style two-story was elderly and apt to be nosy.  A daughter periodically came around to check on her and take her to various appointments, according to Mrs. Hammond, the lady of the house that Paige had met outside when she was moving in and now occasionally over the rose bushes out back.   This was fine with Paige, who tended to keep to herself and her long-time friends.

            Yet, the information collected at work about the new neighbors Paige felt Martha would be pleased to know, having been so definitely rebuffed in her attempt at neighborliness.  As Paige passed her living room window after work on Friday, she saw Martha’s car pull into the drive and around back to the detached garage, enlarged several years ago to hold three cars.  Paige made up her mind and went swiftly to her back door, intercepting Martha as she started for her house.

            “Martha!”

            The woman turned and gave Paige a look of mock surprise.  “Hello, neighbor.  What’s going on?”

            Paige joined Martha and walked slowly with her toward the Metcalfs’ patio.  “I found out some interesting facts about our new neighbors, which I was sure you’d like to hear.”  Martha gestured for her to sit in one of the wrought iron chairs around a matching umbrella table, where she joined Paige. 

            “What, for heaven’s sake?” urged Martha.  “Is he a registered sex offender?  Does she do palm readings?  I’d not be surprised at anything.”

            Paige laughed.  “They’re seemingly respectable, if different.” Paige gave Martha the run-down on the Cartwrights’ occupations, watching Martha’s face change from avid curiosity to surprise to a kind of acceptance. 

            “Artsy-fartsy, just as I suspected.”

            “Yes, but not far out, really.”

            “Oh, really?” Martha countered.  “We’ll see.  I just hope they are conventional when it comes to taking care of the house and lawn.  They can do whatever in their private live, eat tofu, play the sitar, whatever.  Just so they keep up appearances.”

            Paige hesitated a moment and then said, “They asked if there might be something for their daughter in the way of work this summer at the bank.  Of course, we’re a small branch with little summer hiring, so I couldn’t help, but maybe if Hank put in a word at his company, just a word to the H.R. department, she might be taken on.”

            “Isn’t that carrying neighborliness a bit far?” Martha said.  “I mean, we don’t know them, or the daughter at all.  What’s her name?  Aurora?  How peculiar, but I guess it’s better than the girls names I hear all about me now–Taylor, Macy, Shepherd, Quincy–oh, well, times change, don’t they, Paige?”

            Paige had a moment of embarrassment as she reflected her own name wouldn’t pass muster with Martha, who continued on with her musings. “ I’ll tell you what, you say they’re bringing her home this weekend?  Well, if I see them outside, I’ll make a point of greeting them–again.  If I can meet the daughter, I’ll see what I can do.  I’m nothing if not persistently friendly!”  She gave a peal of laughter.

            Paige smiled in agreement.  “That would be nice of you.  I had a feeling they might be operating pretty close to the vest.  I doubt that a Symphony member makes that much.  I’ve heard they have to do a lot of moonlighting, and how much work can an oboist get?”

            With that, Paige parted from her neighbor, feeling she’d done her good deed for the day and not quite knowing why she’d bothered.   There was something about the new neighbors that evoked her interest.

Why I Never Became a Golfer Like My Siblings

My immediate family could be called athletically inclined:  During my parents’ early years they both played on their high school basketball teams, and although my mother gave up team sports when she started a family, she walked regularly and managed to play a fast game of softball in her eighties.  Dad was on several teams sponsored by the company where he worked; he had workouts with friends at handball; and eventually in his middle years to the end of his life, he bowled on a team.

Bette and Jeanne

            But on to golf.  My two brothers and my sister have always enjoyed the game, playing until ill health forced the two older ones to give it up.  So during the summer of my senior year in high school when I heard that the City of Des Moines was offering free golf to those under the age of eighteen, I thought it would be a kick to practice during the summer and then join the girls golf team in the fall.  I needed to have a confederate join me and managed to talk my friend Bette into the plan.  My dear accommodating father would drive us several times a week to Grandview Park Golf Course, meeting the further requirement of arriving to play before 6:00 A.M.  Bette’s mother would pick us up in time to get to our summer jobs by 8:00.  It seems a crazy plan in retrospect, and as it turned out, it was not only crazy but ended up disastrously, though not involving life or limb.

            Golf clubs were no problem, a few rejects supplied by my sister and a old, lightweight bag donated by my brother.  These two sibs were twelve and ten years my senior, respectively, so they should have had much advice for me, though neither one offered personalized instruction on the golf course, which might have made a difference—or maybe not!  Bette and I happily shared the clubs and set off around the course on our first golf outing.  It became clear very quickly that Bette had a talent for the game, maybe for athletics in general, that I didn’t share.  Her swing seemed natural and gave the promise of long drives, while mine gave me trouble in hitting the ball.

            Then my putting was equally disappointing.  I couldn’t believe how difficult it was to judge distance in getting the ball into the cup.  We didn’t keep score, but it became evident that my strokes were considerably more than Bette’s.  Nonetheless, I decided and Bette agreed to sign up for the team when school started.  A physical was required to make it official, and in my usual efficient way, I got that taken care of promptly with Dr. Hansen (See post October 3, 2013 "The Good Doctor").  Bette had not done so when our sponsor (not a coach), Mr. Schakel, told us the team was scheduled to play in the All City Tournament almost immediately.  So Bette was out of the play and I was in, though I had not ever once played with my fellow teammates.

            Mr. Schakel, a history teacher, was also inexperienced, and didn’t realize that the lineup he submitted to the tournament director was to start with the top player and go down the list in expertise from there.  With that reckoning, I would have been on the bottom where I belonged.  As it happened, he put my name first.  In fact, when we all were at Hole One that day after school at the city golf course (an entirely new one to me), we were told that we couldn’t re-hit a topped ball in teeing off, but had to play it as it lay.  Then I got the horrible news, that I was the first one to tee off, and that my teammates were last year’s city champion, and two runners-up!  Mr. Schakel, embarrassed, explained his error and I crumpled inside.

            This was when I should have begged off, but I gamely carried on, even in the presence of scores of people, including reporters from the Des Moines Register and Tribune, I swung and topped the ball, and automatically tried to pick it up for another try.  Of course, I was halted by the loud speaker to desist and play it where it lay.  That was the beginning of the nightmare, lived in full color with no hope of my waking up.  I can’t recall with certainty, but I expect there were at least eight or ten foursomes, all of whom played through us because of me.  My score swelled to a huge number. and my teammates grew more and more angry.  I couldn’t blame them, but I didn’t know what to do except keep on playing.  I remember chatting with our caddies who were from the boys golf teams.  One got my name and number and later called me for a date. Why, I have wondered many times since, didn’t someone suggest I bow out early when it became obvious I didn’t have a clue as to the techniques of the game, nor any real ability besides? 

            The sun was setting when we had to stop playing because of visibility.  We had not gotten beyond the seventh hole, disqualifying the ex-champs.  They couldn’t escape from me fast enough.  The drive home in Mr. Schakel’s car was eerily quiet until he said to me, “I felt so sorry for you.  Will you forgive me?”  I must have muttered something semi-gracious.  Then he asked if he might smoke, saying his nerves were shattered.  I wouldn’t have minded one myself.   It may come as no surprise to hear that not only did I abandon the golf team, but also I never, with no regrets, played another game of golf.