Life in Lemon Creek

By Kathryn Welch

At nearly forty, single career woman Lucy Rye finds herself unexpectedly pregnant with the child she's always wanted by the man she's always loved. There's just one little problem. The man is married to somebody else. Lucy does what any perfectly normal but temporarily insane person would do--disappear. She ends up in a tiny, rural, Midwestern town called Lemon Creek where she finds an eclectic group of friends, romance with a younger man and, finally a sense of family and community. What happens when the baby's father shows up?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483521879

Book preview

9781483521879

Chapter I

The brand-new, champagne-colored Jeep Cherokee, fully-loaded with every possible option--a vehicle which its owner referred to as The Last Great Splurge--glided smoothly into one of only three parking spots in front of a small, storefront building just off the square in a town called Lemon Creek. The population was 1,652, according to the sign at the city limit. Arranged around and adjacent to the town square were a tavern, a cubbyhole of a café, two churches--Catholic and Baptist--a ladies’ dress shop, a gas station, a grocery store and a few other small businesses, including the real estate/insurance broker’s office in front of which the Jeep sat. The façade of the green-painted wooden building featured a wide plate glass window with gold-leaf lettering which read, Corelli and Son, Insurance and Real Estate.

Lucy Rye peered critically at herself in the Jeep’s visor mirror. She thought her face looked puffy, and her makeup was beginning to melt. She let out a weary sigh as she thought about the dozens of insurance companies, retail stores, clinics--basically any place that might have an office--that she had futilely visited over the past couple of weeks. It seemed the economy around here was even worse than back home. The local newspapers were virtually devoid of help wanted ads. She gazed hopelessly at the little storefront. One more shot, she thought. If there was nothing here, she would move on and try somewhere else--a whole other county, maybe even another state. From her headquarters at the Shady Rest Motel over in Bentonville, she had already scoured every town within a thirty-mile radius.

She sighed again, pluckily dug her lipstick out of her purse and applied a new coat. Patting a few stray hairs into place, she climbed out of the car.

Once inside the building, she stood a moment by the door and took in her surroundings. There was a shabby reception area consisting of four leatherette chairs and a coffee table that held an arrangement of orange plastic flowers badly in need of dusting. The floor was of wide wooden planks, the plaster walls painted a dull, industrial gray. There were two matching gray metal desks with old-fashioned swivel chairs and a few file cabinets. There didn’t seem to be any air conditioning, but windows were open on either side of the building, creating a nice cross-draft, and a rickety ceiling fan turned lazily with a hypnotic whirring sound.

Behind one of the desks, sat a very large man studying a computer screen. He wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing powerful forearms with a liberal layer of dark hair that matched the color of the bad comb-over on the crown of his head.

As Lucy approached the desk, the man looked up at her with round black eyes, so black that the pupils were nearly invisible.

Good afternoon, she said with what she hoped sounded like brightness.

Afternoon, he replied, smiling amiably. May I help you?

My name is Lucy Rye, she said, holding out her hand.

He stood up politely and took her hand. Frank Corelli, he said. What can I do you for?"

I was wondering if you had any job openings.

Frank Corelli glanced meaningfully about the empty office and plopped back down in his chair. Openings? he laughed. Not hardly.

He paused, unable to ignore the crestfallen look on her face. Look, he went on kindly, I didn’t mean to be flip, but this is a two-man operation--just me and my son. We had an office girl at one time, but when she got married and moved away, we just never replaced her. Not the best economic times, you know?

But surely you could use somebody to answer the phones, handle correspondence…you know--clerical work.

I guess whatever we’re doing, it seems to be working. We’re still here…over fifty years since the day my father founded the agency. We make do with our cell phones when we’re out of the office, and we muddle through the correspondence on our laptops. I have to admit my grammar isn’t the best but …what are you going to do? Frank chuckled.

Nothing I guess, said Lucy, feeling her eyes fill with tears. Nobody cares about grammar these days anyway. She wanted desperately to avert her eyes from Frank Corelli’s dark, friendly ones, but she knew that even that simple movement would cause the tears to spill over. Thus she found herself locked in a self-conscious stare with this utter stranger. If she had been able to look away, she would not have seen his eyes soften. Suddenly she felt all the fight, all the bravado drain from her body. In an odd way, the softness in Frank Corelli’s eyes had given her permission to let it all go. What did it matter? There was no job. Nothing was on the line. All that remained was the kindness in the eyes of this stranger.

She slumped into the chair that faced his desk and gave into the tears that now flowed down her cheeks, making pale tracks in her makeup.

Frank ran his index finger along the inside of his shirt collar. Being a man, he found a sobbing woman--particularly a woman he had only just met--discomfiting to say the least.

What is it, Miss Rye? he asked anxiously. Are you okay?

I…I…I’m sorry, she stammered through her sobs. I should go. I shouldn’t have broken down like this. It’s just that…it’s just that…uh, I should go.

She began to rise from her chair, but he motioned her back down. Don’t be sorry, he said. It’s just that what?

She sighed and resumed her seat. You don’t want to know. Besides, I wouldn’t know where to start.

I do want to know, he said encouragingly. How about starting at the beginning?

Really? She studied his face, gauging whether he could actually be serious.

Absolutely. Tell me, what’s the trouble?

The trouble? she laughed bitterly. Taking a deep breath, she made a sudden decision to just plunge in--perhaps not so much a decision as an irrational impulse. Mr. Corelli, I’m nearly forty years old, I’m not married and I’m pregnant. The baby’s due in a little over seven months, and its father is married to somebody else. I don’t have a job or a place to live…or… Her voice trailed off into tears again.

Frank regarded Lucy curiously, unsure what to make of her. She was a lovely young woman--young by his standards anyway--young enough to be his daughter. Her features were classic, with a chiseled symmetry that might have been off-putting if not for a certain vulnerability about the mouth and a gentleness in the greenish, hazel eyes. Her thick, honey-blond hair was pulled back into a business-like twist. Frank wondered if this style was just for job interviews. It didn’t suit her somehow. He didn’t know much about women’s fashions, but some of his wife’s comments over the years must have sunk in, because it seemed to him that Lucy Rye was dressed quite smartly--expensively even. In fact, everything about her belied the story she had just told, and he wondered how someone like her had gotten into such a predicament. Still, he didn’t doubt her word for a moment, and, for some reason, he liked her.

Well… he said thoughtfully, there’ll be no health insurance--I mean you’ll be on your own with that--and you won’t be paid for the time off you’ll be needing. The pay will be modest to put it mildly. But if you still want the job, it’s yours. His manner was straightforward, as if she had said she was expecting a slight headache sometime in December and might need an afternoon off.

Lucy thought how sweet of him it was to present the matter as if it were her decision to make--as if she weren’t begging for the job. Even so, he had spoken as if it were a foregone conclusion that she would be taking the position that didn’t exist.

The job? she sniffled. But you said there was no job.

You’d better take it then, before I change my mind.

Of course, I want it! she cried, brushing the tears from her face with the back of her hand. And you won’t be sorry, Mr. Corelli. I promise. I’ll work my fingers to the bone for you. I’ll work overtime for free. I’ll do anything to make sure you never regret this.

Well, I don’t think any bony fingers will be required, he laughed. But, he went on, turning serious again, if I’m not prying, how are you going to make it financially--with a baby coming and all. Like I said, I won’t be able to pay you much.

And that’s okay. All I need is enough to get by. I have some money saved, and I still have insurance from my old job. You see, Mr. Corelli, I had a really good job back in Midvale--that’s where I’m from. Not only was I able to save a tidy little sum, but I actually know what I’m doing business-wise--the insurance business especially. That’s why I can guarantee I’ll do a good job for you.

In other words, you are way over-qualified. And by the look of you, that doesn’t really surprise me.

I promise you I’m in for the long haul. I don’t plan on just getting started and then flying the coop.

Miss Rye, it’s obvious you’re new in town because I know pretty much everybody around here. What I’m wondering is if you were wanting to start out fresh somewhere, why not go to someplace bigger like Chicago or something--someplace where you could get the kind of job that your qualifications deserve--not to mention the kind of money that goes with it?

I don’t know. I just like it here, said Lucy unconvincingly.

Frank regarded her skeptically for a long moment. I don’t think so, he said. I think you’re running away from something. Maybe from the father of your baby? What better place to hide out than some little one-horse town that nobody ever heard of.

Lucy’s sigh of resignation was all the answer he needed.

It’s none of my business, he said, but running away never solves anything.

Lucy thought a moment. I guess, she said pensively, I’m not really expecting to solve anything. I’m just trying to breathe. I just need some time to breathe.

Well, I think you’ll find plenty of time for that. There aren’t many distractions here in Lemon Creek. It’s a nice place to raise a kid though.

That’s good to hear, said Lucy unconsciously patting her stomach.

So…what is this wonderful insurance experience you have?

Well, I was with Benefits Mutual for over fifteen years--back home.

Really! That’s a great outfit. In fact, they’re one of the companies we represent.

Well, there you go. I’m ahead of the learning curve already. I know all their products inside and out--life, health, annuities. And your other companies…well, they were our competition so I’m pretty familiar with them as well.

And what exactly did you do there?

Lucy blushed and cleared her throat nervously. I was in…I guess you would say…um…management.

"You guess?"

Okay…yes. I was in management. But please don’t hold that against me.

Frank shook his head. You have me scratching my head here. I have to admit I don’t really get you. But I gave you the job and I’m not taking it back. Let’s just see how it works out, okay?

I’ll do a good job for you.

I don’t doubt that, Frank smiled.

One more favor, Mr. Corelli? said Lucy, standing up and smoothing out her skirt.

Name it. And call me Frank.

Thank you so much, Frank--for everything. And I am Lucy.

What’s the favor...Lucy?

Well, besides insurance, I see you are also in the real estate business. Any idea where I could find an apartment to rent--or even a small house?

Sure thing. Frank scribbled an address on a piece of note paper and handed it to Lucy. See a Miss Maudie Claypool, corner of Third and Pine, two blocks south of here and one block west. You can’t miss it. She owns a number of rental properties around town.

Thank you, Frank, said Lucy, barely resisting an urge to hug the man. Oh, by the way, when do I start?

How about Monday morning at eight?

I’ll be here. She turned and walked to the door--where she stopped and turned again toward Frank. You won’t be sorry, she said.

She pushed open the door and went out into the heat of a Lemon Creek early summer day.

*************************************

The enormous white Victorian at Third and Pine had a front porch that ran the width of the house with an old wooden swing and hanging pots blooming with pink and purple petunias. Lucy approached the entrance, which consisted of a pair of black-painted doors with leaded glass windows, and rang the bell.

Maudie Claypool answered with almost alarming promptness for a woman who appeared to be pushing ninety. Lucy had a mental picture of Miss Claypool standing just inside the door, waiting to pounce on any visitor who happened to show up. She was a tiny woman with tightly curled white hair and rimless spectacles. Her pale blue polyester pantsuit was set off by a big floppy bow that nearly swallowed up her pinched little face.

Lucy introduced herself, said she’d been sent by Frank Corelli and asked if Miss Claypool might have a suitable rental.

Come in, dear, said Miss Claypool, leading Lucy through the foyer into a front parlor that was simply jam-packed with things: heaps of half-finished needlework and quilting supplies, a plastic-topped card table piled up with papers, dozens of knickknacks and empty flower vases on the mantelpiece; a whole slew of old magazines and vinyl records stacked high on a coffee table. Almost every surface in the room was covered with something or other. Yet there was a sort of weird organization to it all, so that the overall effect was more endearing than disturbing. Though the day was sweltering, the room was cool, with just a few strategically-placed oscillating fans causing the lace curtains to billow at the tall windows.

Sit down, dear. Can I get you some lemonade? asked Miss Claypool.

Oh, I’d love some! I’m totally parched, said Lucy, noting that even with all the clutter, navigating the room was easy. There was no shortage of places to sit. Half a dozen chairs of various vintages managed to squeeze into the limited floor space. When Miss Claypool left the room, Lucy chose an old wicker rocker and sank gratefully into it. For the first time in weeks, she felt truly relaxed. She laid her head back and began to rock--gently…gently…to and fro. There was no sound but the clicking and whirring of the ancient electric fans and the ticking of the mantel clock. She felt the breeze flutter her skirt and waft soothingly across her legs. In another moment, she would have been asleep if Miss Claypool had not returned bearing a tray with two glasses of lemonade and a plate full of homemade sugar cookies.

I thought you might be hungry, said Miss Claypool, setting the tray down on a small table next to Lucy’s chair.

How can she know, Lucy thought, that I haven’t eaten since six o’clock this morning? She couldn’t recall any food that had ever looked so good in her whole life.

Help yourself, Miss Claypool urged, lowering her creaky old body carefully into a nearby easy chair.

Lucy eagerly obeyed. The lemonade was perfectly sweet and tart, the cookies rich and buttery. She closed her eyes and sighed and couldn’t seem to remember why she was here.

As it happens, said Miss Claypool, the sound of her voice jolting Lucy back to reality, I do have something--a darling little two-bedroom house just down the block. It’s furnished, which is what I think you want. Lucy wondered vaguely how Miss Claypool could possibly know what she wanted. The furniture is old, Miss Claypool went on, antiques really but in excellent condition.

I love antiques, Lucy said. And I was sort of hoping for a house, but I wasn’t sure if I could afford it. Maybe we should be thinking more in terms of an apartment.

There aren’t many apartments in Lemon Creek. Besides, you’d be surprised--rents are much cheaper here than what you’re used to. I think you’ll find the rent acceptable.

How does she know what I’m used to? Lucy wondered.

Miss Claypool reached into the drawer of a little table near her chair and took out a door key. Here, she said, handing it to Lucy. I’ll just give you the key and you can run down there and look at it. I won’t go along if you don’t mind. I don’t like to get out in the heat. You just look the place over, then come back and I’ll answer any questions you might have.

There was no need to ask the address. The key was clearly labeled--623 Pine Street.

Thank you, Miss Claypool. I’ll look at it, and I’ll be right back." Lucy made a move as if to get up from her chair.

But Miss Claypool reached out and lightly touched Lucy’s hand. Sit, she said. No need to rush. Finish your drink and cookies. You look bushed, dear.

************************************

Half an hour later, Lucy was approaching the house at 623 Pine, which turned out to be a sort of poor man’s version of Miss Claypool’s. The white frame house had its own smaller-scale front porch and swing. Unlike Miss Claypool’s, the house was only one story, and its gingerbread trim seemed slightly incongruous, like a little girl wearing her mother’s jewelry. But the house was cute--definitely cute. The house, the yard--everything looked trim and well-kept.

Inside, it was dark and not as hot as Lucy would have expected on a day this warm, especially considering it had been closed up and hadn’t the benefit of Miss Claypool’s little electric fans. Lucy flicked on the overhead light in the living room and looked around. The overall impression of the room was of brownness--as if she were seeing everything through a sepia-tinted lens. The only hint of color--faded color at that--came from the Persian rugs that covered the hardwood floors in both this room and the dining room, which was visible through an arched doorway. Although all of this could not have been more different from the sunny yellow walls and flowered cushions of her apartment back home, she found the very mutedness of it comforting somehow. Already, she could see herself coming home from work to this place and burrowing into its darkness like a rabbit into the soft, warm earth. This was what she needed right now--calm, comfort, an absence of color. Just for a while. Just until she got her feet on the ground again.

Wandering through the rest of the house, she found a small, old-fashioned kitchen and two tiny bedrooms that somehow managed to accommodate the massive walnut bedroom furniture with its high, ornate headboards, marble-topped chests and vanities with tall triple mirrors.

There was no dishwasher in the kitchen (I’ll