Old Times, New Swindl by Edward Ahern,Sancerre

The way to the cottage lead through the village of Chippewa Falls. The self-effacing little shops of my youth had been razed and replaced with the garish homogenization of chain stores and fast-food restaurants. I stopped for provisions at a surviving grocery store and drove on.

The modest lakeside cottage my grandfather built was as I remembered, overlaid with the patina of pine needle neglect that a vacant home gets in the woods. I did a quick walk through, noticing some mouse droppings. The electricity had been turned back on for me and I plugged in laptop and hot spot phone and caught up. There was a message from a local lawyer asking if he could stop by the next day, I confirmed the meeting, my litigious antennae quivering.

Then I called my brother.

“Sammy, me. The place is pretty much as you would remember it, just a little neglected since uncle Pete hadn’t lived here for a year.”

“Hey John. So you made it back there. Listen, thanks again. The other seven cousins I know appreciate having a licensed lawyer handling uncle Pete’s estate.”

He was gentle enough not to mention that I could also handle things because I was without a job.

“Yeah, it’s a shame none of us are willing to take on the place. Although, it would be a masochistic love affair– the bones of the cottage seem sound but it needs a lot of prettifying.”

“There’s a couple of us who’ll cringe at a big repair bill.”

I laughed. “Getting agreement on paying for improvements will be like negotiating with the North Koreans. Still, the place has to be habitable for us to sell it.”

Sammy paused. “Not to sound greedy, but what’s your guess on the value of the overall estate?”

“House and investments a little over four million. Less a hundred thousand in expenses and my executor’s fee.”

“That lets me pay for a couple college educations. Are you still doing okay, bro?”

“As good as it gets.” Which was a lie, because I was still frequently Jonsing.

After we hung up, I went down to the lake. The water was higher than I remembered, and preseason cold. I changed into my bathing suit, found a fusty smelling but apparently clean towel and went for a swim.

I retreated after fifteen minutes. My forties body and fifty-five-degree water weren’t copasetic. There was a full-length mirror on the upstairs landing, and I shucked my bathing suit and stared at myself. A little gaunt from bad eating habits and too much coke, but hopefully salvageable.

Dinner was a quick pasta al forno and salad. As I got ready for bed I noticed a light on two cottages down the beach. The old Fayerweather place. Somebody else was here too early.

That next morning two different contractors came out to the cottage to give it a look see and begin to calculate cost of repairs. It was depressing. They both gave initial indications in the fat five figures.

Then I went back into town to buy the groceries I’d forgotten and to verify with the town clerk about the existence of a deed and the lack of a mortgage. I allowed myself a draft beer at the glorified corner tavern, reaffirming that the local brew was still piss. There was a guy in a corner booth who looked like my old dealer. I tried to ignore him.

Once back on Mullet Beach I drive two cottages further along from ours, got out of the car, and knocked on the back door. A woman opened it and stared at me dubiously. “Yes?”

I knew her. “Maureen? Maureen Fayerweather?” We’d been close and I was tickled to see her.

“Yes?” In a flat tone.

“It’s John Reynolds. From just down the beach. We used to play together.”

“Johnny?” She looked me over, then grinned. “You are, aren’t you. A little balder, but maybe intact.”

I was also studying her. Her teenage pudgy had slimmed down to an angular shapely. She wore no makeup and her hair was in a bun, and she looked wholesomely good.

“We should catch up. Come on in, I’ll make some fresh coffee.”

I did. The Fayerweather ‘cottage’ really belonged in an upscale gated community– five bedrooms, four bathrooms, layered amenities. I’d had one of these but was still impressed. “You’ve made some improvements.”

She laughed. “Not me, my oldest brother who’s moved into a glorified assisted living place. I’m either a squatter or a caretaker depending on who you’re talking to.”

“So you live here year-round?”

“It’s rent free and I can work from anywhere, so I’m a slowly acclimating townie.”

Neither of us was wearing a wedding ring. I remembered a self-revealing game we used to play.  “I’ll tell you about me if you tell me about you.”

Her lips puckered. “Do you want the cocktail party spin drift or the dirty secrets?”

“Gory details please.”

“I’ve had bad taste in men. Twice married, twice divorced. No children fortunately.” She shifted her position in her chair. “I picked up a BA and an MFA from the U of Michigan, and eventually set up a graphic design company that I sold about three years ago. Right now, I free-lance.”

I nodded. “I developed a couple bad habits that pushed my wife toward another man. I’ve never remarried.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t blame her.” I paused. “I did love her though. Anyway, BA and law degree, a career in one of the big business representation firms, then very early retirement.”

“Oh, health issues?”

I hesitated, but it was no secret. “I was the figurehead that got jettisoned in a corporate storm made worse by my using toot. Handsomely rewarded for going away.”

Her down turned lips were appealing. “I may have overused a bit myself. More coffee?”

“No thanks.” We exchanged some reminiscences and phone numbers and I left. Advocatus loci was waiting for me at our cottage. He had that lean and hungry look Shakespeare warns us about.

“John Reynolds? I’m Frank Andrews, the legal representative for Andrea Boudreaux.

“Bourdeaux who?”

“Ms. Boudreaux was the constant companion and confidant of the late Peter Charlton, and is suing for her deserved portion of his estate. Here are the papers I’m required to provide you.”

I had a brief full body inner jangling, then steadied down. “Mr. Andrews, I should tell you that there’s no mention of her in the will.”

“We have documentation and verification of their relationship and Mr. Charlton’s intent. for Ms. Boudreaux.

Andrews clearly had no idea what I’d been like to deal with as a lawyer, so I just smiled and accepted the papers without counter threats. Suffice it that my whispered corporate nickname had been Junkyard as in dog. After he left, I went in and read the paperwork. He’d made mistakes in the filing that I could use, but first things first.

As executor I had no choice but to notify the beneficiaries of the claim against the estate and what steps I would take to evaluate and perhaps contest it. Most of the steps, anyway. I sent off the email and awaited the electronic hand wringing to follow.

Then I made a call. “Al? Me. I’d like to use your expertise to investigate two Michigan locals. Interested?...

“I hoped you would be. Subject one is an Andrea Boudreaux. Subject two, her lawyer, is a mope named Frank Andrews. I’ll send you specifics on both. She was companion caregiver for a deceased relative of mine. I need to know everything about her, right down to when she farted in church as a child. In addition to all the dirt I need to know about her relationship with my uncle, abusive, loving, whatever….

“That’s extortionate, but if you get results, I’ll pay it. You can reach me at this number. Thanks Al.”

I whipped up a quick Croque Madame, ate it, and walked down to the Fayerweather cottage. Maureen’s car was there, and she responded to my second knock.

“Hi, now that we’re reintroduced, I’m hoping to draw on your local knowledge.”

She smiled but didn’t invite me in. “If I can, I’m not completely bonded with the locals.”

“I’m in a quandary. Uncle Pete’s companion apparently was Andrea Boudreaux. She’s claiming they were close and demanding a portion of the estate, although there’s nothing in the will about her. If she’s correct, I have to weigh going outside the terms of the will. If she’s not, I should fight it. How well did you know her?”

Maureen’s lips were pursed. She hesitated, then spoke measuredly. “I knew Pete pretty well. He was one of those rambunctious old men I feel comfortable around. But Andrea I know only by gossip. She’s been married three times I’m told and did well out of every divorce. That’s unkind, maybe, but I think true.”

 about the author

 Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had about 7000 stories and poems published, and fourteen books. He's on the review board at Scribes Micro, and is the idle figurehead at Scribes Micro. 

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GIFTS THAT BIND by S. Nadja N Zajdman, amber-coloured tea with a twist of lemon

 

As soon as I grew out of them, which was soon, my daddy placed my baby booties on the rearview mirror of his car.  His cars would change over the course of the years, but I always think of Daddy’s car as a green Chevrolet whose back doors couldn’t open.  This was by design.  My brother and I had to climb through the front passenger door into the back seat.  This way, our parents were sure we wouldn’t fall out. 

Daddy considered my baby booties his good luck charm.  We came to think of them as a signpost.  In a crowded parking lot, we looked for what my little brother called, “Your shoes on the mirror.”

By the time I was twenty-five, these cloth booties began to fray, so Daddy took them to a shoemaker and had them bronzed.  However, on Montreal’s notorious potholed roads, the now-bronzed shoes would clang together, so, reluctantly, Daddy placed them in the glove compartment, which is where I found them when he died suddenly, two years later.  I keep them within sight, at my work station.  An image of them appears on the back cover of the memoir I wrote about Dad.  The front cover, which was enlarged to poster-size for my local library’s launch celebrating Jewish Heritage Month, features an image of  me in my daddy’s arms  with the original cloth booties protecting my tender and tiny feet .  I can’t fit my hand into the bronzed version, now.

I am older than my father was, when he died.  I am still astonished that I have lived almost my entire adult life without him.

about the author

 S. Nadja Zajdman is a Canadian author. She has published the story collections Bent Branches and The Memory Keeper, the memoirs I Want You To Be Free and Daddy's Remains, and the essay collection Between Worlds. 

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Let the waves carry you by sally Storr,a glass of strong spirits

Armine

Armine lowered her gaze as the Le Strange family passed her church pew. It would be very rude to stare, but she was entranced by the oldest son, Hamon. She had been gazing at the back of his head, with his dark wavy hair and upright posture. Now she heard his footsteps pass her and thought she caught a waft of his cologne. Well, a girl could dream.

            ‘It’s time,’ said Armine’s mother. ‘We can’t wait any longer. You’re sixteen. You can read and write, so you need to go into service and help us out.’

Armine was the oldest of six children. Her father had been a fisherman in Old Hunstanton all his life, but he was getting old and poorly – he was over fifty now - and he couldn’t work the long hours he used to, supporting the family. So, Armine’s mother found her a job at the newly established Le Strange Arms Inn, as a parlour maid. She started at six in the morning, and sometimes didn’t finish until ten at night. The cleaning work was hard but there was nothing she couldn’t do. It was Armine’s job to go round the lodging rooms each morning lighting the fires. She loved meeting the guests and seeing their possessions. If they were at breakfast, she liked nothing better than to go to the dressing table and pick up the shiny objects placed there, such as a silver brush, an ornate mirror, or a perfume bottle. She knew she shouldn’t, but she was so curious.

She worked hard – she looked around her at the guests and compared their lives with her own. What made them different? If hard work would mean a better life, she could do that. So, she worked even longer hours, earning extra for evening shifts and only taking a half day off each week. On her half day, she always went down to the beach, sat on a tuft of grass on the dunes and watched the tide go in and out. She breathed in the soft, salty air. Something about that air filled her lungs and her heart with joy. Much as she’d like to see the world, this is where she belonged.

Serena

The sea and the sky changed colour every time she looked at the view. It was mesmerizing: the tide retreating, the water becoming flat and calm as the sky transformed from dazzling blue, through turquoise, green and purple, eventually settling into orange and crimson, spreading across the sky as the sun slid further and further down the horizon. Serena felt like that scene, her emotions waxing and waning continuously as she contemplated the enormity of tomorrow. This time tomorrow she would be married and Serena would be sharing the bridal suite with Nathan. Was she doing the right thing? Of course. So many questions went through her mind, but Serena intended to enjoy every last moment of this view before she became a married woman.

Serena treasured the ocean and she loved quirky places, which is why she’d chosen The Le Strange Arms, at Old Hunstanton, as their wedding venue. She had fallen in love with the hotel and its location above the sand dunes as soon as she saw it. The hotel seemed to be built the wrong way round, its front facing the sea with its back to the village. Some of the rooms were a bit pokey by today’s standards, and the furnishings a bit of a jumble, but the charm of its Victorian history shone through all its foibles. It was built in the 1860s by Henri Le Strange, who had a vision for the first seaside holidays, when people would travel in the newly-invented train to spend time enjoying walks along the beach and the sea air. An advantage of its location was a magical view of the sun setting every evening over The Wash.

Serena sat on the window ledge and watched intently as the sun went down. She was very tired, with all the excitement of preparing for the wedding tomorrow. Her eyes grew heavy, but she couldn’t stop looking at the mid-summer sky, thinking about all the past visitors to The Le Strange Arms who would have seen the same sunset in years gone by. There was suddenly a frenzied knock at the bedroom door, which brought her to her senses.

‘Room service!’ called a young female voice, with a thick Norfolk accent.

‘Coming!’ she called back as she stood up and moved sluggishly towards the door.

‘Can’t wait all night,’ was the retort. The voice was muffled by the heavy wooden door between them. Serena heaved it open a crack at first. She hadn’t ordered anything but was inquisitive to know more about her visitor. It was dark in the corridor, especially in contrast to the light her eyes had been experiencing through the window. It took Serena a moment to adjust. A silver tray was thrust towards her. The frail-looking figure behind the tray was dressed in voluminous dark clothing, which appeared to cover her from head to foot.

‘It’s from the Master. He’s sent it special for you as he heard you were getting married tomorrow,’ said the girl. Serena opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t think what to say. Her mind was busy taking in this odd apparition.

‘You goin’ to take this?’ asked the girl.

‘Oh, OK. Don’t you want to come in?’ Serena asked.

‘I got work to do. Sleep well.’ Serena saw the glimmer of a smile, which lit up her face completely, as the mysterious female departed at speed down the corridor.

Armine

Sundays in church, Armine now sat with the staff from Le Strange Arms. She was close – oh so close to Hamon -but she didn’t dare to think he even noticed her existence. But one Sunday, as the Le Strange family rose and left their pew, Hamon’s sister Emmeline dropped her delicate hankie, embroidered with tiny roses, right next to Armine. Armine tried to call out after her, but she had gone. Hamon was just behind and he saw what had happened. He stopped and smiled broadly at Armine, and took the hankie.

            ‘Thank you so much. Emmeline will be very grateful.’ he said.

 Armine was overcome with delight. She could still smell the scent of roses from the hankie on her fingers. ‘I’m not going to wash my hands today,’ she thought. As time went on, Armine’s path crossed Hamon’s now and again. He got to know her face and always greeted her warmly. Armine found it hard to believe this man could be as kind as he was handsome. She couldn’t keep away from Le Strange Arms, living daily in hope that she might see him again.

On Midsummer’s Day, the Le Strange family held an Annual Ball to thank all the staff. It was traditional for the family members to serve and entertain the staff as a thank you for all their hard work on the longest day. As luck had it, Armine found herself in Hamon’s arms for a waltz. She’d never had the opportunity to learn to dance, so he had to guide her every step. She giggled and laughed, smiled and grinned her way through it and decided it was the best moment of her life.

Serena

Serena stood for a moment, staring down the corridor, wishing she had had the chance to find out more about her mysterious visitor. She put the tray down on a table. On it was a selection of delights, beautifully presented: a small bottle of champagne, a miniature box of truffle-filled chocolates, and a delicate hankie, embroidered with tiny roses – Serena’s favourite flowers! There was a card balanced against the bottle. Serena read the bold, blue handwritten note:

‘Let the waves carry you where the light cannot,’ it said. Underneath was an indecipherable signature. How charming, thought Serena. She noticed that the sun had well and truly set now. It must be way past ten o’clock. Where had the time gone? Serena enjoyed every last drop of champagne and the exquisite taste of each chocolate, before heading for bed. She picked up the beautiful hankie and instinctively sniffed it – a delicate rose perfume enveloped her. Gorgeous! she thought, as she relaxed into the heavenly starched white sheets of the king-sized bed. She slept heavily and woke up to the sound of her alarm. Her to-do list whizzed through her mind before she even opened her eyes to see the view of the beach, this time lit with a honeyed dawn light. She instantly remembered the wonderful gift on the silver tray and looked across to the table. But it wasn’t there. It was nowhere to be seen. How odd! Could she really have been so deeply asleep when the girl came back to collect it, that she didn’t hear her? Serena dismissed the thought at once as she had so much to do. The hairdresser and the make-up artist would be here in an hour, along with the three bridesmaids and the florist, and later the photographer.

 Serena felt dizzy with excitement. She gazed over at her peach lacy gown, which was hanging outside the wardrobe. The dress had an air of Victorian elegance about it, which fitted with her surroundings. She realized she couldn’t wait to put it on and marry Nathan. Any doubts she may have had last night had vanished with last night’s tide. As Serena went downstairs to breakfast, her eye caught sight of a painted portrait. It was fairly high up on the wall so she wouldn’t normally notice it, but something enticed her to raise her head and look at it properly.

Armine

Hamon was equally charmed by this young woman’s sense of humour and pretty figure. He was heir to his father’s fortune, and as such it was expected that he would marry gentry. But Hamon felt so attracted to the servant girl, he just couldn’t stop thinking about her. He contrived a meeting with Armine in the corridor. He knew she would be finishing her cleaning soon. When she appeared, her face was smudged with dirt, and she was carrying a bucket full of ashes. She gasped in surprise and then burst into laughter at herself. Hamon almost fell down laughing too.

‘I just wanted to give you this,’ he said as he passed her a small package. It was soft and pink, and smelt of roses. Armine opened it to reveal delicate hankie, embroidered with tiny roses

‘It’s beautiful!’ she gasped as she held it to her nose. ‘I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.’ she added.

Hamon roared.

‘Let’s just say I hope this is the first of many gifts. Will you wait for me tonight after dinner?’

Armine was deeply in love.  So much so, that she didn’t go home that night.  She waited down in the scullery, long after the other staff had gone to bed, warming herself in the butler’s worn old chair, by the red and orange embers of the fire. She was almost asleep when she heard a scurry of footsteps in the corridor, and Hamon came in.  He didn’t hesitate, just hurried up to her, knelt down and took her in his arms.  He kissed her softly.

‘I couldn’t wait any longer,’ he said. ‘I’ve been watching you in church for so long.  I know you are going to be mine.’  Armine was certain too as she gave in to her longing.

Serena

She stared as she took in the face. It was clearly an old image, and a little bit dusty. It had been there a long time. The face was strangely familiar. It was a young woman. She was wearing a wide brimmed bonnet, which obscured part of her face but her smile beamed out. She was seated in the picture and holding something in her left hand. Serena peered at the detail, as it was quite minuscule. It was a delicate hankie, embroidered with tiny roses. Serena could only gasp in surprise. She went to the reception desk and pointed up the stairs to the portrait.

‘Who, who is that?’ she asked.

‘Oh, that’s Armine. She was a serving girl here. Everyone loved her but I’m afraid it’s a rather sad tale.  She fell in love with the Master and he wasn’t allowed to marry her.  The day he married Lady Antonia, she went down to the beach, walked out to sea and never came back.  She couldn’t swim you see?’

Serena stood, her mouth open for a moment, in disbelief. Tears came to her eyes as she thought about the poor girl whose dreams could never come true.

 ‘Are you OK?’ asked the receptionist. ‘It’s your big day today isn’t it? Midsummer’s Day, and it’s going to be absolutely glorious.’

abou the author

Sally Storr recently retired from her work as a coach at The Open University. She has always been equally fascinated by human behaviour and by figures from literature. She’s been writing all her life but especially enjoys writing about quirky things that happen to ordinary people like herself.

  Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.