Chapter 1
Brad McGibbon was not coping well following his wife's decision to leave him to live in a warmer climate because her joints were playing up. Brad's were too, a bit. He thought Heather should have hips, knees and anywhere else that was painful replaced instead of sloping off to a warm climate where one sweated all day and perhaps half-froze at night.
She chose Hawaii while he stayed put in Twin Forks on the John Dee River.
They exchanged letters weekly for almost two months and then stopped, probably because they'd run out of fresh things to say of mutual interest. Brad wouldn't acknowledge to himself who stopped writing first because he's not a vindictive person; his habit on receiving a letter from family or friends was to reply that same day. When he realized the letters had stopped he stopped thinking he'd been abandoned; he knew this because a smile was back on his weathered face and his sixty-four year old digestive system was ticking over quite well again. It's easier to smile when one doesn't have a sour belly.
Brad sold the house for a top price that made his eyes water; the property was in his name and partly financed from a before-marriage inheritance. He instructed his lawyer to send 40% of the net proceeds to Heather on the theory that she'd contributed 40% to their marriage, though he had no idea how that could be computed; it was just a figure that came to mind. As well he was a little miffed with her as in her last letter she'd stated she'd never divorce because her late mom would not have approved. So, the day he signed the authority for his solicitor to remit the money to Heather was a day of significance: Heather had been 'terminated'; he could get on with life.
How to celebrate? Brad decided to take two of his friends for a drink that evening -- he'd been pals with Nicholas and David since first grade and they needed time away from their complaining wives; he thought about that, called them back and advised them to come dressed for dinner at the New Grand Hotel -- well, new almost eighty years ago but it was where they'd always gone for the occasional meal as three married couples.
Brad went down to the Riverside Coffee Shop, operated by 40-something Martha Stokes; rumor was her womanizing husband Ben had bought the establishment with his redundancy money when W. K. Olsen Furniture and Woodturning Co. Ltd was purchased by an out-of-town company and semi-automated. Olsen's retained its name but changed from a producer of fine quantity furniture to a producer of cheap crap that people these days chose so they could afford a second car and the latest in gas-fired cookers than could roast a whole pig or a quarter side of beef at cook-outs.
From the cabinet Brad chose a chunk of fruit cake and Martha handed him his coffee but refused money. "Old Mrs York has indicated she will pay as she needs to consult with you." Brad looked as Martha's impressive chest that tended to send a shiver up his spine. Catching his focus she placed a hand protectively over her exposed cleavage.
"For goodness sake Martha I'm sixty-four; give an old guy a break."
Martha hesitated, withdrew her hand and actually pushed her chest forward slightly.
Brad retrieved his long disused wolfish smile - he had visions of Martha grabbing the counter to support her collapsing knees.
"Go to Mrs York you old flirt -- she appears to be worried."
"Thank you Mrs Stokes; never in my life have I held such as magnificent piece of fruit cake that I imagine is the produce of those beautifully maintained fingers."
Martha turned up her fingers and looked at them as if astonished that someone had noticed. "Your flattery is appreciated Brad," she said. "We must have a drink sometime."
Brad took a final look at her superstructure and her lovely smile and walked to Mrs York's table feeling very upbeat.
"Good morning Annie."
She was in her eighties and husband Fred had been a mate of Brad's late father. When Fred suffered a stroke Brad fell into the habit of calling once a fortnight to ask if there was any maintenance or heavy lifting he would do for them. Annie had been so grateful that Brad was invited to present the eulogy at Fred's funeral. Brad had quite a bit of Irish in him from his mother's side so his delivery had been both soft and comforting. Thanks to background from his own father who was then still alive, Brad with humor related things about Fred's life that even Annie and her family of six hadn't known about.
"Hello lovely boy -- give this old girl a kiss."
They chatted for more than thirty minutes. Brad waited patiently and at last out it came: "Brad, I want you to find me a wee own-your-own unit at one of the three retirement villages located near here and to sell my house."
"But you have family..."
"They are already squabbling -- the girls want me to stay put and get home help and the boys want me to sell up everything and rent a room in a home for the elderly."
"But Annie, you are still mobile and love walking through town to buy bread or flowers and talking to people you know; you're not cot-case."
"Exactly and I knew you of all people would understand."
It was agreed. Brad would inspect the three facilities and compare the financial commitments expected of residents and report back to Annie by the end of the week.
"As for your house, I have sold my house and am still looking for a smaller replacement property. Your home would suit me perfectly -- being able to fish the river from the lower balcony has always appealed to me."
"Then name your offer and the house is yours."
Brad was tempted but he possessed some scruples; not over abundantly but sufficiently to justify Annie's trust in him. He insisted she ask her solicitor to commission two professional appraisals and he'd offer to split the difference between the two valuations they produced and pay that, subject to her family's approval. He didn't want Annie involved in a family dispute over the sale. He was aware that the property was overdue for expensive exterior maintenance and many people feared the possible arrival of a 100-year peak flood; on the other hand it was a two-bedroom compact home superbly located in the heart of town and looking across the constant river activity to the woodlands of Jonathan T. Maples Memorial Park.
"I'll walk you home Annie," he said.
She offered her arm on her good side and as they reached the counter she smiled and said to Martha, "A most successful business meeting."
"Oh, he's such a nice man Mrs York."
"If you think that then you two should get together."
"Tut-tut Mrs York," Martha said, still smiling. "I'm a married woman."
"Huh," Annie snorted, thumping her walking stick on the floorboards, an action that turned Martha's face crimson; Brad looked away to hide his grin.
As they walked away Annie said loud enough for Martha to hear, "That damn husband of hers -- his conduct is disgraceful; he should be neutered as he acts like a tom cat."
Brad changed the subject. "Martha is quite an old name, isn't it?"
"Yes, Biblical I think. Her mother thought it would be nice to bring it back into popularity but regrettably a comeback surge didn't eventuate. You know she would benefit by your kindness."
"Ah, your home looks very lovely from this angle. Are those primroses?" Brad said in an audacious attempt to bend the conversation away from Martha.
"They're roses you fool -- don't you know anything?"
On Sunday Brad walked over the B.J. McRae Bridge and entered Memorial Park, to use its shortened name. The sun warmed his back, his head was light, the birds were singing and he saw Martha Stokes on a seat reading.
"Good morning ma'am," he said, touching his forehead with a finger and walking on. He was halted by her call, "Come back here you fool."
She closed her book, not bothering to mark the page, and patted the seat for him to sit close beside her.
