Chapter 2

So here it is Chapter Two of White Oak. Enjoy and please tell your friends to follow me on Goodreads and Facebook.


Cara fondled the intricate brass drawer pulls on the desk bureau in front of her. She was already feeling jumpy. They had found this particular piece, made of a dark burled wood, in New Orleans at an auction. She and Nathan had been particularly pleased with their savvy for purchasing it for under $2,000 when it was exactly the perfect piece of furniture to replace the Barrel Stave’s old counter, which had deteriorated beyond repair.

Those early days, when they first bought the hotel and there was so much to do to get it going, had been the most fun. They had traveled a lot that winter, making several trips to New Orleans. That was when Randy still lived down there. And Nathan wasn’t such a tightwad with money because he had been a successful lawyer and was used to having lots of it. They had worked side by side like slaves that year, but she couldn't remember a time when they had been closer.

Cara who loved to travel, now found it rather difficult to get Nathan motivated. She looked forward to the winter months when things quieted down and they had the freedom to leave town. It seemed in recent years Nathan would come up with a string of projects that narrowed their off-season to a smaller and smaller window of time.

Looking around, the room key rack was all in order and the statements had been filed. Cara pulled out a sketch pad, but it was no use, she really wasn’t even in the mood to draw.

There was always the post office. That was a chore Nathan rarely took care of despite his fetish for having a neat little stack of bills to obsess over. She could walk down there and get out for awhile. It would only take a minute, no need to bother anyone with watching the desk while she was gone. She was putting up the sign to ring for assistance when an elderly couple walked in.

“Good morning, missy. Have you a room for us?” The elderly man’s generous energy surprised her, but not his accent. They often had foreign guests.

“We’re the Stedman’s,” he said, placing this information before her as if laying out a red carpet. The woman by his side was tiny, dwarfed by his zest. He wasn’t all that large himself, but his carriage was enhanced by his effervescence.

Cara glanced at the registry. “You must be the folks from Dorchester?”

“That we are,” he said setting down the larger of the two duffels he carried.

“The best fish and chips I ever ate, I had at a little place in your town,” she informed them.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” the gentleman said reaching for the pen Cara handed him. “She’s a good ‘ole girl, Dotty.” He said glancing at his wife. “You did right when you picked this one out.”

The tiny woman smiled blandly. It was easy to see how this couple balanced out, he the fiery temperament, she the wet blanket.
“We've just arrived in town and we wanted to check your galleries out and ride on that steam engine of yours.”

Cara reached for a brochure. “They have two dinner excursions every night this time of year and the food is quite excellent,” she told them.

Stedman put his hand up as she offered him the flyer. “Already have one. Looking forward to it though.”
Meanwhile Mrs. Stedman was eyeing one of Cara's paintings with interest. “And who would the artist be?” she asked as their eyes met. This was the first show of enthusiasm to leak from her dark eyes. A strand of cotton white hair dangled endearingly down the side of her face.

“That would be me.” Cara laughed nervously because she had accidentally mimicked the woman’s accent. She hoped the slip wouldn’t be construed negatively.

“Very fine work. We collect art, father and I,” Mrs. Stedman explained glancing at Mr. Stedman as if to emphasize who she was talking about. “Worked all our lives at hard labor, scraping up every penny we could to invest and now our passion is paying off for us.”

Mr. Stedman shook his head. “Nonsense, she never lets me sell a thing. We’re still as penniless as the day we were married.”

The lady looked directly at Cara as if to say with her piercing expression that whatever he said should be discredited as he was a stubborn old goat who couldn’t possibly be sensible.

“Come on mother, let’s not waste any time.”

“Would you like some help with your bags?” Cara asked.

“No thank you, we’ve only got these three here. We travel light. It’s the only way.”

The melodic tone of the woman's voice prickled a pleasure center somewhere in Cara’s brain. She handed him the key while exploring the wrinkles in the woman’s face. “Your room is upstairs one flight. You go down the hall to your right and it’s the second door on the left,” she said with the same pleasant roteness she gave everybody. “Let us know if there is anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable.”

Cara filed the registration in their box. The Stedman’s feet were just disappearing up the stairwell when Randy poked his head in, past the tall glass pane of the hotel door.

“Hi, darling, just thought I'd come check on my favorite pussy.”

“Shshhit, Randy!” The word came out impulsively but somewhat muffled. “Can’t you act normal?” He startled her so she broke off a nail by accidentally jamming it into the side of the desk. “Did it ever occur to you that we might have guests in the lobby?”
He looked around almost in surprise at her alarm as if he had said nothing out of the ordinary for the lobby of a hotel.

“I looked first,” he said, not altogether reassuringly.

“Aw hell, it’s just in fun, you know that.”

“Randy, what do you think people think when you say stuff like that?” Cara knew better than to let Randy get to her, but he'd caught her off guard. “Especially Nathan.”

Randy shrugged. “He doesn’t care; he knows it’s just me. He can’t blame me for lusting after his beautiful wife. He’s the one that’s always bragging about you.”
Cara had to consider the peculiar friendship her usually normal husband had with Randy, but it didn’t make sense, not now, not ever.

“I care. I swear you’re going to get me into terrible trouble one of these days. Nathan’s so damn jealous as it is.”

“That’s just his way,” Randy said moving closer toward her until finally he was at such close proximity that Cara was afraid to move in case of what Randy might accidentally touch.

She pushed him away. “Damn it, Randy. Would you behave yourself?” She protested but the flirtation, even if it only came from Randy, felt good.

“Honestly Randy, who would ever think you were Nathan’s best friend the way you carry on.”

“Hey, call me a son-of-a-bitch. It’s just my nature.”

“Wow, what an invitation.” She looked at the unlikely Mayor of White Oak who stood before her in his faded corduroy jeans and leather jacket, a pair of Docksiders that were limp and salty looking as a piece of beef jerky left out in the Arkansas humidity. Cara thought of all the years she had known Randy, Nathan’s worthless roommate from SMU, who had bounced around from one job to the next until coming to visit them in White Oak. Forty-two years old and he still took pride in how much beer he could drink. She thought of the wild visits they had with him through the years in New Orleans and Houston, and the recent turn of events puzzled her more than ever.

Randy had actually admitted to her several times, under the heavy sedation of tequila, that the only reason he was ever elected to office was because the town had turned out in a surprise vote to oust Clarence McIlrod, the long standing Mayor of White Oak, who had been caught dipping into the till.

Everyone knew, of course, but what amazed her was how Randy had blossomed in his new role. In the light of day, Randy, or Mayor Randy as he was affectionately known to the townspeople of White Oak, mostly because no one could pronounce his last name, was proud of his new position and even fancied himself to be somewhat of a distinguished civic leader with a reputation to uphold.

Mayor Randy wasn’t the first transformation Cara had seen in White Oak and probably not the last. White Oak had a way of attracting misfits and then bringing out their most unlikely attributes. In Randy’s case living in White Oak had somehow formed a synergy whereby Randy had somehow fooled the natural order of things by metamorphosing into almost a subhuman life form.

“Where is Nathan anyway? I have great news!”

“What’s up?” she asked, knowing full well he was dying to tell her.

A fresh grin spread across his face, a grin that seemed to transcend the bounds of decency. “The Princess Palace, I bought it.”

“You’re kidding!”

He was beaming now. “The hell I am, and what’s more, it’s going to be the best damn tourist attraction this town has to offer.”

“Why Randy, that’s fantastic!” she said not yet comprehending the full extent of his words. This was not vintage Randy. The closest thing to being a property owner that Randy had ever accomplished was holding title to an ‘83 Harley Davidson.

“When did this happen?”

“Yesterday. It’s not final yet, but everything looks like it will work out.”

“Randy, I can’t believe this. What are you going to do with it when you get it?”

“I’m gonna’ get a bunch of sexy looking broads, dress them up in Old West whore costumes and run a tearoom. What do you think?”

“Of course,” she laughed. “What was I thinking?”

“We’re going to play up the fact that the place used to be a bawdy house.” Randy used the corporate “we” as if he had been using it all his life.

For some reason everything he had just said made sense. It was as if Randy’s entire life as a hard-core resister of responsibility had been leading up to this point. “I always knew you should be a pimp.” She said to him knowing, that unlike most people, her remark would not offend him. As a matter of fact, he beamed.
It was his affinity for dating women of questionable backgrounds that caused her to say this. She would never forget the redhead in Houston who booked a client right there while they were eating dinner at the Spaghetti Mill. And of course, there was Gina, in New Orleans, who was always mysteriously “between jobs.” Cara had been naive enough to believe Gina until Nathan finally told her what Gina meant by being “between jobs.”

Randy’s attraction to prostitutes was basically disgusting but the fact that he had dated several as a non-paying partner was an intriguing subject that she had failed to get to the core of in several pointed conversations when Randy was obsessed with consuming the worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle. “Nobody tries harder to please,” he had mentioned once about his lady friends who chose to “dollar date” as he so quaintly put it.

“Don’t you know I’ll love it?” he said. The sound of Randy’s voice brought her back to the present. “I’ve already been talking around and think I have several ladies signed up. Of course we have a lot of work to do first on the house itself, and I don’t close the deal officially until next week.”

Randy’s enthusiasm temporarily transformed him from the skinny, malnourished alcoholic he was, to a man with a dream. At moments like this, Cara, to her dismay, found Randy somewhat attractive. She hated being attracted to him, it was revolting, but Nathan was never enthusiastic about anything anymore and she suspected what she really found alluring was Randy’s enthusiasm. She had to admit though, sometimes especially if he had a woman with him, Cara found herself feeling somewhat competitive with the woman. It was absurd she knew, but Cara also knew her irrational passions had to be carefully controlled.

Cara wasn’t alone however, in her attraction to Randy. Women flocked around him and anything female was Randy’s style. He was totally non-discriminatory when it came to the opposite sex. He treated the older ladies like they were nineteen and the nineteen-year-olds like they were women of the world.

Despite his popularity with women, it was inevitable the ones that lasted long enough to cook him dinner, were prostitutes or cocaine addicts or worse. Of course, he was rarely monogamous for more than a week, so what did it matter.

Cara instinctively understood that Randy’s interest in her, aside from the fact that she was a female whom he had not slept with, was that she was married to Nathan. Nathan was Randy’s only claim to decency. Being married to Nathan made her safe and yet totally seductive.

“Wait ’til you see some of the women I’m lining up.”

“Who?” she asked with genuine curiosity.

“I think I’m getting that waitress from the Charcoal Pig and that brunette at Clancey’s with the big tits.”

He couldn’t say the word “tits” without puckering his lips as if he were saying the word “succulent.”

“I don’t think Sharon is too happy cleaning rooms, you might speak to her,” Cara suggested. “See if she’s interested. She might like the change.”

“That little girl you hired a couple of weeks ago?”

“Yeah, she dropped out of the university at semester, I think she’s looking for a little excitement and she’s not going to find it housecleaning at the Barrel Stave.” It wasn’t like Cara to offer up her hired hands to someone else, maids were always coming and going and hard to keep as it was, but Cara had an uneasy feeling about Sharon. She was just a little bit sneaky and they didn’t need anyone around the Barrel Stave that might prove dishonest, not with the access maids had to their guests’ possessions.

“I’ve seen her down at Clancy’s on occasion. She’s not a bad looking woman.” There it was again. Just the way he said woman, made Cara think that Randy was already considering what kind of panties she wore and if her breasts had large or small nipples, dark or pale centers.

“Yeah, she’s real sweet, not your type at all,” she said trying to deliver a good punch.

“Honest to God girl, you never cut me any slack. You’re the python woman sometimes. No wonder Nathan’s afraid of you.”

“What a hateful thing to say. Nathan’s not afraid of me.” Johnny had an uncanny ability to disarm her. He knew he had hit a sore spot too and he wallowed in the moment by meeting her disdain with an empty stare that threatened her to her very core. “He’s not afraid of me,” she repeated out loud, feeling foolish as she said it.

“Where’d you say Nathan was anyway?” he asked dismissing any confrontation with her like a lead balloon. Occasionally Randy exhibited a little finesse and this was one of those times, because she was really ready to get into it with him. Changing the subject gave her a chance to let her anger go.

“I think he’s up in number 12, fixing the plumbing for a change. Better watch out if you go up there. He might stick a wrench in your hands, although you’d think he’d learn.”

Her sarcasm met no resistance. “Can’t today, I’m supposed to meet with Clyde Bingstrom in another hour and go over some papers.”

Clyde was the only loan officer at the bank. His uncle owned it and their family had been the sole proprietors of First National of White Oak since Reconstruction. Clyde’s wife had nearly left him recently when she caught him with his hand up his secretary’s skirt. But things were looking up for Clyde. The secretary was replaced with a matronly Yankee lady and newly pregnant Kathleen had been seen driving a new Chrysler Le Baron. Clyde was not known for his generosity.

Randy headed up the stairs, and Cara went to the front door and peered up at the Princess Palace which hung over the edge of the stone precipice across the street. A strand of wisteria vine hung over the railing on the back porch in a seductive sprawl, issuing its pungent aroma clear across the street.

The Palace was perhaps the only structure in White Oak that Cara would have preferred to own over the Barrel Stave. It was superbly beautiful to her way of thinking, a Victorian monolith. The Palace had made a brief comeback a few years ago when a stock broker from New York discovered the place and temporarily claimed it as a summer home. He dumped a horrendous amount of money into it, spent one summer there, and then split for Santa Fe.

Nathan and Cara had once gone through it with Martha Dexter who used to work for Block realty but now was selling for Century 21. As much as they had liked it, Nathan had already invested too much sweat and tears into the Barrel Stave, and at the time it was just out of the question to own both of them, emotionally or financially.

Cara checked her watch and decided now was as good a time as any to risk Nathan’s wrath and head for the post office. She needed a breath of fresh air after her encounter with Randy and besides Nathan was just going to have to get off this kick thinking that she could just sit at the front desk for extended periods of time.

She could hear Sharon vacuuming just one flight up and considered asking the girl to come attend the desk. Nathan would have preferred that, but Cara hated to interrupt her and besides it would take more than fifteen minutes total to run down there and back.

Cara’s sense of time however was characteristically warped to suit her whims. Everyone knows that in a small town news is like food to the starving it must be passed around liberally until all have feasted and this news that Randy had bought the Palace, or was about to, troubled her. She needed to talk to someone about it.

Unfortunately, Randy had preceded her, leaving a wide trail. Everyone she encountered had already heard. It wasn’t until she got to the post office that she ran into Marietta. At least Cara’s news was new to Marietta which was odd considering the network of wags at Marietta’s disposal. Despite her age and apparent fragility, Marietta was frequently first with news for Cara.

Marietta Montigne, in Cara’s opinion, was one of White Oak’s greatest assets, and one of Cara’s favorite people. Marietta was a retired opera singer who had traveled all over the world. She had passed through White Oak once as a young woman and had vowed to come back. It took her 58 years to do so, but when she did, she stayed and made White Oak her home.

At her advanced age, Marietta was admittedly slightly crippled. She carried a walking stick which was plastered with little brass plaques, mostly from places in Europe. Marietta was nearly always accompanied by her small red colored Pekinese named Peppy, who would nip at your ankles if he didn’t like you.

Fortunately for Cara, Peppy happened to like her.
Marietta laid porcelain-cold fingers gently on Cara’s arm, “My deeear,” she drawled. “How are you doing today?”

Cara peered into the eyes of the little fox fur which wrapped itself around Marietta’s shoulders and was always neatly perched just above her left bosom no matter what the time of year. As many times as Cara had encountered the bottomless depths of the little black beady eyes, she couldn’t help but consider this inanimate object as some sort of peculiar pet, as legitimate as Peppy. In fact, they were close to the same color. This animal skin, so well preserved and constantly worn, remained soft and shiny as if all this time spent on Marietta’s shoulders was all the care it needed to preserve it into infinity.

Cara squeezed Marietta’s hand so cold to the touch. “I’m fine Marietta. You’re looking elegant as usual.”

“Why, thank you my dear,” she said patting now at Cara’s hand as if Cara were a small child.

“I suppose you’ve heard the news about the Princess Palace? Everyone else has.”

“No, I can’t say that I have, but an aging prima dona such as myself is sometimes the last to know anything around here.”

Cara knew better than to take Marietta seriously. Marietta’s uniquely overt dramatization was one of her most intriguing characteristics. She was probably lying in order to bring interesting conversation to life between them.

“Could it be that we have a new proprietor? I certainly hope so, those poor roses need care.”
Cara smiled thinking of Randy and how the rose garden was probably the last detail that would ever be thought of, if then. The stockbroker’s wife had done some research in the town library like everyone did who came to White Oak and “redid” one of the historic structures. She had discovered an old photo of the Palace and after talking to Charla, the flamboyant clothing designer who summered in White Oak, hired a poetic landscape “artist” from Little Rock whose gardens and friendship with actress Cheryl Ladd were legendary in eclectic circles.

Now the roses, unattended, grew rampant. You could see them in the corner of the yard near the gazebo when you walked past.

That was one of Cara’s favorite things about White Oak. Everyone in the town walked to wherever they wanted to go. This was not just because White Oakians tended to be earthy progressive types, who were interested in preserving both their bodies and the environment but because parking spots on the narrow, winding roads of the town were few and far between. Even Marietta walked, who at her delicate age was certainly excused from such healthful practices.

For Cara, walking in White Oak served more than just her health and the environment. Walking was an excellent way of keeping up with things. On just about any given evening you could walk the streets of White Oak and without much effort, discover who was quietly watching TV, or listen to some couple heatedly arguing, or enjoy the chirping distant voices of children at play.

“Mayor Randy bought the place and is going to fix it up,” Cara reported.

“When I left the house, Elsbeth was making a batch of her famous cookies.” Marietta paused and batted her eyes seductively at Cara. “Won’t you walk back up the hill with me and we’ll sample some, and of course we’ll have some tea.”

Cara’s mouth watered at the thought of Elsbeth’s chocolate chip cookies, so laden with pecans that the chocolate was almost incidental.

“You need to tell me all about what our Mayor Randy is up to.”

Cara looked at her watch. It was an invitation she couldn’t refuse. By now Jason had probably discovered her absence and had dutifully taken her place up front. As long as she was back by noon she could probably figure out a way to justify her absence to Nathan who would berate her for her lack of responsibility. She sighed. It was at those times that Cara thought about their first year of marriage when hardly a cross word was ever said between the two of them.

The walk up the steep incline to Marietta’s little gingerbread villa was slow going. Cara was aware that without someone to hold onto, Marietta would have a difficult time making it on her own.

“So, what is our Randy up to now?” Marietta asked Cara as she took her arm.

“Well, it seems he’s going to buy the Palace and turn it into a tourist attraction.”

“Somehow that doesn’t sound like such wonderful news. We’ve already entrusted our town to him, and I think he’s already up to his ears in that,” Marietta told her with the polite frankness only the elderly and the insane seem to possess. Cara had discussed Randy with Marietta on many occasions. Marietta probably knew more about Randy through Cara’s expressed frustrations than Cara did. The woman had keen insight.

“It should be interesting. I do hope he’s not in over his head,” Cara told Marietta. As she said this, she realized she almost felt endearment toward Randy. This was even more revolting than being attracted to him. Cara had always thought that Randy kept showing up in Nathan’s life like a bad penny, and Nathan never seemed to mind, even though he himself could be cruelly honest about Randy behind his back.

“How’s that young man of yours?” Marietta asked changing the subject before Cara had a chance to get morose.

“Nathan’s fine, he works too hard, and takes life too seriously, but other than that he’s fine.”

“A nice young couple like yourselves should have children.”

Cara could feel herself tensing up. “Marietta, you know that topic’s off limits with me.”

Marietta’s smile faded like a puppy who had just been scolded. “Oh yes, I forgot.”

But Marietta didn’t wander from her mission.
“I’m not one to talk, never having had them myself, but children anchor you. They give you a sense of belonging to humanity. That is the one thing I regret in my life, is that I never had children. I always had my career that was my contribution. I never could look after anyone; someone always had to look after me. First it was my mother, then Julian. He took up mothering me where my mother left off.”

Cara realized Marietta was just voicing her own regrets and it was flattering that she cared enough about Cara to want to project those regrets onto her. Cara had explained to Marietta at least a dozen times that she was infertile, but that never seemed to sink in with her.

“Now I’m just fine all alone, I welcome being alone, it prepares me for the afterlife.” Marietta always spoke of the afterlife as if it were some social club she would soon be joining. Obviously Elsbeth’s constant care and attention, perhaps because it was hired, did not seem to account for even a mention.

They reached the top of the steep driveway and Cara was thankful that the abrupt incline had temporarily taken all the steam out of Marietta. They walked to the back door in silence. Elsbeth greeted them there; the sinful aroma of her cookies blasted them as they entered.

Marietta took her place at her rightful throne, sitting in her favorite chair, a carved Victorian chair covered in peach colored velvet. It stood near the large window in her drawing room, one of the few modern amenities that had been added to the house. As always the photo album was nearby, it’s leather exterior well oiled. She opened it randomly. All the photos were in black and white, mounted on stiff black mat board with old fashioned paper corners. Cara had painted her once in this chair, from sketches she had made, but she had never been satisfied with the results even though the canvas had sold the minute she put it in the gallery.

“Ah, look where we’ve opened to, the exquisitely beautiful Lotte Lehmann,” she began as Elsbeth poured tea from a silver service into some very fine old floral patterned porcelain cups that still boasted a thin film of gold leaf around the rim.

These little sessions reminded Cara of when she was a little girl and her grandfather would take her to see her great Aunt in Missouri, only this was a lot more fun than hearing about her Aunt Matilda’s aches and pains.

“It was such a stunning performance, her debut at the Met, the magnificent violence of the Walkure prelude had spent itself, and Siegmund, he was played by Lauritz Melchoir, you might remember me telling you, I sang with him just the year before at the Met. Well
, he had just staggered into Hunding’s hut, uttering a cry of exhaustion and collapsing onto the floor in a bedraggled heap.” Marietta’s hand came up as if she were wiping away her surroundings to show Cara her vision. “In the flickering firelight, she appeared from the shadows. Even before she sang, the audience was moved by her and then... It came out, that voice, so pure.”

Cara sipped on her strong, heady tea, and thought how these memories were as rehearsed as the operas themselves, always told with slightly different nuances at each performance. Marietta would even slip into a dramatic tongue as she began to tell her tales that were plundered from memories over 50 years old. One of these days I’ll have to paint these characters, she thought to herself.

“She had a rare theatric power; every nuance of Sieglinde’s character was implicit in each move she made. Every note she sang that night was perfection.”
Cara had never been exposed to opera until she met Marietta, so she had no frame of reference to judge Marietta’s remembrances. She wished at times that Marietta might sing for her, but she never did. For too many years the well had been dry. A true professional Marietta had no desire to indulge herself in an old woman’s sorry portrayal of her own glorious voice.
Marietta paused as if to judge whether or not Cara was still listening in earnest.

“But I’m boring you, my dear...”

“No, of course not. I never tire of hearing of Lehman.”

“You’ve seen the photo of her with Strauss on the piano of course.”

“Yes.” Cara gazed over at the grand piano, where an ancient middle eastern paisley shawl lay draped over the piano protecting the delicate finish from the sharp edges of a dozen heavy silver picture frames.
The sun temporarily broke out from behind some clouds, letting a splash of sunshine into the dark parlor. “We should have sat out in the sunroom today, it’s so gloomy.”

“Oh, Marietta, this is the best tea.”

“I’ll send some with you of course.”

Cara had given up long ago trying to get the source of Marietta’s wonderful tea. It was part of Marietta’s seduction to have control of the tea. Cara never left without a large burlap bag of it, but Marietta had never divulged the name of the company where it came from. Old ladies sometimes became shrewd in their dealings with the world, Marietta had once told her. Perhaps this is what she meant.

Cara listened for another half an hour to stories of the Met and Lotte Lehman, until her mind began to wander. She thought about Randy and how he had leaned so close to her earlier in the lobby that she had felt a chill run down her spine. She must really be hard up for fantasies she thought, if she was relying on Randy for them. An image of Nathan flashed into her mind. She had promised him this morning that she would drive over to Cotter’s Hardware. They had snuggled this morning and she had held onto his erection, like the male ego it symbolized, a hardness clothed in the softest of skin. Its contradiction mesmerized her.

But they hadn’t made love. Nathan, as he often did, jumped out of bed when the alarm went off as if he had an appointment with God.

“Tell me about this new project our Mayor Randy has dreamed up,” Marietta interrupted herself, sensing Cara’s waning interest in opera stories. Cara smiled and tried to think of what else to tell her. How could she sit there for an hour in Marietta’s parlor and listen to opera stories and then tell her about how the town mayor had dreamed up a scheme to make money from an old whore house?

“Well, it seems that our Mayor Randy has bought the Princess Palace with the idea to capitalize on the fact that it’s an old bawdy house. He’s going to have a restaurant and entertainment, I think. You know, make it into a tourist attraction.”

“Oh, my, won’t that be something? I wonder how the town will react to that.”

Cara raised her eyebrows in subjugation. “I suppose they’ll love it if it brings in the bucks. You know how people are around here.”

Marietta chuckled. “Yes, we have our zealots and our Zionists around here, but one thing they all seem to love more than anything is money.”

Marietta’s wit often astounded Cara. One minute she could be dwelling in the trivial happenings of half a century ago, and the next minute she was commiserating over the local politics, a subject which could mystify even Cara. “I’d better get going Marietta. I walked out of the house and didn’t even tell anyone where I was going.”

Marietta smiled. “So what else is new? You’re always doing that.”

“I know, and it just drives Nathan crazy.”

“Don’t go without getting some tea. You know I want you to have it.

“Elsbeth!” she called. “Bring a bag of that tea for Mrs. Devon.” It sounded peculiar being called Mrs. Devon, but then, coming from Marietta, it might have been even more peculiar to be referred to as anything else.