Tilting at Windmills (24 page)

Settling into a routine of sorts in Linden Corners left me open and vulnerable, as though life itself were waiting for me to drop my guard. In the days since our visit to the hardware store, Janey’s mood had brightened, and there was no sign of the deep worry that caused her to be so withdrawn. Annie, too, seemed immeasurably happy. Our days were filled with stolen kisses and open cuddling, with Janey joyously adding herself to the mix.

I’d also been busy out in the barn, the lumber from Chuck’s store having arrived on time. I was on a deadline, self-imposed as it were, but important nonetheless. And so for four days I hid myself in the barn while Annie worked, sometimes at the antique store, sometimes alone in the windmill, and Janey helped us both when she wasn’t playing by herself or with visiting friends.

Finally, my deadline came—the Saturday just after the Fourth of July. Annie had been called in to consult on a restoration project at the shop, and Janey had abandoned me in favor of a playdate with one of her numerous friends. That left me free to put the finishing touches on my surprise. It had to do with the bar, and it had all begun with Gerta’s offer to hand the running of the bar over to me. Though I’d stayed on at the bar, I had yet to give Gerta a definitive answer; I was working without a contract, so to speak, and the time had come to make things more permanent.

Gerta had invited me over for dinner one night, and over a farm-fresh country dinner, she launched into another plea to get me to commit, though all the while I knew I had already accepted the job. She’d baked that scrumptious strawberry pie, and I figured it would be easiest to let her think her fine cooking had won me over. So we settled upon an open-ended run for myself at the Corner, though with Gerta keeping ownership and control.

“What we need, Gerta, is a plan, to let everyone know that Connors’ Corners hasn’t changed, that George’s time-honored traditions haven’t gone anywhere. So I’ve got a proposal.” Then I proceeded to launch into my plan. A follow-up to First Friday, what I was dubbing Second Saturday, the same rules applying. Gerta was crazy about the idea. She immediately started getting the word out, and now, two weeks having flown like the wind, it was all anyone in town was talking about.

Now that the big day had arrived, I was ready to unveil my surprise.

I removed my treasure from the barn and loaded it into the back of Annie’s truck, covered it with an old bedsheet, secured it with rope, and then headed downtown to the bar. Gerta was already waiting for me in the driveway, her face lit with anticipation. She knew something was afoot but hadn’t any idea what. Surprises work best when they live up to expectation, and I had a sense this one would.

“What have you gone and done, Brian?” she asked, like a mother scolding her mischievous boy.

“Close your eyes,” I said.

Good sport that she was, she complied.

And then I set up the board across the porch, making sure the sheet didn’t fall off. Then I told Gerta to open her eyes, and as she did, I whipped the sheet off with a bit of flourish and there before her was a brand-new sign to be hung above the bar. The old, peeling Connors’ Corners sign was to be replaced, and the new sign, freshly painted in reds and grays and trimmed with gold, read, simply, proudly,
GEORGE
’
S
TAVERN
.

Gerta opened her mouth but no words came out. She held a hand to her heart, then used her free one to wipe away a tear. Finally, she found her voice. “This is near about the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

She beckoned me forward and I bent to accept her tender kiss.

Just then, Chuck Ackroyd stepped out of his hardware store, crossed the street, and sidled up right between us.

“Afternoon, Gerta, Brian. What’s the fuss?”

“Oh, Chuck, would you look at what Brian’s gone and done?”

He looked squarely at the sign, then grimaced. “Huh. So that’s what you were working on. Would’ve figured you’d name it after yourself.”

Gerta scolded him, and I let her. “Shame on you, Chuck Ackroyd.”

Probably he’d meant it as a joke, but it lacked any amount of humor. I watched as humiliation colored his skin.

“Chuck, you should be helping Brian, you know.”

“Hey, I’ve already done my part for the day,” he said, “by telling that woman where to find him.”

“What woman?” I asked.

“Pretty woman,” he said. “Striking. Had a set of legs, I’ll tell you. She comes into Martha’s about noon, has a quick lunch, and begins asking questions. About ol’ Brian Duncan Just Passing Through. Sara managed to spill some info before Martha hushed her up, told her not to gossip. Me, I didn’t mind helping out. Heck of a looker, Brian. Real sleek creature, clothes that said she was a city girl, you know?” He grinned with unappealing teeth. “’Cept she wasn’t no girl.”

“Did she give a name?” My voice had grown shaky, wary.

“Nope. All she volunteered was the fact she was looking for you. And I pointed right across the street to those upstairs windows. Said you lived there, but probably could be found at Annie Sullivan’s place, first right at the windmill.”

Urgency demands action. With barely an explanation or apology, I said good-bye to Gerta and raced for the truck. Then I backed out of George’s and hit the accelerator. I tore through the village, folks stopping and staring, Marla and Darla especially, from their usual seats outside their stores. In less than five minutes, I’d pulled into Annie’s driveway. I saw that my own car was parked near the farmhouse. Annie had borrowed it while I used her truck. She was back from work. Beside it was an unfamiliar-looking Ford Contour, a rental, I assumed.

“Annie? Annie?” I yelled, jumping down out of the truck.

Janey greeted me on the porch.

“Hi, sweetie . . .”

“A friend of yours has come to visit,” she said.

She poked a finger toward the kitchen. “Where the adults always congregate.” She smiled. “That’s a new word,
congregate.”

I patted her head quickly, then opened the screen door and burst into the kitchen, where I saw Annie, still dressed in the white smock she wore when doing staining, leaning against the counter, a coffee cup in hand. Sitting down at the table, dressed in New York black and also drinking coffee, was another woman. She didn’t get up. Together, they were a contrast of colors.

“You didn’t exactly get very far away from the city, did you, Brian?” asked Madison Laurette Chasen, sending the synapses of my brain into hyperdrive. This could be nothing but trouble with a capital
T
. Then she said, with a slightly mocking tone, “And what’s all this silly stuff about a windmill?”

T
HIRD
I
NTERLUDE

“
I
knew you were a nutcase the moment you arrived in town. The way you let yourself be talked into running the bar. And now this? Yup, just plain nuts.”

Chuck Ackroyd and Brian Duncan had never exactly become friends over the months, despite the fact that they both knew and loved George Connors—a common bond that failed to unite them. Still, Chuck owed him, and owed him big. Trouble was, Chuck had a hard time admitting to such a thing.

“I’m not asking you to help, Chuck. I’m just asking if it’s possible—and if these plans will help.”

With reluctance worn on his sleeve, Chuck grabbed the crinkled sheets of paper and said, “Well, lemme have a look.”

It was the morning after Janey’s visit with her mother, just sixteen hours since Annie had awakened and smiled and given them hope that all would be fine in time. Encouraged by the previous day’s events, Brian and Janey decided to forge ahead with their plan, and that required a drive to town.

It was noon when Brian and Janey arrived at Chuck’s hardware store—Ackroyd’s Hardware Emporium—in the center of Linden Corners’ tiny business district. And Chuck was just closing up the store for lunch. Brian asked if he could wait a moment, and Chuck said no, he was hungry, and so Brian asked if he could join Chuck for lunch—his treat. That certainly did the trick, and Chuck’s perpetual frown settled into a mildly irritated grimace. Janey’s presence helped, and together the three of them walked into the Five-O.

Brian and Chuck took up on the same side of the booth. Janey sat on her knees opposite them, and each of them had their drinks—two Cokes for Brian and Janey and a Budweiser for Chuck. They were busy poring over the plans of the old windmill. Brian kept silent while Chuck mulled them over.

“What are you boys up to?” asked Martha Martinson, as she set down the day’s lunch specials—meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans for the men, a burger and extra fries for Janey. A big meal at midday, but the perfect energy booster for folks with a plan.

Chuck stopped looking at the blueprints, took a big bite of food, waited for Brian to answer the question she had posed. What exactly did Brian have in mind?

So, Brian, with a quick gulp, admitted that he knew his plan bordered on the outrageous.

“Why is that?” Martha asked him.

“Because,” Brian said, “I want to rebuild the windmill.”

He wasn’t sure what reaction he expected, but Martha’s big round face opened wide with joy, immediately setting him at ease.

“That’s a wonderful idea, Brian Duncan Just Passing Through.” And there was a little sparkle in her eye. “And I know just how you’re gonna do it.”

“How?”

“Not alone, I’ll tell you that much.”

Janey’s voice rang out in a cheer that filled the small diner with the sound of hope, spreading smiles to everyone’s faces, Chuck’s, too. Janey held that kind of innocent power.

T
hat afternoon, Janey played quietly outside while Brian continued to puzzle over the windmill’s plans. He knew it could not be rebuilt by sheer will alone. It wouldn’t be easy, he knew, but then he thought of Annie, desperately clinging to life, and realized anything was possible—her recovery and their future; the windmill’s too.

He was in Annie’s study, taking care of the matters that don’t wait for tragedy to pass by, bills and other household chores. He sat at Annie’s desk, filing paperwork, when he came on an envelope that struck him as familiar. Surprised, he realized the letter, addressed to Annie, was in Maddie’s handwriting. Unable to check his curiosity, he withdrew the letter and began reading. It seemed the light dimmed as he read, and a mood settled over him as he absorbed Maddie’s words, a pleading apology for her behavior when she’d come to Linden Corners. Her regret over what she’d done and all that Annie had lost as a result. Brian read the letter a second time and then quietly put it back where he’d found it. Maddie had said nothing to him, not the last time he’d seen her; nor had Annie. This was a silent pact between Maddie and Annie, an attempt at healing through words. Brian felt a sadness for Maddie, his thoughts drifting to happier times. But the telephone interrupted his reverie. It was Cynthia.

“It’s Annie,” Cynthia said, “She wants to talk to you.”

“Talk? You mean . . .”

“The doctor just finished his checkup. Annie’s awake and breathing on her own.”

“I’ll be right there,” he said, and threw down the phone before he heard Cynthia’s cautionary, “But wait . . .”

He passed the good news on to Gerta and Janey amidst a chorus of glee, then headed back to the hospital. Cynthia was waiting for him by the nurse’s station, looking tired and worn out, despite the promising news. Brian told her to go home, get some rest. He’d stay for a while. Cynthia agreed, saying she’d wait for Bradley.

“Where is he?”

“In with Annie—he’s been in there for the past half hour.”

A curious expression crossed Brian’s face. “What’s up?”

“She won’t say. The doctor was by earlier and I didn’t like how he was acting. All frustrated, annoyed. Like he couldn’t figure out what was wrong.”

“But you said she was breathing—”

“She is. But the doctor said that only meant the operation was successful. There’s still—”

He felt his elation deflate. “The damned infection.” “No one is saying anything, Brian.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

He walked over to Annie’s room and opened the door. Bradley and Annie were holding hands, and she was crying. Emotions swirled around the room, and Brian’s presence only added to the blend. He swallowed hard as he knocked lightly.

Bradley turned, acknowledged Brian with an encouraging nod, and then returned his attention to Annie. He leaned in, whispered in her ear, then kissed her on the forehead. Getting up, he patted Brian on the shoulder and then went to find Cynthia. Brian and Annie were alone.

“How are you?”

“Glad you’re here,” she said. “I need to talk to you.”

“So I’ve heard. But wait—what’s going on? Are you okay? What’d the doctor say today? How do you feel?” He asked these questions, too many, he knew, but he wanted so many answers—to why she’d summoned him, why Bradley had spent so much time there, why the doctor wasn’t saying much. Then he noticed that Annie looked pale and tired and completely devoid of energy.

“Later,” she said. “Answers later. Just . . .” She paused to cough, and the cough lingered. Brian held her hand, feeling completely helpless. She had deteriorated a lot, even after yesterday’s promising awakening. “Just listen,” she finally said, and again, Brian swallowed a large lump in his throat, where emotions were lodged.

“Lying around in a bed gives you time to think, and what I’ve been thinking about is Janey. She’s the light of my life, Brian. The best thing to ever happen to me. She’s so good, so energetic, and so little really gets her down. She’s known awful tragedy already, and even though she remembers her father only slightly, she still feels a void in her life.”