It was surprisingly easy to crash the party, because the person at the door was in deep conversation with someone nearby and others were milling around the large room. We were greeted by a few party-attendees like they thought we belonged there. Is it really possible to be so unsophisticated that others think it’s an act? Apparently it is.

I’ve never had Beef Wellington. I love it! 

We were driving back from the party, and Ava was gushing about the experience in general. We’d stayed later than planned. I guess that’s not unusual if you’re with Ava at  a party; but since we’d not been invited in the first place, I thought we’d spent longer than necessary. In my world, making a discreet list of who was there and who was talking to whom would take all of less than thirty minutes. In Ava’s world, chatting with party-goers was part and parcel of the evening. I shouldn’t complain. We were the first to leave.

I wish they would’ve been bigger.

But then there wouldn’t have been room on the trays for the quiches, petite fours and cheeseca . . . WATCH OUT!!!

I swerved to miss a semi that crossed the center line. Maybe he was sleepy.

We managed to get back home without any further trouble, although my heart was still hiccupping from the semi incident.

After a cup of lemon balm tea at Ava’s to settle my nerves, and back in my own familiar apartment, I crawled under my covers and fell asleep, though not without the coffee shop, party, and the drive home playing over a few times like a movie in my mind’s eye. My drowsy thoughts wandered back to the person who had been at the entrance, and I suddenly realized the identity of the person he was conversing with: it was the man who had jingled the door at the coffee shop. He cleaned up nicely, but what triggered my memory was the scent of cigarette smoke that still hung lightly around him.

The following day, Ava came over for scrambled eggs and bacon and that pastry – oh, you know the one – the Danish Kringle from Racine, Wisconsin. Funny how you remember trivial details if you give yourself a minute. I recalled the town because the grocery clerk had told me she knew a gal who lived in the town the pastry was made in, and since I’d gone to college with someone from that very town, it stayed with me, I guess.

After we ate (She had two helpings. Who could blame her? I’m no slouch when it comes to making scrambled eggs. It’s because I add a little nutmeg, like the French do.), Ava was all business. She pulled out notes she’d made from the party and we scoured them, adding details as well as we could. When I told her I recalled the man with the cigarette in the coffee shop parking lot was talking to the guy at the door, she dropped her pen. She hadn’t noticed. That led to a twelve minute conversation about whether or not he was on the side that Birch and Aldo were on. They had pretty well convinced us their request was a simple one that could help a lot of people. I began to wonder if the word help was always good the way I thought it was.

No, Ava hadn’t noticed the details of the conversation as we entered, but it appeared she had noticed everything else, including not only who was talking with whom, but who appeared to be more than platonically involved with whom. Ava was one for recognizing those types of things. Not me. A couple could be newlyweds, and I would mistake them for two people on the same church softball team – or maybe opposing ones. Not that they couldn’t be that, too; but you know what I mean. A person sees what they want to see, I guess. Delete that. It’s not a guess. It’s as true as the blue in a July sky.

to be continued . . .

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I drove past them and past my apartment and straight to Ava’s little bungalow. I didn’t knock (I’d had enough of that word already today), but went straight to the patio door and let myself in.

She was slouched in an easy chair in her living room, one leg dangling over the arm, reading a book. Ava looked up.

Was the thought that came into your head too much to text?

I sank into the couch. It was a deep, buttery leather that made me want a long nap.

Birch and Aldo were sitting in a car a block from my apartment.

Ava sat up.

That doesn’t sound very good.

No, it does not. That’s why I came directly here.

Ava jumped up and looked out her front windows, then jumped at a knock on her door, and looked at me. Oh. My. Word. Had they followed me?

We had a very fast whispered consult as the knocking continued. It ended with us concluding that if someone was determined to believe we were non-official cover operatives, why not let them think it? Maybe we’d get rid of them or maybe we’d have a little adventure. At any rate, it beat Ava becoming zombified by binge-watching some ridiculous show.

She opened the door just as Aldo began another knock.

Who’s there? I laughed breezily while Ava said, Can I help you?

May we come in? Birch asked.

Before I could reply to the contrary, Ava had opened the door wider and motioned them in. They sat on the deep and buttery leather couch. I hoped they’d fall asleep.

The conversation started out pleasantly enough – much better than the brief one we’d had at the coffee shop – until they pulled out two pages and handed them to Ava. She motioned me over, to look. It was a set of numbered directions along with a map.

I sat back down and we looked at each other.

Don’t deny your status, one of them said. I think it was Birch, but I’d been wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans and was glancing down to see if it left a mark.

Due to our whispered agreement before Ava let them in, what was there to deny? However, I was beginning to think the “let them think it” idea had its drawbacks.

There are conversations in this wide world of ours that, though seemingly innocent enough, take you to places your would have never agreed to go. But by the time each of us had nodded a couple of times and said yes once (to a seemingly innocuous comment), we seemed to be up to our eyeballs in a plan to crash a party two towns over in order to find out who was there, who talked with who and what about.

I don’t know if these guys are legit, I said after Ava let them out and closed the door.

I have to admit, Aldo’s kinda cute.

Stop! What did we just agree to?

I think I’ll wear my pink mini. You should wear your swooshi midi. With boots.

I didn’t smile.

Oh come ON, Sadie. You wanted to pivot. We’re pivoting!

Against anyone in their right mind’s better judgement, that evening we pivoted to a party an hour from home that we hadn’t been invited to. I talked Ava into leaving her mini backpack with the poodle pin at home. Too identifying. (What was I becoming?!) I didn’t wear my swooshi midi. I wore white Spanx and a lightweight brown leather jacket. With boots.

to be continued . . .

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I’m going to ask this once and I expect the complete truth, the guy who had stopped me stated matter-of-factly.

It was annoying, but I wasn’t as annoyed with him as I was with myself for letting him drag me back into the coffee shop just to avoid a scene. People sometimes do weird things when feeling the way I was feeling; and that was that I was focused on feeling rather than thinking, which is what can get people into trouble. So I can’t exactly say what got into me. Other than confronting Ava about her binge watching a boring series, I’m normally easy to get along with. But one: I hadn’t even been able to finish my macchiato which, even though it’s not my favorite, it was, after all, a morning cup of coffee. And now I didn’t have it because we had left and I’d tossed it in the trash on our way out. And two: who did these guys think they were, telling us we had to talk to them, hmm?

Slow down, bucko. I don’t even know your name.

The second guy looked at the first guy – I suppose curious regarding his response. It was good he didn’t look at Ava, who was digging through her mini backpack for her phone.

She leaned over next to me and said, Selfie!

I smiled reflexively. I also noticed she had her phone backwards. She’d actually taken a picture of the men sitting across from us. Go, Ava. But they both had their heads down, apparently looking for something on the floor. Touché.

Birch.

Birch?

My name is Birch.

And? I looked at his friend.

What’s it to you?

With a sweep of my hand, I motioned to the two of them sitting across from us and raised my eyebrows.

Aldo.

Ava and I looked at each other. That was her father’s name. And, of course, one of the gorillas in The Planet of the Apes; not that either of us would say so.

Birch remarked. We couldn’t help noticing your false. . .

False?

False lack of . . ., he searched for a word, sophistication. He cleared his throat. Are you NOCs?

Who’s there? I asked, while wondering why he actually thought our lack of sophistication was false. Can anyone say “poodle pin”?

The bell jingled on the coffee shop door and apparently it was someone Birch and Aldo had been waiting for, because they left immediately without so much as a “Sorry for interrupting your morning téte-a-téte”.

Ava was busy with her phone, so I went to the counter to get her another macchiato and (something I could actually enjoy) a green tea latte for myself.

Before I’d even sat down, she said, It means non-official cover.

What does? I asked as I pushed her coffee in front of her.

Among other things, NOC stands for non-official cover.

Of what? I sipped my latte, noticing the barista had used matcha. It was okay with me. Maybe they were out of green tea.

Ava impatiently slammed her hand on the table.

Sadie! Pay attention! Those two guys asked about NOC. I looked it up . . .

As I kindly replaced our drinks.

. . . as you kindly replaced our drinks. It has to do with espionage! She whisper-shouted it across the table.

I scrunched my eyes. The thought of either of us being spies was a bridge too far.

Finally, I replied, I mean – maybe. Sometimes you think someone is the very thing you are. They could’ve been projecting. They did look down when you took their picture.

Exactly.

Let’s go back to what to do as a pivot. After all, they left.

Ava’s gaze searched the parking lot. Mine didn’t have to, because I’d just noticed the fellow they left with – the one who jingled the coffee shop door – was standing outside smoking a cigarette.

Smoking is a dirty habit, I commented, nodding toward the man.

Ava leaned in. Is that the guy they left with?

I believe so.

I was growing impatient. This is ridiculous.

Agreed. Let’s bump him on our way out.

Ava always did have a bit of mischievousness in her.

Or we could wait in the bathroom until the coffee shop closes, I countered.

We ended up compromising. After an hour – a very long and embarrassing hour as we nodded to everyone who came and went – we peeked out of the door and found he had left. At least that’s what it looked like.

We went our separate ways, too, with Ava promising to leave her television off and me promising to text  with any new thought that came into my head. It didn’t take long, because on the drive home, I saw the guys from the coffee shop now parked a block from my apartment.

to be continued . . .

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When the television is the most interesting thing in your life, it’s time to pivot.

I don’t know if it was actually binge watching. . . .

It was.

I was just trying to catch up.

You, yourself, said the show wasn’t that good.

I do tend to be task-oriented.

Silence sometimes accomplishes what words cannot.

Okay. I agree, but how? I have the most boring job on the planet and neither of us is great at sportsy things.

I’ll admit the rock-climbing outing wasn’t the best idea.

And the cooking class . . .

Please don’t bring it up. I still have a scar.

We sat across from each other, sipping our respective macchiatos; not that I like a macchiato. I prefer something milder, but Ava had arrived before I did and kindly bought me one, so I was kindly drinking it.

We sat in the semi-quietness of a busy coffee shop, the scrape of chairs on a bare floor and an occasional name being called when an order was filled interrupting the small talk of people carrying on uninteresting conversations. Except one.

Apparently two guys at the table next to us thought they were comedians, because they kept saying knock (once, not twice) and the other one showed an amazing lack of curiosity, because they never asked who’s there.

What’s with those guys? I whispered.

Ava scrunched her face at me. Clearly she had not been evesdropping.

I pointed behind my raised palm, so she leaned her head in their direction. It was too far to the left, though. She lost her balance and fell out of her chair. The two men turned toward us in unison. Ava brushed herself off and reseated herself with as much elegance as she could muster, while I tried to save face by commenting how much we liked knock knock jokes. They didn’t even crack a smile, and that’s when it occurred to me that perhaps I had misheard.

I motioned to Ava that we should leave, so after taking what had to be a throat-scorching gulp of her macchiato, she grabbed her mini backpack and followed me out. Okay. I didn’t mention the whole mini backpack thing before because it is so utterly embarrassing to one of us (me). It was a mix of pink and orange with a poodle pin stuck on the flap. It makes me wonder if Ava never recovered from some middle school fashion trauma. I wouldn’t know. I didn’t know her then. But despite my broad hints that she should give it up, she clung to that thing like a barnacle.

Anyway, we reached the curb when I felt a presence fairly close behind us. What now? We were being followed by the knock knock guys!

Ava had reached the same conclusion and we speed-walked to our cars. I saw one guy grab her elbow just before I felt a strong hand on mine. I nearly slapped him, but he blocked my hand and suggested we all return to the coffee shop for a convo. He didn’t say it that way, but it was what he meant. I replied, Over my dead body. I didn’t say it that way, but it was what I meant. What he probably heard, was Okay.

And what Ava and I discovered was that some pivots can bring interest and delight to your life (or scraped knees or a scar), while others . . . well, others can lead to heartburn and bad dreams.

to be continued . . .

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Glory, glory, glory. Her voice was quiet, but not weak. There was determination behind it that would break down walls. Maybe. It was battle weary, but not beaten; with a tenacious purity unsullied by doubt.

Her eyes were drawn upward; up toward the surrounding mountains peaked with last winter’s snow, and spring flowers cascading downward despite rocky crags and mountain goats, and finally to the pool at which she stood.

She remembered it from her childhood: pure, crisp, and pristine, sweetly greeting the blue sky above with a perfect reflection. Those days of warm breezes and the buzz of bees, of an occasional moose or deer, fox or wolf offered a balm to anyone willing to take the hike to get it. And she often did so. Until she didn’t.

It had been too long. She had gotten busy and earned the distraction that came with it. The pool, the mountains, even the little mice and squirrels who found their homes away from the crowds had no place in her thoughts. Finally, finally, finally one day she remembered them. What prompted such a memory? Perhaps it was a sound. Maybe the scent of flowers at the grocery store. Or possibly it was just time.

When she reached the pool, though, it wasn’t at all as she remembered. Algae skirted its edges. The cattails and sedum that had once delighted her, were drooped and yellowed. Scum clung to its surface. The once-loved pool was drying up and dying. Alarmed, she’d hiked along the now dry path of the spring which had bubbled and sang as it traveled down the mountain to feed the pool. She decided to camp out of her truck, and spent a week clearing what needed clearing. It hadn’t helped. Even a brief storm made no difference.

It was then she remembered a story her father had told her of such a sight back in the 1600s. And when nothing could be done, his 16th-great-grandmother had called on heaven to do what no one else could. Or so the story went.

She knew anyone who saw her would think her foolish. But who would make such a hike when no balm was offered? No. She would be alone. And as she stood at the edge of the pool, she thought of her 17th-great-grandmother and wondered how like her she might be.

She prayed – every day through and every night until her eyes grew gritty with sleep and could no longer stay open. Then to her mind and tongue came the words, glory, glory, glory, and she had taken it as a sort of instruction. That was the third week. As the seventh week of her efforts began, doubt knocked. But no! She would not give in. Blessing and clarity had come before and it could come again. It would. She closed her eyes and spoke over the polluted pool. Glory, glory, glory.

On the seventh day of the seventh week she heard it: a faint drip. Glory. Then another. Glory. And another. Glory. But it didn’t stop. It grew into a gurgle somewhere up the path of the mountain spring, then crescendoed into melodious splashes that hurled down the mountain, landing in the pool. Before her eyes, the algae dissipated, cattails and sedum revived, and scum was washed away. And the pool greeted again the blue sky with a perfect reflection. A perfect, glorious reflection.

Glory! Glory! Glory!

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We looked at each other for a good 30 seconds before it occurred to me they needed towels. I hurried to the bathroom and came back with five: two for each of them and one for the floor.

“Please. Sit.”

“Oh no,” Thing 1 shook her head. We’ll soak your lovely furniture.” Score 1 for the complement.

“Tsk. Doesn’t matter.”

They sat gratefully and I went to get 2 more cups for tea. Thing 1 was visibly shivering and I pulled the afghan from the back of my couch and put it around her shoulders. I evened the score with the gesture.

After they were settled in, they told me what happened. They were going to try out a new restaurant for brunch. Thing 1 had left her keys inside the house and Gordy had locked the door. As they headed to their car, Gordy spotted a little toad in their new rocks and motioned his wife over to look. In so doing, he dropped his keys and couldn’t find them though they had looked and looked.

“So we can’t get into the house!” Gordy sputtered and his wife patted his knee.

“Or car,” she added.

“I’m so sorry! I just came back from a restaurant . . .”

“Heddy’s?” they said in unison.

I nodded and they explained that was where they had been headed.

“We heard they have great waffles.”

“I thought you both were glutton-free.”

“Well you see . . .” Gordy started.

“He thought I was glutton intolerant since I’d gone to the doctor to check out that sort of thing. I wasn’t, but by the time I returned home, Gordy had this whole story about how he’d found out the week before that he couldn’t tolerate glutton and hadn’t told me. And I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was fine.”

Gordy picked up the story. “So she said she told me it was just as well because we could be glutton-free together.”

“Then I caught him eating one of your cookies.”

“They’re very good,” Gordy interjected.

“And I raised my eyebrows and him and he raised his eyebrows at me and the whole ridiculous story came out.”

“We were glutton-free only from love!” Gordy laughed and squeezed his wife.

“For three long years!” she added.

Laughing (I was able to laugh with them, if you can believe it, although the flowers still bothered me. And, of course, the house color.) I went to the kitchen and heated up the two waffles I’d brought home. They were thrilled.

What is it they say? Confession is good for the soul? I believe it, and the Good Lord has heard more than His share from me (even confession of wrong thinking – if someone could hear my prayers, they would think I was truly a terrible person), but it was my turn to just listen. I learned Thing 1 was allergic to spring flowers and although they hated it, they’d dug up the flowers next door because they didn’t want to chance a wheezing episode.

“I hope the rocks are doing their job to keep water out of the basement,” Gordy said.

I nodded slowly. “I guess you’ll find out when you get into the house.”

“If. If we get into the house,” added Thing 1.

“Don’t worry, Lil, we can always call a locksmith.”

“Lil?” I asked. “What a nice name.”

“It almost rhymes with Mel,” she said, then added, “It’s short for Lilac.”

“Lilac,” I whispered to myself.

By the time the storm had cleared, some of my misconceptions about my new neighbors had cleared, too. I found them to be quite nice. And I found their key! It was in the grass, halfway between their driveway and the spot the little toad had been. The toad? He must’ve loved the rain, for he sat in a puddle of water near their bottom step.

I’ll stop in and explain everything to Herb next Monday. This world has enough misunderstandings to add more to the mix, and by more, I mean mine.

The three of us plan to get waffles at Heddy’s Cafe next Saturday. I will have no problem waiting for mine last.

Image: mai-emoto-qYYJIIPUav8-unsplash-scaled.jpg; aroma-black-coffee-caffeine-327120.jpg; story based on the construction projects that have taken place on my street since neighbors moved in two – or is it three – years ago but I’m sure there’s a good reason; and also Luke 10:29-37

“Texas has some deal about purple.”

I was waiting for my waffle the following Saturday at Heddy’s Cafe and had just told Herb about my new neighbors’ new paint color.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh yea. Purple Paint Laws or something. It’s like a no trespassing sign.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope,” Herb laughed as he walked away and a waitress placed a waffle in front of me. I ordered two more to go. I felt I deserved something to soothe my nerves that were fraying from having what looked more and more to be awful neighbors. First their sugar cookie rejection which, okay, isn’t terrible; even though I spent time that could have otherwise been useful mixing, baking, and sugaring, not to mention chilling in between. And ingredients. And a paper plate. But how could they dig up the flowers? Flowers I had generously watered? For them? Which I didn’t mention to Herb, but the rocks they put over where the flowers had been. They weren’t even white. They were brown. And not to belabor the point, but a purple house? They were probably from Texas which meant they darn well knew what they were intimating. No trespassing? Really?

I arrived back home to see Gordy and his wife (she still hadn’t told me her name – I’d begun silently calling her Thing 1) on their hands and knees in their yard. What were they doing now? Poisoning worms?

I got out of my car, careful to not step on their lawn. I wouldn’t want to trespass now, would I? I waved in order to push back the resentment that threatened to build, but they must’ve been too intent on whatever it was they were doing to see me. Whatever it was they were doing, they’d better finish up soon – black and purplish (the shade didn’t match their house what a shame) clouds were rushing across the sky which grew darker with every minute.

I barely escaped the first raindrop and closed my door.

There’s something cozy about storms. I put water in my tea kettle – the one with the delightful whistle that is like a little bird calling me to the kitchen at the proper time – and rummaged around for something herbal along cinnamon and cloves, of course.

I was about to open the to go box from Heddy’s Cafe for a waffle to go with it, when a loud pounding on my front door made me jump. Hurrying to look, a quick peek revealed Gordy and Thing 1 drenched to the skin. I pulled open the door and they rushed in, apologizing to my now puddled floor.

to be continued . . .

https://www.sll.texas.gov/faqs/purple-paint-trespassing/; Image: chris-robert-EXN7ejfq9OQ-unsplash.jpg;pexels-jplenio-1118869.jpg

They moved in quietly; he, wearing denim overalls and directing the movers as though he, himself, was doing the heavy lifting; she, wearing sweatpants and a terrycloth short-sleeved v-neck, hunting through the backseat of their car and carrying in boxes of what looked to be files and pictures.

I had watered their plants once a week after my neighbors moved out because I didn’t want whoever was coming after them to lose the beauty of peony bushes and spring flowers.

The day after the moving van, I rang their doorbell, plate of sugar cookies in hand.

“Hi, I’m from next door. I thought you might like a welcome to the neighborhood pick-me-up!”

The woman took the cookies and peered at them.

“I’m Mel.”

“Mel.”

The woman cleared her throat and her husband came from the other room, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Mel, is it? Name’s Gordy.”

“We’re glutton-free, both of us,” the woman said.

I took a step back. “I . . . I’m sor…”

“We can take them to work!” the man interrupted with a smile.

I nodded, tried to smile and went back home, glad I’d put them on a paper plate and not something I valued.

The next morning I chewed on my toast and thoughtfully sipped my tea with cloves and cinnamon as I watched out the window at my new neighbor digging up the peony bushes and spring flowers I’d watered before they’d moved in. They owned them now. They could do what they wanted. It shouldn’t matter, right?

I didn’t see either of them go to work – only putter around their house and yard, removing what I considered vestiges of beauty I’d grown accustomed to but didn’t own. I can’t say with complete confidence that they didn’t go to work, because I did and was only witness to changes that occurred at the house next door before I returned home. I started closing my curtains on that side of the house. Out of sight, out of mind. It didn’t help.

Saturday morning I decided to treat myself at Heddy’s Cafe. I got there early enough to get my waffle without much of a wait. They had only one small waffle-maker, and if you were there with a friend, you wouldn’t get your waffles at the same time. One of you would have to wait. But they were the best waffles I’d ever tasted. Herb, the owner strolled over to my table to chat and I told him about my new neighbors. He nodded, then winked, and wished me good luck. Maybe he thought I’d had enough bad luck that he should make certain I knew what kind of luck he was wishing me. And it wasn’t exactly bad luck, I’ll admit. It shouldn’t have even felt like an offense. It was just – unexpected.

As unexpected as, say, the light wash purple they were painting their house upon my return. Gordy waved his paintbrush my way and I waved back. The woman who still hadn’t given me her name ignored me and kept painting.

to be continued . . .

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