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Authors: Connie Brockway
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had followed her older cousin around Chez Ducky throughout her childhood. Consequently, he still felt a certain responsibility toward her. “Mimi doesn’t have many—I mean, she doesn’t bring many friends up here. You must be special. How’d you meet?”
Joe clasped Gerry’s proffered hand. “I helped her out of a bit of a mess.”
Gerry shot a concerned glance at Mimi. “You in trouble?”
“No. He meant a literal mess. I was covered in mud and he offered me a ride.”
“Oh.” That she’d been covered in mud obviously didn’t surprise Gerry. His gaze fell on the stains on Joe’s shirt. He opened his mouth, caught Mimi’s eye, closed his mouth, and turned back to the mansion. “So, whaddya think of ’er, Joe?”
“What do you think?” Joe rejoined.
“I think,” Gerry replied, “that is the biggest pile of crap to hit the North Woods since Babe the Blue Ox took a dump. I mean, look at it, Joe. It’s a good ten feet taller than any building within fifty miles.”
“We call it Prescott’s Erection, after its owner,” Hank Sboda put in, coloring and glancing sheepishly at Mimi, who, despite not only having heard the tag before but having been the one who’d coined it, demurely lowered her eyes.
“Prescott’s—” Joe choked. Men were so sensitive.
“Aw, come on,” Mimi said. “You don’t think maybe there’s a little compensation going on here?”
“Can you imagine what it’ll be like at the Big House this winter after the trees drop their leaves and you look out and instead of a winter wonderland all you see is that thing looming up into the sky?” Gerry muttered.
“Unpleasant?” Joe asked.
“And look at that. ” Mimi pointed up at the octagonal tower perched at the corner nearest them. “There are fire towers up here that aren’t as high.”
“You’re exaggerating,” Gerry said.
“Okay,” Mimi conceded. “But the point is I come up here in the fall sometimes and with that thing towering over me I’m going to feel like I’m in a prison camp waiting for the guards to open fire.”
“Chez Ducky doesn’t look much like a prison camp,” Joe said uncomfortably.
She peered at him. “Say, you don’t actually like this thing, do you?”
“No.” His response was immediate and sincere.
“ We hate it,” she said, looking to Hank and Gerald for confirmation. Both men nodded.
“Hate it,” echoed Gerry’s wife, Vida, emerging from the wood’s path.
Mimi approved of Vida, a wiry redhead who had gone back to school a few years ago in a felicitous move to become a massage therapist—felicitous because she often practiced on Mimi.
“Hi,” Joe said. “I’m Joe.”
“I’m Vida. Wouldn’t you hate it if you were us, Joe?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “In fact, I’d probably consider selling because of it.”
Mimi waited for someone to point out the error in his reasoning. No one did.
“And go where?” she finally asked, exasperated with her relatives. “It would only be a temporary reprieve. Sooner or later every pothole in the state is going to be cheek to jowl with places like that.” She jerked her head toward the fauxlog monstrosity.
“Besides, we could never replace Chez Ducky. It’s paid for, and spreading the cost of upkeep makes it affordable for all of us. Plus, some of us couldn’t afford any vacation at all if we didn’t have here to come to,” she finished pitiably.
Gerry shot her a bemused glance. She ignored him. No need to tell Joe her “vacations” usually lasted from May through September. She was aiming for sympathy here, not full disclosure.
“We’re selling.”
Mimi’s, Gerry’s, and Vida’s heads snapped toward Hank Sboda.
“Huh?” Gerry asked, his lanternlike jaw dropping open.
“We decided to sell,” Hank said, his tone defensive. “Fowl Lake in’t what it used to be and never will be again. We can’t afford to stay and we can’t afford not to sell. Just like Mimi here said.”
“I never said
Joe clasped Gerry’s proffered hand. “I helped her out of a bit of a mess.”
Gerry shot a concerned glance at Mimi. “You in trouble?”
“No. He meant a literal mess. I was covered in mud and he offered me a ride.”
“Oh.” That she’d been covered in mud obviously didn’t surprise Gerry. His gaze fell on the stains on Joe’s shirt. He opened his mouth, caught Mimi’s eye, closed his mouth, and turned back to the mansion. “So, whaddya think of ’er, Joe?”
“What do you think?” Joe rejoined.
“I think,” Gerry replied, “that is the biggest pile of crap to hit the North Woods since Babe the Blue Ox took a dump. I mean, look at it, Joe. It’s a good ten feet taller than any building within fifty miles.”
“We call it Prescott’s Erection, after its owner,” Hank Sboda put in, coloring and glancing sheepishly at Mimi, who, despite not only having heard the tag before but having been the one who’d coined it, demurely lowered her eyes.
“Prescott’s—” Joe choked. Men were so sensitive.
“Aw, come on,” Mimi said. “You don’t think maybe there’s a little compensation going on here?”
“Can you imagine what it’ll be like at the Big House this winter after the trees drop their leaves and you look out and instead of a winter wonderland all you see is that thing looming up into the sky?” Gerry muttered.
“Unpleasant?” Joe asked.
“And look at that. ” Mimi pointed up at the octagonal tower perched at the corner nearest them. “There are fire towers up here that aren’t as high.”
“You’re exaggerating,” Gerry said.
“Okay,” Mimi conceded. “But the point is I come up here in the fall sometimes and with that thing towering over me I’m going to feel like I’m in a prison camp waiting for the guards to open fire.”
“Chez Ducky doesn’t look much like a prison camp,” Joe said uncomfortably.
She peered at him. “Say, you don’t actually like this thing, do you?”
“No.” His response was immediate and sincere.
“ We hate it,” she said, looking to Hank and Gerald for confirmation. Both men nodded.
“Hate it,” echoed Gerry’s wife, Vida, emerging from the wood’s path.
Mimi approved of Vida, a wiry redhead who had gone back to school a few years ago in a felicitous move to become a massage therapist—felicitous because she often practiced on Mimi.
“Hi,” Joe said. “I’m Joe.”
“I’m Vida. Wouldn’t you hate it if you were us, Joe?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “In fact, I’d probably consider selling because of it.”
Mimi waited for someone to point out the error in his reasoning. No one did.
“And go where?” she finally asked, exasperated with her relatives. “It would only be a temporary reprieve. Sooner or later every pothole in the state is going to be cheek to jowl with places like that.” She jerked her head toward the fauxlog monstrosity.
“Besides, we could never replace Chez Ducky. It’s paid for, and spreading the cost of upkeep makes it affordable for all of us. Plus, some of us couldn’t afford any vacation at all if we didn’t have here to come to,” she finished pitiably.
Gerry shot her a bemused glance. She ignored him. No need to tell Joe her “vacations” usually lasted from May through September. She was aiming for sympathy here, not full disclosure.
“We’re selling.”
Mimi’s, Gerry’s, and Vida’s heads snapped toward Hank Sboda.
“Huh?” Gerry asked, his lanternlike jaw dropping open.
“We decided to sell,” Hank said, his tone defensive. “Fowl Lake in’t what it used to be and never will be again. We can’t afford to stay and we can’t afford not to sell. Just like Mimi here said.”
“I never said
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