Dutch Treat

By Xlibris US

Charlotte Elizabeth Sullivan (Charlie to her friends) has come to small town Wisconsin to live. Inheriting her uncle Milts resort, Dutch Treat on Lake Wannabee, was an unexpected surprise.

Recently divorced, Charlie Sullivan leaves Milwaukee to learn about love and life in a small town where almost everyone is related.

Along the way, she discovers her uncle Milt has left her with more than the Dutch Treat.

Charlies best friend, Oneida Native Conchata AshwoodNowak, plays confidante and matchmaker and shoulder to cry on as Charlie unravels the mystery surrounding her uncles death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499062588

Book preview

Prologue

Milt heard the roar of the truck’s engine before he saw it. It was past bar close, and Milt had just left his drinking buddies at the Twilight’s Edge. That new guy, Dan Templeton, was a character. He showed up over a week ago instantly befriending Jake Emerson, local handyman extraordinaire. Milt grinned in satisfaction. The two of them would get along like two peas in the pod. Maybe things would go off without a hitch after all. If he was lucky. If not . . .

The truck had been following Milt for a few miles. Now they were on a lonely stretch of dirt road headed to Milt’s place—Dutch Treat. Milt glanced in his rearview mirror. Sonuvabitch doesn’t have his lights on! Milt slowed to let the dark vehicle pass.

Milt thought back to that night’s drinking conversation. Dan Templeton had to be filled in on all the area goings-on since he was new. Randy Ellingsworth talked about the gun club since he was recently elected president of said club. Del Turner had shown up. Del sat in quietly in his chair, a smile fixed on his face but not saying much. Another guy Milt wasn’t that familiar with waxed philosophical about the lack of suitable female companionship in town. He said something about if you don’t mind carrying a bag in your truck… Everybody at the table laughed knowingly.

Dep. Ted Tooley was moonlighting tending bar and was busy training a new bartender. Jake Emerson watched the new bartender over the rim of his beer mug, sizing him up. The guy spent most of his time flirting with a young woman sitting on a bar stool at the far end. She returned the attention with too much interest. Her gaze flitted to Jake between flirts with the bartender. Jake’s stomach churned. He watched as his ex-wife, Melissa, passed a piece of paper to the new bartender.

Milt dropped the name of Penny Archer, owner of a junk shop-cum-pawnshop in town. As he expected, the other men started a chorus of old bitch, would gild her grandpa’s balls and sell ’em, and man-eating loan shark. Dan Templeton leaned back in his chair, beer in hand, and took it all in. Milt’s eyes met his as he gave him an imperceptible nod.

Deputy Tooley shouted last call across the nearly empty room at 1:30 a.m. One final round of Spotted Cow, and the men filed out of the Twilight’s Edge’s door. They stood in a little knot on the edge of the parking lot briefly, patting backs, swapping one last dirty joke, and then peeling off to their vehicles. Milt noticed a figure duck out of the employee’s only door to catch a smoke.

The moon was almost full. Milt wondered if the truck following him was kids testing their driving abilities without headlights. Fuckin’ fools. Suddenly, the truck started passing Milt. Even though he had been drinking ice water all night, he reeked of Irish whiskey. One of the guys had spilled Jameson on Milt’s shirt, so Milt drove well below the speed limit. Deputy Tooley was probably still in the bar cleaning up, and Sheriff Petrie was not one to pull road watch at night. Then there was the fact that Milt wasn’t feeling so hot. His head was spinning, and his hands trembled. The phrase diabetic shock came to mind. The feeling had come over him earlier in the bar. He should have taken Del up on the offer to drive him home.

The front bumper of the other vehicle came into view as it came even with the rear of Milt’s truck. Milt kept his speed. All he could hear now was the grinding of his truck’s tires and the sound of the other vehicle as it surged slightly to pass. He reached out to punch his radio to life when—WHOMP! The darkened truck thumped into the rear panel. Asshole! Turn on your fuckin’ lights! At that, the other truck struck the midsection of Milt’s with a harder blow. Milt clamped his jaws as he floored it in a last ditch effort to escape the other driver. The other truck’s engine screamed with a life of its own. As it pulled even with Milt’s truck, he saw the old tire attached to its front bumper like a battering ram. Milt’s eyes sliced to the other truck’s interior. His heart flew to his throat as he recognized the driver. The other driver waved in an almost friendly manner as he drove his vehicle one last time into Milt’s.

Milt’s truck flew gracefully, taking the tops off of cattails, flying over scrub before landing in a shattering crash of glass and metal into a cottonwood tree.

Somewhere in the back of his brain, Milt heard the voices of an ambulance crew. Then a voice closer to his ear. It was his old fishing buddy, Del Turner. Of course, Del was there because the county used his towing service. Milt pried his eyes open, his blurry vision picking out the delicate gold chain swinging from the interior mirror. He tried to turn his head in Del’s direction. He mouthed a bloody make sure she gets that. Del nodded and reached into the truck to slip the locket and chain into his own hand.

Miles away, Charlotte (a.k.a. Charlie) Sullivan tossed restlessly in her spacious king-size bed. Pen in hand, she had spent most of the day circling job possibilities in the Milwaukee Journal. The pickings were slim for a recently divorced English teacher. Budget cuts didn’t care about marital status or the fact that your prick of an ex was hounding you to leave the house you had once shared for over twenty years. It wasn’t her fault that he had gotten that bimbo pregnant. Charlie’s divorce attorney was equally hounding, telling her to take her ex’s monetary offer for the house. If she had to be honest, she couldn’t afford to say no. It would set her up in a halfway decent apartment until she got another teaching position, which would be—when? In the meantime, there was a deli-worker position in a local convenience store. The hours were shit, and it meant working every weekend, but it was money. Charlie—the ex Mrs. Joseph Pizelli—dozed off at 2:33 a.m., thinking things could be a lot worse.

Charlie Sullivan awoke the next morning to a phone call that her uncle Milt was dead.

Chapter One

A few years ago, I inherited a cabin/RV resort business from my uncle Milt Uffleman. Four small units, one duplex, and acreage for three or four campers set in a picturesque wooded setting in Wisconsin. Locals called my uncle Milt the Dutchman, so he called the place Dutch Treat. Cantankerous old fart that he was, Milt was the heart and soul of the place. He was the go-to guy for all things fishing on Lake Wannabee. That knowledge wasn’t passed on to me. I’m only now learning the difference between a spoon and a jig, fly fishing from just fishin’, and that some people call them Walleyes, while others call them Pike or Old Marble Eye. In other words… I’m hopeless.

The Fourth of July this year was a quiet weekend. The lake was down several feet and sporting algae. Lake Wannabee isn’t the lake it once was when trophy Northerns swam its shallow depths. Not long after Uncle Milt died, the DNR hired some yahoos from Chicago to clean the lake of crap fish. In the end, they killed off thousands of trophy fish as well. It would take years to restock Lake Wannabee to its former glory. In the meantime, fishermen still drive from Chicago and Milwaukee thinking they’ll catch a record Northern.

Business was slack; fishing sucked. I have a part-time job for extra income. It hadn’t rained the past couple of weeks, so our Smokey the Bear sign read High Risk for fires. The grass was so sharp and dry it crunched underfoot. And I was living like a nun. Grass wasn’t the only thing suffering a dry spell.

I’m a woman of a certain age where I would rather tell you my weight than my age. Divorced, no kids. My dishwater blond hair has highlights and lowlights, thanks to the ladies of the Curl Up and Dye. I’m a whopping five two, a Lillias, Yoga, and You dropout. As for living like a nun? The average age of the local Lake Wannabee male starts in the mid-fifties. There are a few attractive older retirees, but as luck would have it, they’re married.

I’m not much for the local bar scene. The Ei-Ben Inn is tiny Morgan’s Landing’s watering hole of choice. Owned by Ben and Eileen Strauss, the place does a fair business. It’s a small bar with a bowling alley attached with five warped lanes. I’ve learned to put a slight spin on the ball to get it to track straight and hit a few pins. I’m a fill-in for one of the ladies’ leagues, a bunch calling themselves Belles of the Balls. Our shirts feature two bowling balls striking the base of a pin. Go for the visual.

Rayanne Thibedeaux (leader of the Belles pack) once pushed me into a date with one of her cousins, Lucien. It was desperate times. I needed a new water heater, and Lucien owns a plumbing service. I ended up buying one from Wadleigh’s. Long story short, Lucien and I were a no-go. I like my men to have a few more teeth. If they’re missing any, dentures or bridges work.

My ex had all his teeth, even after I punched my fist into his jaw. I wasn’t the only one who found him attractive. Joey Pizelli and I were married twenty-plus years when his ass went AWOL with someone younger sporting firmer boobs and butt. Joey was a loan officer at a credit union who was climbing the corporate ladder. He always told me he was going on to bigger and better things. Guess he meant Julie Deaver, the bimbo in question. I was left high and dry. Joey even took our married friends. That was three years and the loss of a good teaching position ago, about the same time I ended up with Dutch Treat. The first two years, I was able to trade on Uncle Milt’s good will and reputation. This year is different. I have to actually prove myself. A couple of his good vacationers have followed the Dutchman to that great fishin’ hole in the sky. Others were wooed across the lake by a resort with an excellent guide. They must have smelled stupid and naïve on me like stink bait. Boat rentals are down; cabin rentals are down, and there’s one RV in my camper park. It’s owned by a freshly retired couple trying out RV-ing for the first time with some kind of rat terrier. They’re failing miserably, and the dog’s yapping sounds like seagulls screeching.

Since there are few guests at Dutch Treat, I work part time at the Piggly Wiggly across the lake. If I drive, it’s a thirty-minute trip, by boat only ten. I tie up my boat to the little public dock and walk three blocks to the Pig. Most days, I’m the only one on the lake. I hate going out on holidays. A lot of holiday boaters are junk boaters. For some reason, they think it’s acceptable to drink and drive on the water.

When I have to leave Dutch Treat, I leave it in the hands of my little crew: my hairdresser’s twenty-one-year-old daughter Kate and eighteen-year-old Harley Tippet. When Harley isn’t trimming bushes, mowing the yard, or tinkering on one of the boats, he’s dogging Kate’s every step. One of these days, he’ll trip over his tongue.

The weekend before the Fourth found me going over my honey-do list. Kate and Harley had the day off, so I wrangled my friend, Conchata Nowak, to be my aide-de-camp. Conchata is an Oneida Native married to a boisterous Polish gentleman from Newark, New Jersey. Leroy is in residential construction.

Conch and I lounged on the deck of the tiny A-frame that had been Uncle Milt’s home. Barn swallows swooped just inches above the grass seeking breakfast. A bluebird hung out on his favorite perch—the top of the flag pole. Sand Hill cranes croaked their awkward music in a nearby field. This was my favorite part of the day. That quiet before the campers stir and fill the air with their nonsensical chatter. Peering down at my deck, I noticed it was peeling in wide strips and was pockmarked. Should have used primer. I uttered a low curse that Conch picked up on. She has the ears of a bird dog. I painted the deck last year but couldn’t tell by the looks of it now. I leaned over the railing, coffee mug in hand. My mug says it all: Another Shitty Day in Paradise.

Charlie, Conch snapped. Final decision! Hiring Leroy to paint that cabin for you? Or having Harley do it?

Hiring Leroy, I mumbled. Harley is okay with yard work and small repairs. But trusting him to paint an entire cabin is a stretch.

Conch stared at the spiral-bound notebook laid out on the table. Is it in your budget?

Yeah, sure, I lied.

A screen door screeched, its spring making that sick harp twang as it stretched. The sound came from Cabin Four, the only one being rented. I turned to see Mrs. McElroy thump across the lawn. She must have felt the vibe of my look as she slowly rotated her head my way. She waved, nodded, and gave me one of those smiles that say, Fuck off. Or perhaps it was gas pain. The McElroys have been camping at Dutch Treat for five years. Each year, Roberta McElroy is pregnant.

Conch’s eyes followed Roberta across the lot. That woman spits out babies like a Pez dispenser.

I choked on my coffee. That’s what I love about Conch Nowak; she isn’t one to mince words. We’ve been friends since third grade. That was the summer my parents separated, and I started spending my summers at Dutch Treat, while they tried to mend their lives together. Conch’s pop was one of the Dutchman’s fishing buddies. I tagged after Conch, her siblings, and dozens of cousins exploring the nearby woods and stealing frybread from her grandmother.

As we ticked down the list together, the Dutch Treat landline rang. Dutch Treat Cabins. Charlotte Sullivan speaking, how can I help you?

Charlie, a familiar voice whined. It was Jeanette Randolph, one of the owners of the Piggly Wiggly. We’re stuck.

So what else is new? my inner monologue shouted back. Jeanette, I tried to sound pleased. One of the teeny boppers decided they don’t want to work a holiday? Conch leaned in to listen. I shrugged and mouthed, The Pig. She closed her big brown eyes and shook her head slowly in disgust.

Yes, Jeanette drawled. And I don’t get it. They get time and a half working the Fourth. She stopped briefly to shuffle papers. It wasn’t necessary because she already knew when she wanted me to come in. Looks like I need help opening. Seven in the morning till two in the afternoon. Just a seven-hour shift. But then… More useless paper shuffling for my benefit. Looks like Sheila can’t make it till four. She’s supposed to start at one. Could you cover ‘til then?

I did the numbers. Minimum wage at time and a half for seven-plus holiday hours. I glanced at Conch as she did the eye thing over her glasses. I mouthed, It’s money, and I got the disgusted headshake again.

Sure, glad to. I was on a roll lying this morning. But now I could cover most of the paint job.

Lord, Charlie, you’re a sucker for punishment, Conch said as I hung up.

It’s time and a half, I whined. I felt like I was talking to my mother. But, Mom, all the other kids get to go.

Never mind. It’s like talking to one of my kids. Do what you want with whomever you want. Just remember… there are consequences.

It’s work. Honest work. Believe me, I’d work the streets here if we had ’em.

Conch laughed, her eyes disappearing into creases. "Girl, you are desperate. You’ve seen your possible clients? The only decent one would be my cousin Gabe."

The mental image of her cousin, Gabe Ashwood, sprang to mind: six feet tall, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, broad in the shoulders, narrow-hipped. At times he was the excellent fishing guide at the Log Cabin Resort across the lake. I closed my eyes in an effort to block out the vision of Gabe the last time I saw him. It was at the Ei-Benn Inn, and I was in full Belles of the Balls regalia. He wore his usual denim shirt with sleeves rolled up, jeans, scuffed boots. He leaned over the railing behind the seats, can of diet ginger ale in his hand. He seemed to be eying my serve critically… from behind. You’re putting too much spin on that thing, he shouted over the thunk-thunder of balls rolling down the alleys.

Suppose you’re an expert bowler, I spat.

Could be. Want to find out? A couple of free private lessons? His smile turned up slightly at the right corner of his mouth. I hated the fact that I noticed. I also hated the fact that his hair looked better than mine. Our bowling exchange was probably the most extensive conversation we had since I took over Dutch Treat. After all, he was the enemy: he had stolen a few of my clients.

Conch’s voice broke through my reverie. Earth to Charlie! You’re looking glazed there, girl. The laugh was still in her tone. I could arrange something, you know. If you’re interested. I always thought you and Gabe made a cute couple when we were kids.

An invisible finger traced its way up my spine. My brain fogged momentarily. Am I the only person in this godforsaken village that isn’t related to anyone?

That’s what makes you so attractive to these guys.

No! I said with more emphasis than necessary. That man stole from me. He took a banker, a gynecologist, and a VP from that pizza chain.

Oh please, she sighed. Those were good ol’ boy types. They stayed here because of Dutch. Now the place is being run by a woman. Goes against their grain.

It was my turn to sigh. She was right. Most people think the South is redneck territory. But there are Cheesehead rednecks too, and a few of them didn’t take to the new proprietor of Dutch Treat.

What do I have to do, Conch? I can’t afford to hire any new staff, especially a fishing guide.

Her eyes twinkled. You have your feminine wiles, no?

Meaning?

Pick the brains of the guides at the other resorts. Buddy up with one of the ‘for hire’ guys. It might mean living at the Ei-Benn Inn a couple of late afternoons. You’re the best looking thing a lot of these guys have seen in these parts outside of Madison and Milwaukee. Use it.

Hookin’ to hook fish? I cringed inwardly. No, thanks. Next?

For god’s sake, Charlie, all you have to do is bat your eyes at them. Flirt a little. Tell them how big and strong they are and how little and helpless you are. All these guys want is to be seen chatting up a good-looking, educated wench who can speak more than NASCAR and Packer football. She sipped some of her cold coffee. Or next time you see Gabe at the bowling alley, be a helluva lot nicer. I’m sure he’ll take pity.

I don’t want pity! I snapped, my spine stiffening at the word. Despite my outward attitude, I was screaming on the inside. I never wanted the stinking Dutch Treat, but I was stuck with it bills and all. Go-to guy that he was, Uncle Milt’s knowledge didn’t extend to finances. After taking care of his final hospital bills and funeral arrangements, the Dutch Treat dove into the red.

Conch sat back in her chair sucking on the end of her Number Two Ticonderoga. You’ll have to figure a way to get creative, kiddo. Ever think about opening up a cabin or two during ice fishing season?

It will cost to heat the cabins.

Invest in a couple of pellet stoves.

Let me think on it. I screwed up my face trying for a look of deep thought. Conch wasn’t buying it, but she dropped the subject. For now.

Chapter Two

It was the first week of August when the weather’s dry spell broke. My personal dry spell continued unabated. The rains started on a Wednesday night and poured steadily through most of Thursday before turning off like a faucet. There were two RV units on the lot, and three cabins were rented out. Summer sucked. Even the Log Cabin Resort was struggling. Rumor was that Gabe Ashwood had packed a bag and headed up North to help a friend with his fishing cruises off Lake Michigan. I was shocked to find that I actually missed seeing him at the bowling alley. At least one of us was making money.

Leroy Nowak showed up for the planned projects starting with indoor repairs of Cabin Two. We came up with a payment schedule that worked around my lack of income. I got a line of credit at the town hardware store, the Bucket of Nails, which did not include my having to date or sleep with anyone’s male relative. I celebrated my good fortune with breakfast at Woody’s. A contingent was there from the bowling alley the night before. A few looked like they actually made it to bed. A couple (like Dan Templeton) were in perpetual need of a shower and shave. He was fairly new to this crew having arrived in town right before Uncle Milt died. I often wondered about Dan; he didn’t fit in. While the other guys bellyached about their wives or girlfriends, Dan kept tight-lipped. He didn’t share personal tidbits but was accepted by the locals. Dan’s head nodding in agreement was the only indication that he was either listening or sleeping it off from the night before. Dan also needed a keeper. He spied me trying to ease my way to a quiet corner when he nonchalantly leaned his chair on to its back legs, blocking my way. A neat balancing act for someone functioning on fumes so early in the morning.

A gentle whisper drifted across the table. Dan, behave yourself. I caught Jake Emerson’s eye. Let the lady be. I doubt if she’s impressed by your virility this morning. Dan’s chair teetered briefly before easing back on to all fours. I mouthed a thanks to Jake.

Jake Emerson was a few years younger and many years wiser than me. He winked a hazel eye in response to my thanks. He beamed his brilliant smile as I made my way to my usual corner seat. I pretended to study Woody’s menu. I pretty much had it memorized but needed something to cover my face. Taking deep breaths, I focused on a brightly colored cartoon of an omelet under the breakfast heading. Jake was divorced. Gossip was he still had an on-again-off-again relationship with his ex-wife Melissa. His breakfast buddies joked that his house should have a revolving door. He took it good-naturedly, usually brushing it off with a quick retort. This morning, he was tucking into something that was a cross between omelet and taco. His wavy brown hair ran riot under his battered Milwaukee Brewers cap. Dan Templeton nudged his elbow and nodded at a bowl of sour cream in front of Jake. Dan’s eyes flickered my way briefly. He leaned behind Jake’s back and blew me a kiss. This time, I raised the menu in front of my face and kept it there, my face ablaze.

Louise, chief cook, waitress, and Woody’s wife, hovered over my table as I sat down. Know what you want? she asked without ceremony. She waved an order pad—which she wouldn’t use. The usual, I chirped. My voice surprised me… chirping that is. And I was still blushing. Jake Emerson was watching from across the room.

My usual, Louise’s special Eggs Benedict (crab meat mixed into the creamy topping sitting on homemade biscuits), were more than I could tackle. That’s why I ordered it. The leftovers made for a tasty dinner later. I nibbled slowly, drinking coffee, and jotted to do notes on a napkin. At my third cup of coffee, Louise pulled up a chair and sat the empty coffee pot in front of her. Her steel grey hair was still fresh from the Curl-Up and Dye; every closely clipped hair held in place by tons of spray. Louise’s hands were permanently red and chapped from hot dishwater. She smiled broadly, asking, ’Sup?

Not much. Have a few guests, but you know the story. A dollar short and a day late.

Louise leaned forward. Got any brochures? I could always put a few up by the register. We get loads of tourists through here. Sometimes they’re looking for something out of the ordinary.

That would be great, I sighed. Maybe I could do something for leaf peepers this fall. You know—rent a boat and see the trees from the lake.

There ya go! Louise slapped a gnarly hand that made the empty pot rattle. A few heads from the Dan/Jake table turned our way. There was a low chuckle and a comment about keep the noise down or we’ll talk to the management. Louise waved in their direction without looking around and spoke loud enough for them to hear. Men! Some of ’em shouldn’t be allowed out without the proper supervision.

Any suggestions about who that might be, ‘Wheezie?’ Another round of chuckles. This time, she turned to face her heckler. Randy Ellingsworth, how’s that sweet little wife of yours? Saw her to church last Sunday. Alone as usual.

Prayin’ for my heathen soul, as usual. Randy nodded our way. And how’s business at the Treat? I see you got a couple of RVs. That Coachman is honkin’ huge. Big as my house.

Chicago people. The Coachmen couple is renting that thing. They’re in the market for a cabin or site to build on.

Randy nudged Jake at his right. Weren’t you thinking of selling that place of yours?

What’s that, Emerson? You getting rid of your house? Louise headed for the men’s table, leaving her coffee pot with me. Jeezum! What on earth has gotten into you? Your daddy will be turnin’ in his grave.

Jake cleared his throat and shifted uneasily in his seat. Nothing’s set in stone. Just a passing thought.

Louise shook her head in disbelief. Then let that thought pass right on out t’other side. That spot on the lake has been in your family for ages. I’d sure hate to see it in the hands of outsiders. The rest of the men at the table nodded in agreement. It was one thing to take money for charters or as fishing guides from the big city folks. But to sell lakeside property to those same people… they’d cut off their left nut first.

Send ’em over to old man Schneider’s. The group laughed at the inside joke. Mr. Schneider, now at Parson’s Nursing Home, had an old ranch style on the north side of the lake. From a boat in the middle of the lake, the place was picturesque. Birch trees stood in stark contrast to the forest green house, its wide panes of glass of the living room shining in the sun. Up close, the place was a wreck. Missing roof tiles littered the yard; screens were ripped, and the garage was packed with years of hoarding car parts and a broken-down pontoon boat. Inside the house was the personal litter of decades of life. The property was being sold lock, stock, and barrel. Great if you wanted to live in a flea market.

That place has been on the market for years, Louise sighed. It gets more run down every time I drive by. Can’t figure why it hasn’t sold yet. Seems there’s always a bunch of cars there on weekends.

Randy Ellingsworth put in that it was probably out-of-towners the realtor was trying to sucker in. The guys at the table responded to this with several snorts.

Rachel Tooley, local realtor, wasn’t the Valley’s sweetheart. Married to Dep. Ted Tooley, Rachel was loud and aggressive in personality as well as in business; locals called her the Steamroller. We crossed paths. It didn’t turn out well. Shortly after the Dutchman died, I awoke one frosty morning to see Rachel pounding her company’s For Sale sign out front.

Your uncle told me if anything happened to him, I was to help you sell the resort.

He never said anything to me, I snapped. Got anything in writing? Rachel’s face flushed briefly. Well… not on paper.

I tried to keep my cool. That—as they say—is worth the paper it’s written on. After a few more choice words on both sides, Rachel threw the metal sign into the trunk of her car and gunned it, leaving a deep furrow in the grass. I saw her at the Pig now and then. She went to other cashiers no matter how long their line. I got the tight-lipped, gassy smile if our eyes chanced to meet.

Thinking of the Pig reminded me that I needed to do some serious shopping. Serious as in I was down to my last roll of TP. I grabbed my leftovers, said an adios to Louise and the guys. Jake tapped the bill of his cap in salute as I passed the table. My eyes lingered longer than they should have. Jake’s casual smile froze… then it warmed and spread to his eyes. A hot rush of blood flowed, making my throat and face scarlet. Putting my head down, I stumbled the rest of the way out of Woody’s and into my truck. I decided to do my grocery shopping in Ripon. Climbing into my trusty, rusty Yukon, I yanked my list down from the sun visor.

The errand run would take a good chunk out of my morning. I slipped an old Grateful Dead CD into the CD player and started tapping on the steering wheel to the beat. The back roads skirted past some of the lake houses. Jake’s place was coming up on the right; its wide expanse of lawn needed mowing. Dandelions, already gone to seed, stood