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Authors: Connie Brockway
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that!” Mimi protested.
Gerry stared at Hank in horror. “You can’t be serious. The Sbodas have been on Fowl Lake almost as long as the Olsons.”
“Longer,” Hank said primly, “but that in’t the point. Point is, a…realtor tells us she can sell our land for enough that we can buy a condo in Fort Myers.”
Gerry snorted, his expression contemptuous.
“Don’t look at me like that, Olson. You’re a young man,” Hank said.
Actually Gerry was pushing fifty, but now wasn’t the time to point this out.
“And you got lots of folks to help with all the stuff needs doing,” Hank went on heatedly. “My kids got their own kids now and don’t get up here more than a couple times a year. That leaves all the maintenance to me and Mary. Damn near got a hernia getting the dock in this spring.”
“You’re selling ’cause it’s too much work ?” Gerry asked. Despite plenty of evidence to the contrary, like most line-bred Minnesotans Gerry liked to think he represented the apex of a staunch work ethic. Hank Sboda enjoyed the same fantasy.
The woolly caterpillar of Hank’s brows dipped toward the bridge of his nose. “Course not,” he exclaimed. “That’s just part of it. Hell and damn, Gerry! It’s fine for you to talk. You got eight thousand feet of lakeshore and a whole forest standing between you and what’s happening out here. “I got two hundred feet with this, this— hotel on my east, and now Svenstrom’s sold on my other side and I hear the guy what’s bought it is going to start excavating next spring and it’s gonna be another one of them!” Hank stabbed a finger at the log wall. His face had gone an alarming shade of fuchsia. “Hell, I’ll be hemmed in with nothing to look at but fake log siding.”
Aha, thought Mimi, the Svenstroms’ inexplicable absence from the party was thus explained. Turncoats. She gazed sadly at Hank, uncertain what to say and guiltily aware that deep within she was giddy with relief that such considerations didn’t affect Chez Ducky. Still, Fowl Lake wouldn’t be the same without the Sbodas puttering around it in their old twelve-foot Alumacraft.
“Might as well sell now before someone wakes up and realizes this is nothing but a glorified slough.” The air seemed to have gone out of Hank, because he said this last on a forlorn whisper.
“How much do you expect to make?”
Mimi wheeled around to discover Debbie beside her.
“Debbie,” Hank said, “you know—”
“Two thousand a lake-frontage foot,” she answered for him. She reached across Hank, shoving her hand toward Joe. “Debbie Olson. Nice to meet you.”
He held out his hand to shake hers and instead she slapped a small printed card into his palm.
“What’s that?” Mimi asked.
“My business card. As soon as I pass my realtor’s test, I’ll be licensed.”
Everything started to make sense. “ You’re the realtor who Hank here has been talking to?” she asked, shocked at this open betrayal of family and friends and…Chez Ducky.
“I’m not a realtor yet. But yes, Hank and I have had a few talks.” She didn’t look in the least bit embarrassed. The woman had no shame.
Mimi rolled her eyes, disgusted.
“That is a lot of money,” Vida conceded. She caught Mimi’s dagger glance. “I mean, this isn’t Gull Lake or Vermillion. Why’d anyone be willing to pay that for land here?”
“The ‘where’ don’t matter to people like Prescott,” Hank said sourly. “He just wants to build a big, new, showy place to prove how successful he is to his friends. Though there don’t seem to be too many of them crawling around.”
“You know Prescott?” Joe asked, breaking his silence.
“Nah-uh,” Hank said. “One of the local guys doing the landscaping—and, come on ! This is the North Woods, for the love of God. Who landscapes the North Woods ?—told us his name.”
Joe turned to Gerry. “Have you met him?”
“Nope. The guy’s a hermit,” Gerry said.
“I think
Gerry stared at Hank in horror. “You can’t be serious. The Sbodas have been on Fowl Lake almost as long as the Olsons.”
“Longer,” Hank said primly, “but that in’t the point. Point is, a…realtor tells us she can sell our land for enough that we can buy a condo in Fort Myers.”
Gerry snorted, his expression contemptuous.
“Don’t look at me like that, Olson. You’re a young man,” Hank said.
Actually Gerry was pushing fifty, but now wasn’t the time to point this out.
“And you got lots of folks to help with all the stuff needs doing,” Hank went on heatedly. “My kids got their own kids now and don’t get up here more than a couple times a year. That leaves all the maintenance to me and Mary. Damn near got a hernia getting the dock in this spring.”
“You’re selling ’cause it’s too much work ?” Gerry asked. Despite plenty of evidence to the contrary, like most line-bred Minnesotans Gerry liked to think he represented the apex of a staunch work ethic. Hank Sboda enjoyed the same fantasy.
The woolly caterpillar of Hank’s brows dipped toward the bridge of his nose. “Course not,” he exclaimed. “That’s just part of it. Hell and damn, Gerry! It’s fine for you to talk. You got eight thousand feet of lakeshore and a whole forest standing between you and what’s happening out here. “I got two hundred feet with this, this— hotel on my east, and now Svenstrom’s sold on my other side and I hear the guy what’s bought it is going to start excavating next spring and it’s gonna be another one of them!” Hank stabbed a finger at the log wall. His face had gone an alarming shade of fuchsia. “Hell, I’ll be hemmed in with nothing to look at but fake log siding.”
Aha, thought Mimi, the Svenstroms’ inexplicable absence from the party was thus explained. Turncoats. She gazed sadly at Hank, uncertain what to say and guiltily aware that deep within she was giddy with relief that such considerations didn’t affect Chez Ducky. Still, Fowl Lake wouldn’t be the same without the Sbodas puttering around it in their old twelve-foot Alumacraft.
“Might as well sell now before someone wakes up and realizes this is nothing but a glorified slough.” The air seemed to have gone out of Hank, because he said this last on a forlorn whisper.
“How much do you expect to make?”
Mimi wheeled around to discover Debbie beside her.
“Debbie,” Hank said, “you know—”
“Two thousand a lake-frontage foot,” she answered for him. She reached across Hank, shoving her hand toward Joe. “Debbie Olson. Nice to meet you.”
He held out his hand to shake hers and instead she slapped a small printed card into his palm.
“What’s that?” Mimi asked.
“My business card. As soon as I pass my realtor’s test, I’ll be licensed.”
Everything started to make sense. “ You’re the realtor who Hank here has been talking to?” she asked, shocked at this open betrayal of family and friends and…Chez Ducky.
“I’m not a realtor yet. But yes, Hank and I have had a few talks.” She didn’t look in the least bit embarrassed. The woman had no shame.
Mimi rolled her eyes, disgusted.
“That is a lot of money,” Vida conceded. She caught Mimi’s dagger glance. “I mean, this isn’t Gull Lake or Vermillion. Why’d anyone be willing to pay that for land here?”
“The ‘where’ don’t matter to people like Prescott,” Hank said sourly. “He just wants to build a big, new, showy place to prove how successful he is to his friends. Though there don’t seem to be too many of them crawling around.”
“You know Prescott?” Joe asked, breaking his silence.
“Nah-uh,” Hank said. “One of the local guys doing the landscaping—and, come on ! This is the North Woods, for the love of God. Who landscapes the North Woods ?—told us his name.”
Joe turned to Gerry. “Have you met him?”
“Nope. The guy’s a hermit,” Gerry said.
“I think
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