Resurrected in Rosedale

By Tom Padley

Harwood, a Vietnam veteran who joined the army in 1966 in order to escape conflict at home, now finds himself returning to that sleepy town after forty-six years. Pronounced dead after his last mission in Southeast Asia, he used that as an excuse to begin a new life in Corvallis, Oregon several hundred miles from Rosedale, his hometown in the southwest corner of Salt Lake Valley, Utah. From there Harwood moved to Costa Mesa, California with his new wife and became not only a successful psychologist, but a wealthy real estate investor. Divorced from his wealthier and constantly unfaithful wife, his present world is turned upside down at the news of his father’s death.
Returning to Rosedale, Harwood must face the folks back home and resurrect his life. He quickly finds that his father’s death could not have been from a heart attack and joins with local law enforcement to investigate possible murder. Old flames, old friends and haunting memories plague his long-forgotten past. And a group home filled with mentally challenged men has replaced the polygamist family that had lived at the end of the country lane before he left.
Harwood must also face his aunt’s delusion and possible dementia surrounding the Mormon religion he shunned as a boy. Friends, family members, city officials, out-of-state developers, and religious leaders enter into the mix of suspects, along with connections to South American drug lords. Meanwhile, Harwood makes new friends, renews old friendships and finds that the hometown he escaped from four and an half decades earlier has an appeal that convinces him to move back.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Padley
• Release date: Dec 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301234585

Tom Padley

I married at the age of twenty while attending college. Because we couldn’t have children naturally, my wife and I decided to adopt our family. We now have five adult children, four of whom are married. And we have several grandchildren. I’ve had many ‘interesting’ life experiences which make my personal view of the world somewhat unique, considering that I was raised in a very religious community. Let’s just say that I have never been one to march to that particular tune. I have tried, though. It just never seemed to work out for me. I’m too much of an independent thinker, and I don’t follow the crowd well. Authority is oppressing to me. Organizations frighten me. And I suffer from claustrophobia as well as a certain level of agoraphobia. But my saving grace is creativity. I love art and writing, and I am learning to plunk out a few bluesy tunes on an acoustic guitar. I hope you enjoy reading my books.

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Resurrected In Rosedale

Tom Padley

Copyright 2012 by Manu Forti Creo

Smashwords Edition

Author’s Note

The city of Rosedale is purely fictional, as are all of the characters in this story. On a map of my own creation, Rosedale is nestled between the real life cities of Herriman and Riverton, both located in the southwest part of Utah’s Salt Lake Valley. I have also moved Rose Canyon a bit to the east so that Rose Creek could meander northward through Rosedale.

Chapter 1

It’s Susan, Heidi said over her shoulder after pressing the hold button on her phone. Turning toward me with cute grin, Shall I tell her you’re in a meeting or just gone for the day?

Looking up from my desk, I said, She’s been working on a deal in Irvine; something about apartments or medical offices. Tapping my pencil, I consider a few of Heidi’s standard responses to phone calls from my ex-wife. Finally, I said, I’ll take it.

Picking up the handset and pressing the blinking red light with my left index finger, I put the phone to my ear, What’s my percentage? And is what’s-his-face going to be part of the deal?

Jason doesn’t want to be involved in this deal, and I’m willing to let you in for twenty percent, Susan said. By now she has come to the realization that I will never acknowledge her newest boyfriend/husband by name.

Susan Correlli Harwood – now Symms – and I were married for twenty-three years – three or four of which we actually enjoyed. We met at Oregon State in 1970. She was in her third year of business and finance and I had just enrolled as a freshman after being discharged from the army a few months earlier. We dated off and on for about a year, and then for some reason – which I seem to have forgotten – we got serious. Susan had a pretty good part-time job at a local real estate office running errands and doing some of the prep work for closings. I was using my veteran benefits to pay for school and living rent-free with an army buddy. As part of our marriage agreement she got me a job in her company’s property division managing some apartments to help pay the bills.

The informal wedding was just before we started school in the fall of 1972 and we honeymooned in Lake Tahoe. Susan had already graduated with a bachelor’s degree in business management and had gotten accepted to graduate school to get her MBA. I’d changed majors a couple of times and had finally settled on psychology. Our plan was to struggle through the first couple of years of marriage while we both finished school. After that she would get a great job somewhere and I’d apply for my Master’s of Social Work wherever we landed.

As it turned out we landed in Costa Mesa, California where she had an incredible job starting out as a sales associate with an upscale real estate company. Before the move I was considering UCLA or USC but I finally settled on Cal Irvine because it was close to our apartment. Her income quickly became enough to live on, so I concentrated on school. Her thirst for wealth and my indigent nature became a major speed bump for us. But we held on for two more decades until her not-so-secret affairs with a series of money hungry assholes got too much for me. Like I said, we had three or four good years.

When do you want to meet? I said remembering some of the good times we had way back when.

I’m going to be close to Bayside. Want me to make a reservation?

Susan always knows how to soften me up. I just love the salmon at Bayside. Okay, but let’s get there early. Maybe we can get an early bird senior citizen discount. My attempt at humor netted a big zero.

Hold on a second, she said, I’ll see when we can get in.

While I was on hold several questions came to my mind, but I knew Susan would avoid discussing the particulars of the deal until after dinner. A couple minutes later she was back.

Five-thirty is the earliest. We can do that or anything before seven; they’re booked after that.

I had about four hours of work that I absolutely had to get done before the day was over, and my personal preference is to deal with the most difficult tasks first. Five-thirty sounds great, I said dropping the handset in its cradle. It took a few years, but Susan finally got used to my lack of conversation skills, especially when talking on the phone. She still takes no notice of my attempts at humor.

I’m going to stop by Nick’s office on my way to Bayside, I said to Heidi, who was trying to pretend she had not been listening to our conversation.

Bayside! This might be a deal worth investing in. Susan usually just drops by the office with a sack full of In-N-Out burgers or Subway. If she picks up the check you’ll know it’s a sweet deal.

Sweet deal or not, she’s picking up the check, I said as I gave my right instep a good scratch with the well calloused heel of my left foot. While feeling around with my toes for both sandals I glanced down at my bare knees and calves and shook my head. It seems like the hair on my body gets grayer every day. After snapping the latch on my ancient leather portfolio I headed toward the door. How late are you staying? I said with the door knob in my hand.

Heidi looked up from her computer, I told Sammy I’d be home by six.

I’m coming back here for a while after dinner, so just leave stuff on, I said pulling the door shut behind me.

About twelve years ago I finally went part-time at my psychology practice. After more than twenty five years, the Southern California neurotics were really starting to get to me. Ever since my college days I’ve enjoyed managing real estate more than counseling, except for the occasional patient who’s actually willing to let me help them. Being married to Susan meant plenty of opportunities in real estate, along with doing some investing on my own. I started my own company right after our divorce. Kemo Sabe Investments is now a thriving business even in this latest economic crisis. After all, somebody has to arrange for janitorial service and yard maintenance and collect rent and handle evictions and all the other bullshit a landlord does. I’m very good at my job and Susan makes sure I’m well paid when I manage one of her properties.

Kemo Sabe Investments is just Heidi and me. We’ve been together from the start. She’s the daughter of an old army buddy named Robbie Thompson. I followed him home after we were discharged from Tripler Medical Center in Hawaii. Robbie and I got pretty close during the weeks we spent together healing our bodies . . . and our minds. He called me one day out of the blue and said his daughter had just gotten married and was moving down to Orange County and wondered if I knew of a place she could work. I knew Heidi fairly well from the many trips I’d made to Corvallis over the years and hired her without an interview.

I’d been toying with the idea of setting up my own real estate management company for several years and Heidi fit the bill. We’ve turned out to be a great team. I’m usually the bad cop and she’s the good cop when it comes to dealing with deadbeat tenants, but sometimes we reverse roles, depending on the gender and personality type of the offending renter.

I arrived at Bayside a few minutes early and got a table. I told the hostess that I’d be joined by a nice looking brunette in her early sixties with an abundance of personality, cosmetic surgery and attitude. That’s my standard description of Susan and it never fails, though she could easily pass for mid to late forties . . . even without the surgeries.

I hope you kicked the dirt out of your sandals before you came in, Susan said as she scooted into the booth. As usual she was immaculately dressed in a pastel blue silk shirt and somewhat form-fitting black or navy blue slacks.

I used to comment on her attire but she’d correct everything I said. To say I am fashion conscious would be a joke. To say she is fashion conscious would be understating the obvious. To say she still looks like a million bucks would be even more so. Tall with auburn hair that’s even more auburn than when we met, her sensuous lips and mischievous hazel eyes are just the tip of the iceberg in detailing her physical features.

Next to her I look like a beach bum who’d snuck in the backdoor. With my thin, wiry body and more-than-a-day five o’clock shadow I could write one of those cardboard signs and make a few extra bucks on the street corner. Despite my addiction to casual attire, the one thing Susan taught me quickly was to look the part when the time was right. I have two suits that cost me a few grand each, but I appear in them only when the stakes are high and the real estate deal is on the line. Once, when I was tastefully dressed, Susan said that I took her breath away . . . and that was after we were divorced. Her actual words were, ‘Harwood, you look like part James Dean and part James Bond. You just take my breath away. Why don’t you look like this all the time?’ My response was, ‘I’m wondering which parts of those two guys you’re referring to. And unless you tell me it’s a special occasion, dressing up involves too much effort for too little reward.’ I doubt she even understood what I was getting at. She’d spend an hour getting ready to go to McDonalds for a Happy Meal.

Who’s the Black dude on your tattered T-shirt?

Looking down I said without taking offense, Buddy Guy. Susan is definitely racist, which is a real problem for me. My army buddy Robbie is African-American, which makes Heidi what I call ‘an ebony goddess.’ Susan is always totally professional around Heidi and other non-white people, but when we were married we’d have some serious conflicts about all humans being equal.

You’re a real piece of work, especially with that ‘Rebel Without a Cause’ ducktail hairdo.

My hair goes this way naturally when I comb it back with my fingers, you know that. At least I wore sandals this time, I said looking up from the menu.

Why do you even look at the menu here? You know you’ll order the salmon, a spinach salad with Thousand Island on the side, and a glass of iced tea.

I like to keep my options open.

Susan ordered swordfish and I had the salmon . . . no surprise.

So, what’s the deal of the century this time? I said knowing the time was right.

An eighty-six unit apartment building that’s on the verge of foreclosure. I’d like to turn it into condos and either sell or lease them. I have a contractor friend who’s desperate for work and promises to have the first ten units ready in six weeks. But let’s eat first and get to the nitty-gritty over dessert.

Susan knows I never have dessert and I’m positive she’s the only person I know that still uses the term ‘nitty-gritty.’ But I always play along with her. She really is very good at what she does and our business deals have always been rock solid. She’s a millionaire near the quarter billion dollar range. I’m just fairly well off – well, maybe better than well off. I could retire to Málaga on the coast of Spain, live in a mansion, breed Andalusian horses and live off my rental income, but that type of lifestyle just doesn’t appeal to me – it’s just something I saw in a travel magazine once and the image got stuck in my head. A big house would involve servants and social events and dressing just right. I know for sure that the whole thing would drive me crazy. I mostly like to work and be alone, but raising horses would be a nice retirement job – just not anywhere fancy. The only reason I have all this money is because I’m one of the few people who can deal with Susan’s high-powered personality. The money hungry dudes that go soft in one head and hard in the other always end up being tossed to the curb. I like the freedom of having money, but I like the process even more. I’m a behind the scenes guy who has my eyes wide open . . . and because of that philosophy my pockets keep getting filled with cash.

We enjoyed our meal in relative quiet, meaning that Susan vocalized only a few well filtered thoughts that came to her mind. She knows that I don’t give a shit what she’s saying even if I were listening. Susan learned long ago to be discriminating in her topics of conversation, or more properly stated her non-stop monologue during our meals together. Since the first business dinner after our divorce she has never mentioned her latest boyfriend and/or husband. Three months after we split up we met here at Bayside for an important deal that I wanted to be part of, but when she began describing her latest sexual activities I got up and walked out of the restaurant . . . and I’d ordered sautéed scallops along with my usual salmon! It was an enormous sacrifice on my part, but I made my point. Susan never apologized but she learned quickly that chatter about her personal life was taboo around me.

I polished off my salmon quickly – I had a lot of work to do and wanted this meeting to be like a thumbtack, short and to the point. Susan must have been paying attention because she began eating a little faster than usual. Sometimes these dinner meetings last for an hour and a half, or at least until our waiter walks by a couple of times clearing his throat. She ordered dessert and I asked if they had any sherbet, which I knew they did because during some of my previous visits I’d noticed patrons who had requested some. Susan raised her right eyebrow for a moment at my deviation from the norm.

Before we get into the details of the deal, I said. I need to tell you about the dream I’ve been having. This caused both of her eyebrows to rise.

Like the ones when we were first married?

I used to have some pretty intense dreams about my Vietnam experiences. There were many mornings when I’d find Susan asleep in the spare bedroom. One time I was awakened from a nightmare by getting one of her sharp elbows in my ribs. Apparently I had been choking her with both hands. Hitting me was the only thing she could do to defend herself. I never told her many details about what happened to me in Southeast Asia. The most she knew was that I’d been a sniper and got seriously wounded on my last mission. I’ve never told anyone everything that happened, not even my closest army buddies who came home with fewer parts than they went with.

It started out like one of my old dreams, but then I was suddenly transported to when I was very young. In the dream I had all the memories of my entire life experience but I was just a toddler sitting on someone’s lap in a rocking chair staring at a full moon rising in the eastern sky.

So that part wasn’t a nightmare?

No. Not at all. I actually felt very peaceful. It seemed like time had stopped and absolutely nothing mattered at all. All the cares and worries and problems of my life had completely vanished. When I woke up I felt incredibly happy inside.

Whose lap were you sitting on?

I don’t know. I don’t remember ever sitting on anyone’s lap like that. My step-mother Edith never allowed me to get near her, let alone sit on her lap. Dad wasn’t much for physical contact either, though I always knew he loved me. I’ll never forget the feeling I had during that dream – so serene.

I noticed that Susan had gotten a little teary eyed. I felt touched that she understood the profound nature of what I’d just related to her. Thanks, Harwood. Thanks for sharing that with me. That’s a side of you I’ve rarely seen.

We ate our desserts in complete silence. After our waiter cleared the table Susan became all business. I paid close attention to the details of the real estate deal as she rattled them off, but that dream kept coming back to me, at least the feeling I had after I woke up.

The real estate deal seemed solid and Susan was willing to let me in for thirty percent – ten more than she quoted at first. I had just sold a property down near San Clemente and needed to reinvest the proceeds. The percentage of front money this deal required was a bit more than what I had netted on the sale but I decided to dip into my drop-dead fund for the balance. I don’t really need a drop-dead fund because I don’t have a job where I could tell the boss to drop dead if things went sour, but it still sounds better than saying ‘retirement fund.’

I tossed a twenty on the table for the tip, which produced another raised eyebrow from Susan. She signed her American Express slip and we walked out together. After I’m finished eating I typically put a moderate tip on the table and just walk away without waiting for her.

That dream really did affect you, she said.

I guess I’m just getting spongy in the head. Or maybe I’m developing some sort of emotional dementia.

Is there such a thing?

Not that I’ve ever heard of, I said while holding the restaurant door for her. On an impulse I touched her shoulder. Susan turned toward me and I leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

You might want to make an appointment with your psychiatrist buddy. You really seem removed from your usual charm. Maybe this is the next stage in your development.

I would usually try to break the seriousness of the mood with some smartass comment, but this time the only thing that came out of my mouth was, Thanks for dinner, Susan. We really did have some great times way back when.

She just smiled and walked off