The Damn Fool

  The Damn FoolThe Damn Fool

  By

  Georgette Eliot

 

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  ISBN 1-929670-07-9

  All rights reserved

  Copyright � 1999 by Georgette Eliot

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information contact:

  Renaissance E Books

  P. O. Box 494

  Clemmons, NC 27012-0494

  USA

  Email [email protected]

 

  Chapter One

 

  Lance shook his head and chuckled. I know this is at least the third time I have

  passed that general store, he thought. I may as well admit it. I'm lost.

  He pulled into the graveled parking lot and eased to a stop beside the gas

  pumps. He pushed the neck of the hose into the filler pipe of his light blue

  Ford Taurus, set the automatic cutoff, stretched and admired the small mountains

  rising on either side of Flint's Grocery. The weather-beaten wood building could

  use some work, he thought. A coat of paint and some soapy water applied to the

  windows would help.

  A loud click jerked him back to reality as gasoline sloshed onto the

  splashguard, cutting off the pump. Less than five gallons, he noted as he

  replaced the hose. Oh, well. I hate to ask for directions without buying

  something.

  He entered the dimly lighted building and noted the old-fashioned potbellied

  stove, surrounded by a half dozen empty, rickety, wooden chairs. The petite

  woman with long, stringy, reddish brown hair continued to read a newspaper,

  ignoring him.

  He coughed as he leaned on the counter, tapping his credit card on the surface.

  "Keep your britches on," she muttered as she continued to read.

  Lance smiled as he looked at her, sitting on a stool, engrossed in the comic

  section. She wore a white tee shirt with bib overalls and brogans. Her ruddy

  complexion was unadorned, but then, he reasoned, she doesn't need makeup. Some

  decent clothes and a trip to the beauty parlor would transform the thirty plus

  female into a reasonably attractive woman.

  His eyes widened as she stood up and approached the cash register. Although the

  bib hid the best part, it was obvious her breasts were very large for such a

  small woman and she was wearing no brassiere.

  She glanced at the meter beside the register as she took his credit card. "Four

  and a half gallons," she said. "Wasn't hardly worth stopping."

  He grinned as she swiped his card. "Truth is," he said, "I'm lost and I hate to

  bother you for directions without making a purchase."

  "Like I'm going to get rich off of four and a half gallons of regular." She

  placed the receipt and a ballpoint pen in front of him.

  "I'm looking for the Taylor farm. I thought I could find it, but things just

  aren't the way I remember. I believe I was only five or six years old the last

  time I was up this way."

  She separated the receipt and handed him his copy. "Which Taylor farm are you

  looking for? Time was when the Taylor brothers, John and Paul, owned just about

  all the land around here. Back in the depression they donated the land for

  Hanging Rock State Park."

  "Yeah," he said, tucking the credit card and receipt into his billfold. "And

  when they died they subdivided their land into several farms. Uncle John Taylor

  left one of his farms to my dad. That's the one I'm looking for."

  "Don't help much," she said, looking at him without expression.

  "I'm Lance Sayer. My dad was John Sayer."

  "Was?"

  "He died six months ago and left the farm to me. I thought I'd look it over

  before I put it up for sale."

  "May as well sell it if you can find a buyer. Tobacco isn't king anymore. Folks

  have a hard time making a living off of farming these days."

  "Can you help me with directions?"

  She shook her head. "I've lived here for thirty-six years, but I don't remember

  a John Sayer. He probably ran the farm with tenants and didn't show his face

  often."

  Lance nodded and grinned. "You must have lived here for eight or ten years

  before you were born. You couldn't possibly be thirty-six."

  "If you think flattery is going to get you into my pants, you've got another

  think coming. Better men than you have tried it and failed."

  "I'm sorry," he said, realizing his face was turning red. "It was a sincere

  compliment."

  "Yeah, right. You've been looking at my boobs since you came in here."

  "Isn't that a man's responsibility?"

  She ignored his attempt at humor. "Tell you what. Go on down the road two, maybe

  three miles 'til you come to a stop sign. You have to turn one way or the other.

  Turn right and you'll go to Hanging Rock. Turn left and you'll wind up in

  Danbury � that's the county seat of Stokes County. Somebody in the offices

  should be able to help you, or you might try the diner and hardware store."

  He bowed his head slightly. "Thank you Miss, uh, Flint?"

  "Name's Tracy Flint." She returned to the stool. "Next time you come, buy enough

  to make it worth my time."

  As Lance fastened his seatbelt, he glanced back at the store. The windows were

  so dingy he could not see inside. "Somebody ought to tell that buxom hillbilly

  that folks in the South, including North Carolina, are supposed to be friendly,"

  he muttered.

  When he came to the promised stop sign, he felt a strong urge to turn right. All

  he could remember about Hanging Rock was a huge lake with a sandy beach. He

  shrugged his shoulders and steered his Taurus towards Danbury.

  As he gained speed up the steep grade he suddenly slammed on the brakes, yanked

  the steering wheel hard to the left and immediately spun the steering wheel back

  to the right. His heart was racing as the road straightened. "The next time I

  see an 'S Curve' warning sign," he mumbled, "I'll take it seriously."

  At the top of the mountain, he entered Danbury. Two and three story ancient

  wooden houses lined the road, followed by a cemetery that seemed to spill over

  the side of the mountain. Next was a boxy white structure with stained glass

  windows, a tall steeple and a sign that proclaimed it the Danbury United

  Methodist Church. Then both sides of the road were lined with small businesses.

  There was a service station on the right, an animal hospital, a bank, and the

  sheriff's office and jail. On the left was the Danbury Diner, United States Post

  Office, Danbury Hardware Store and beside it was a stately three story building

  with a faded sign in front that read, "Danbury Hotel." Nailed across the sign

  was another that read, "Closed."

  The road veered to the right and Lance overcorrected his path. For a split

  second, he thought he was going to drop off the sheer side of the mountain.

  There were more homes on the left, a road with a sign that read, "Stokes County

  Memorial Hospital," and then, nothing but weeds and tr
ees.

  Lance continued for five miles until he came to a fork in the road that allowed

  him to turn around. He drove straight to the Danbury Hardware Store.

  He ginned nervously as he entered the poorly lighted, cavernous building that

  smelled strongly of mildew, and nodded at the men sitting around the potbellied

  stove that contained no fire, since it was late May. These people are still

  living in the nineteenth century, he thought as he headed towards the heavyset,

  white-bearded man wearing red suspenders and propped behind a huge, hand-cranked

  cash register.

  "Morning," Lance said.

  The man peered at him over his glasses but did not answer.

  "I'm trying to find the county offices. I guess I'm looking for the register of

  deeds office."

  The man jerked his head to the left. "Hospital Road."

  "Uh, okay - thanks."

  As Lance again passed the stove watchers, he nodded towards their staring,

  expressionless eyes.

  "Closed," someone said.

  Lance stopped and looked at the men. "Closed?"

  "Memorial Day."

  His shoulders sagged. He approached the men who did not offer him a seat.

  "Perhaps you can help me. I need directions to one of John Taylor's farms, most

  recently owned by John Sayer."

  A middle-aged man in bad need of a shave and missing a front tooth spat a stream

  of brown juice into a rusty spittoon. "I heared tell old man Sayer wuz dead."

  Lance nodded. "I'm his son, Lance."

  "You own the place now?"

  Lance again nodded affirmatively.

  "Whatcha gonna do with it?"

  "Sell it if I can find a buyer. I haven't seen the farm since I was a small

  child. I just wanted to have a look around before I put it on the market."

  "Used to be a good 'bacca farm. Lots of springs on the place I'm told. Ain't

  good fer nothin' now," another of the men volunteered.

  "Lot of hardwood on the place. Sayer used to sell the lumber off of it every few

  year," another man recalled.

  "Can you tell me how to get there?"

  The first man spat again, hitting the spittoon directly in the center. "Go down

  the mountain 'til you come to a fork in the road. Hang a right. That's Taylor

  Road, but there probably ain't no sign. Halfway up the mountain they's a dirt

  road to the right � takes you directly into the heart of John Taylor's best

  farm."

  "Ain't so," one of the men argued. "The one next to the prison that borders the

  Dan River's the best un. My uncle wuz the tenant on that un 'til his lungs

  growed to his ribs and he had to give it up."

  "Probably right," the first man said as he cut a slice of chewing tobacco, "but

  this un is prettier with the lake and all."

  "Used to be some big ol' cats in that pond. Reckon they's monsters by now."

  Lance smiled. "That's what I remember about the place. There was a big log cabin

  overlooking a small, muddy lake."

  "It's them cats what keep the water stirred up."

  "Makes mighty good eatin'."

  Lance cleared his throat. "Is there any kind of sign marking this dirt road you

  told me about?"

  A huge man with menacing black eyes, wild black hair and a monstrous belly

  jumped up, knocking his chair over backwards. "City slicker ain't gonna find the

  place. It's all growed up. I'll take you there fer twenty bucks."

  The men laughed in unison. "You sober enough to drive, Buddy?"

  "Name's Buddy Mabe, Mr. Sayer. I'm the town drunk and proud of it. That's my old

  black Chevy pickup outside. You just follow me."

  Lance trailed his guide out of the store. "Your name seems familiar," he said.

  "Reckon so. I rent one of your old tenant houses on the back end of the farm.

  Ain't much, but it's all I need."

  "I seem to recall the lawyer telling me you haven't paid your rent since dad

  died."

  "Ain't had no work in a while."

  "What kind of work do you do, Mr. Mabe?"

  "Odd jobs, like helping city slickers find their way around these parts," he

  grinned as he held out his hand.

  "I'll pay you when we get there," Lance said as he climbed into his Taurus.

  Having twice come close to disaster, Lance was not about to drive at the

  breakneck pace set by Buddy Mabe and soon the black pickup was out of sight.

  Lance turned right at the fork and within half a mile found himself on the

  steepest grade he ever encountered. Two miles later the incline lessened

  noticeably and, around the next sharp curve, he spotted the pickup.

  Buddy allowed Lance to close the distance and then pulled back onto the

  blacktop. Lance followed as Buddy turned right onto a bumpy dirt road, no wider

  than a single vehicle. They passed what appeared to be a rutted driveway off to

  the left and continued to follow the dirt road, which rose in a straight line,

  heavily shaded by maple and popular trees on either side. Suddenly they emerged

  in a large clearing and Lance's heart began to race as he saw for the first time

  in thirty years, the remains of the once stately log cabin.

  He parked beside Buddy's pickup, thrilled with the sight that lay before him,

  and at the same time troubled. "Who's car is that?" he asked as Buddy hopped out

  of his truck.

  "Belongs to Toni Conners," Buddy replied. "She rents your other tenant house.

  She's out of work right now, so I speck she's down at the lake trying to catch

  one of them cats."

  Lance followed Buddy's gesture and saw the trail leading into the woods and down

  the side of the mountain. "I don't remember the lawyer saying anything about a

  second rented house."

  Buddy shrugged his shoulders. "She don't look like much, does she?" he asked.

  "I've never met the lady."

  Buddy laughed so hard one of the buttons on his shirt popped onto the ground. "I

  was talking about the cabin."

  Lance looked lovingly at the structure in a tragic state of repair. "I think

  it's beautiful."

  Buddy continued laughing. "They call me the town drunk. What are you high on?

  That thing is as ugly as I am."

  Lance gazed at the long front porch that once was enclosed with screen wire. "I

  have a good imagination," he explained. "I don't see the decay and broken window

  panes. I see the cabin as it used to be."

  Buddy nodded and joined Lance's vision. "They say it used to be quite a

  showplace. John Taylor held a slew of parties in the ballroom and, so they say,

  slept with many a beauty in the bedrooms."

  "He never married, did he?"

  Buddy smiled wickedly. "With his money and good looks, why should he? Hey, you

  want to see the lake?"

  "Well, I thought � "

  Buddy was half way to the wooded trail. "Come on. I'll introduce you to Toni.

  You think I'm ugly? Wait 'til you see her."

  Going down the trail was easy, but Lance dreaded the steep climb back up. After

  a descent of some forty yards, the muddy water of the lake peeked through the

  trees. Suddenly the trail emerged at the old boat dock. Toni's sneakers and

  socks were on the bank. She sat at the end of the dock; her jeans rolled up to

  her knees, her feet dangling in the water and her hands holding a simple cane


  pole.

  "Hey there, Ugly," Buddy greeted. "Any luck?"

  She twisted her torso in alarm, but smiled broadly when she recognized Buddy.

  "Hello, Handsome," she said. "Who's your friend?"

  Lance was certain his heart stopped beating. Toni Conners was the most beautiful

  woman he'd ever seen. She sported short-cropped sandy blond hair, a dark

  complexion, a long graceful neck that seemed to extend inside her loose fitting,

  long sleeved cotton pullover and her smile was hot enough to cause a nuclear

  meltdown. He strained to see if she wore a ring on her left hand and smiled when

  he determined the hand was unadorned.

  "This here's Lance Sayer � your new landlord."

  "Oh, my gosh," she said as she scrambled to her feet.

  Lance stared at her breasts as they swayed inside the damp shirt, nipples

  scraping wrinkles in the light blue cloth.

  "I hope you don't mind me fishing in your lake."

  "Of course not," Lance managed to say, realizing his voice was an octave higher

  than normal. "Did you catch anything?"

  "I have a nice string of crappie and a couple of bass," she said. She bent over,

  her jeans tightening against her perfect buttocks and her shirt riding up

  revealing a few inches of the smooth, dark tanned skin on her back. She hauled a

  heavy string of fish from the water and held it aloft for the two men to admire.

  Lance found it difficult to look at the fish.

  "Mr. Sayer, here, wants to look over the place before he puts it up for sale,"

  Buddy explained.

  "Oh, no," Toni protested, "don't sell it. Enjoy it. It's the most beautiful farm

  in the whole world."

  "Please, both of you. Call me Lance. We're all about the same age, but you make

  me feel old calling me Mister."

  Buddy smiled. "Lance, Ugly here exaggerates a little, but not much. It is a

  beautiful piece of mountain real estate."

  "I'm afraid I can't afford to keep the farm. You see, Toni, I inherited the farm

  and my dad's house in Winston-Salem. I have an apartment in Charlotte and see no

  reason to move. I sold the house last week and, since I'm not a farmer, I must

  sell this place too."

  "Use your imagination, Lance," she urged. "You can earn a living off the farm."

  Lance laughed but Toni's pleading eyes captivated his heart. "I pride myself on

  having a great imagination, but I just can't see myself behind a plow."

  "There are over a hundred acres of cleared land on which we used to grow

  tobacco. Plant Christmas trees and stagger the planting so there will be a crop

  ready every year."

  "Christmas trees?"

  She nodded and his eyes involuntarily focused on the blue cloth, clinging

  tightly to her damp chest.

  "White pines, firs and cedars. All that is needed is planting, fertilizing, a

  little pruning and, of course, harvesting. Buddy and I can handle the work for

  you. Combine that with annual staggered logging and you could make � uh � what

  do you think, Buddy?"

  "Fifty, maybe a hundred grand a year."

  "You're kidding."

  Buddy smiled. "I'm not kidding, but I am guessing. What kind of business are you

  in now, Lance?"

  "I have a little computer programming business. Several years ago, I came up

  with a program colleges and universities need. I under-priced the competition

  and now have my program in hundreds of colleges around the country. All I do now

  is collect the annual fees and work on system upgrades."

  Buddy chuckled. "I've heard of them 'puters, but I don't understand a thing you

  just said."

  Toni moved so close Lance could smell her perspiration. He thought if he could

  bottle it, he would make a fortune. He hoped she could not hear his heart

  pounding against his chest.

  "Lance," she said as her deep blue eyes searched his, "I think I do understand

  what you just said. You work out of your home, right? What difference does it

  make where you live?"

  "Hold on, guys. I think the town drunk and the town beauty are ganging up on

  me."

  "How much do you make with that 'puter thing?"

  Lance shot Buddy a hard glance. "I don't think that is any of your business."

  "Back off, City Slicker. I was just wondering if you have the resources to

  restore the place and live here for four or five years until the first tree crop

  is ready. Think about it a minute. Use that imagination you were bragging about.