A Peppering or A Prosecution (From: The Mere Valley)

Post 1701:

The Mere Valley: A Novel

Chapter One: Welcome

            It was the end of an era, Tim supposed. People in town would talk about it, but they’d been watching the story play out a long time. Not much left to say. Big happenings in small towns tended toward anti-climaxes, idle eyes ever-open and tight mouths ever-whispering. When did the downfall start? Tracing origins was tricky. Best to move forward. Look ahead. Consider the future. Advice of his remaining true friends. Verbal pats on the back. Comforting nudges out the door, soft injunctions to get on with it.  

Tim Semple was a grown man, after all. Thirty-five next week. Where had it gone? How did he get here? Had he always thought in tired clichés?

            Herm Burns placed a roll of bills into Tim’s reluctant hand and said something about it being hot. Yes, Herm, it’s much hotter down here in town. Up on the mountain where you live, the wind blows cooler. The air is spread nice and thin and rare, up where you live. “It is, Herm. It’s hot.”

            Herm Burns was an okay guy, pudgy and polite. Some folks in town didn’t like him at all and probably never could. Some thought he was fantastic. Tim thought he was okay. Watching Herm and his translucent son Rory fighting to hoist his grandfather’s work bench into the bed of their pickup would’ve been funny on another occasion. But that was the last of it. Semple’s Hardware was empty space.

            “That thing is really heavy,” Herm said, squinting at the sky and stretching his sweaty back. Tim smiled a little. He remembered moving the bench just a few feet with his dad when he was a kid younger than Rory. Herm wasn’t lying.

            “Are we done here?” asked the teenager, sliding off the tailgate to begin playing with his phone and his bangs in a sudden parallel reality.

            “I’m sorry, Tim.” Herm looked at sidewalk, stretching his back differently.

            “Nothing to be sorry about, man.” He gave a casual salute with the money roll still in his hand. A wink and a smile. Father and son were gone a few seconds later, leaving Tim under the Semple’s Hardware sign to wonder what exactly Herm was sorry about. Having to sell the work bench, maybe. Losing the family business, more likely. Could’ve even been a simple acknowledgement that the son he’d raised was an unpleasant flimsy caricature.

            Tim stuffed the cash in his jeans and went back toward the store to lock up. It was on the corner, nothing fancy. Built solid out of red brick, just before The Great Crash. His great grandfather had some tools and figured on selling them to make a living. The store survived The Depression, The War, all the highs and lows. The times he wasn’t around.

Not knowing how it would feel, Tim sat down in the middle of the empty space, letting memories surround him. He saw old timers wagging long wrinkled fingers, arguing about trifles when things were good, issues when things were bad. As soon as he could walk Tim learned to love the regulars, ones who’d proudly mosey in smelling of chewing tobacco to buy a single washer or nut; pretexts to wile away daylight telling the same stories with different embellishments. He felt it now, looking down at the indestructible hardwood floor. No more supposing. Truly.

The end of an era.

            “Are you Timothy Semple?” He blinked away the fog to see a young woman struggling with a box by the door.

            “That’s me,” he said, standing up quickly, eager to hide any lingering emotions on exhibit. 

            “I’m Reny Davies. Dru Davies’ niece.”

            “Of course.”

            “Okay,” she said, grunting to set down her belongings. “You’re confused, and I can’t explain with all this—ah, better. Stuff in my hands.”

            As she sprang upright, unburdened with a smile, Tim returned the expression and opened his eyes accidentally too wide. He’d been abducted from sentimental reveries and set down before a remarkable beauty. Maybe it was the somber situation and the shabbiness of the store making her stand out in contrast. No, he thought, catching his breath. She’s something else, alright. Almost as tall as him, and he was a little over six feet. Golden-haired, cheeks full with a little red. A face and figure so pretty you just sort of end up standing there.

            “I guess I’ll just keep, talking.” Tim realized he was being inscrutable and weird by the time she continued. “Dru Davies is the painter that’s going to be using this space for the next six months. Until they—”

“Tear it down,” Tim said, the delivery too firm. She winced a bit. “Sorry. Damn. I wasn’t even planning on being here. Met a guy to sell the last of the—last.”

            She made a kind face and said, “It’s not your fault, Mr. Semple.”

            It was the phrase Tim probably wanted to hear more than any other in English or any other language. But not the way she meant it. How did she mean it? “How’s that, ma’am?”

            “Tomorrow’s the first of the month. I popped in before getting to the hotel. Thought I’d take a chance, give the space an early look and drop a few things off.”

            Finally, he understood. A just-arrived Transplant. One who made more sense in the New Mere Valley. “Tim,” he said, holding out a hand and slowly stepping her way. “Good to meet you, Ms. Davies.”

            Moving beyond their clunky introductions, he helped her with some more boxes as she talked freely about finishing up art degrees in London, England, how this was the perfect situation, how lucky she was to be able to have an aunt as commercially and critically revered as Dru Davies.

            “What happens in six months?” Tim asked.

            “What happens—oh, I get it. The new studio is being built. This is sort of a place to get established in the area while it gets finished.”

            It made sense. Smart. With all the money moving into the area, expensive paintings would be in serious demand. Miles of fresh walls to decorate. “That sounds like a good plan. I should’ve been an artist.”    

“Feels like you’re being way too nice. And that I’m horrible.”

            Tim didn’t know exactly how well informed she was. How long he had struggled against the inevitable closing of the store. It would be impossible to explain in a short conversation and things were growing more and more pleasant. He’d always have sadness and regret.

Later for all that.

Did they have rapport? A spark, even? No way. She was simply a nice person who happened to know zero other people in town, and he could carry boxes as well as the next guy.

            “I’m glad we met,” she said. “I hope everyone in Mere Valley is as cool as you. I might never leave.”

            Reny’s eyes were deep green and slightly downturned, a hint of sadness shading her singular appearance. Tim wanted to keep talking, but he figured on doing the polite thing. “Good luck setting up shop. I’m sure things will go well.”

            He was surprised by a hug. It didn’t last long, but it was enough to fully lift him from the epochal melancholy of the day.

            “Well,” he said. “Ok. Thanks for that.”

            They stared at each other for a few quiet seconds, faces still close after the hug. She didn’t seem to mind the silence. Experience told him interrupting the moment with words would be counterproductive at best and ruinous at worst.

            “Come back and see me if you have time.”

            Tim would make time. He couldn’t remember an encounter accelerating to pleasant so quickly. He started to assure her that she’d see him soon, but he was interrupted by a loud sound outside. Rushing out the door, he squinted at two men pointing fingers and speaking over each other, standing next to their vehicles. One was European and fancy and had a front end that would need serious work. The other was a weathered old Bronco with a slight scratch on its steel back bumper.

            The Bronco’s owner saw Tim and disengaged from the argument.

            “Don’t walk away, Alonso,” insisted the owner of the sporty car. Smoke was now billowing from under the crumpled hood. “This is your fault, damn you.”

            “Hey buddy,” Tim said, though he found himself completely ignored. Reny Davies had slipped outside to witness the commotion and was by far the greater draw.

            “My name is Hoyt Alonso, Mr. Semple’s oldest and best friend.” He calmly and confidently shook Reny’s hand with his back to the belligerent Merritt Lennox Jr.

            Tim stepped near the edge of the sidewalk. Something like a buffer, if it came to that. He’d try to be a calming influence. In a way, he felt, this was his fault. “Merritt, you should call the police. Maybe make sure they bring the fire guys. Those electric cars…”

            “You call them, Semple. I’m not done with your buddy over there.”

            Life hadn’t exactly been predictable lately. Clinging onto and ultimately losing the family business, relationship difficulties, certain opportunities, etc. That said, this was an afternoon for the books. He thought about how he’d tell the story to Gable. She loved a good story.

            Tim tried to relay the details of the situation to Mary Lee at the police station. It wasn’t easy. Merritt had pushed by him to continue shouting at his friend. He hoped Hoyt would be the bigger man and deescalate.

            “They’re on the way,” he announced, striding back near Reny and giving her a slight tap on the shoulder. “We should probably move away. Just a little.”

            She casually took Tim’s advice, arms crossed, appearing altogether unintimidated. He was a bit surprised by her lack of concern, though it made more sense as he focused on the style and content of the heated exchange. Merritt Lennox Jr. was making an impassioned plea that rearending a car parked in a legal spot was not his fault. His voice was husky and loud. His face was red. His neck, usually veiny from lifting weights, was veinier. Hoyt Alonso’s arguments were semi-targeted at Lennox’s character. He would start to throw an insult, only to pull it back. And he wasn’t cursing. Tim could tell he really wanted to curse.

            It went on like that for a minute or two. A couple of guys that really didn’t like each other, now with a fresh reason. “Sorry about this,” Tim said to Reny as things got even louder. Police cars pulled up. The fire truck. Good thing, too. Flames were rising from Lennox’s car.

            A tall black policeman approached after telling the other cops to stay put. “What’s going here, fellas?” he asked. His voice was smooth and even, out of place but welcome.

            “Hey, Sheriff,” Tim said, as nonchalant as he could pretend. “I came by to meet Herm Burns over that work bench…”

            “Hold up,” said the lawman, rubbing his goatee and listening to the argument escalate while the hoses started dousing Merritt Lennox’s car. “That’ll be enough,” he said, pulling Hoyt back and getting in his face. “Reverend Alonso. Maybe you should take it easy. An arrest wouldn’t look good to your flock. They might start running off for one of those new outfits. Hear there’s a guy came in last month, says the key to salvation is just about the same as getting rich.”

            “That’s not a very funny joke, Nathaniel.”

            “I wasn’t doing stand-up.”

            Tim had watched these two square up and tussle more times than he could remember. On playgrounds, in backyards, playing sports. The three of them were the same age and had been close friends since first grade.

            “I know what you’re doing, Sheriff Jacobs,” Merritt seethed. “You can’t fool me with this act.”

            “Let him do his job, Lennox,” Tim interjected.  

            “Shut up, Semple.”

            “Sorry, Sheriff.”

            One of the fire guys, Freddie Simon, came over and told them they needed to move farther away. The fumes were nasty, he said. “These frigging things can go on and on burning. We’ll keep it away from your store, Timmy. Already pushed your Bronco away, Rev.”

            “This frigging place,” Merritt said, walking away dialing his phone. He was a formidable character, meticulous about his appearance. Not one of those rich guys that wears the same shirt and sneakers every day. No. Lennox loved marching about his many domains in beautiful Lucchese boots and a one-of-a-kind Stetson cowboy hat. More than once Tim heard Townie girls, even the ones who really hated Merritt, admit he was a gorgeous man.

            “Likely calling his legion of lawyers to sue me,” said Hoyt. The Sheriff guided him in a direction away from Lennox, leaving Tim and Reny alone for a few moments. They walked directly into the warm wind to avoid toxic air.

            “What was all that?” she asked. A reasonable question.

            “Uhhh,” Tim said, then began giving her some highlights. Merritt Lennox was one of the richest Transplants to move to town in the last ten years. He was the owner of several large companies. One of which was Lennox’s Hardware Home and Garden.

            “So he puts you out of business and comes to gloat?”

            “Not sure. That might be what he was doing. We’ve had a few issues.” Tim looked away. “He owns the property now.”

            “And your friend. He’s a pastor?”

            Tim smiled and returned to her lovely eyes. “He is. A Doctor of Theology and Philosophy, actually. Pretty impressive guy. I’m biased, of course.”

            “Fairly certain he was hitting on me.”

            “Well, maybe. Think meeting you beats having it out with Lennox any day of the week, Ms. Davies.”

            She turned and watched the fire as the street filled up with people from other businesses on the square. “What about the sheriff?” she asked.

            “All old friends, us. He’s just trying to keep the peace.”

            “That’s why he was giving Hoyt the talking to. Can’t be seen playing favorites.”

            She was a smart girl. “Got a feeling not much gets by you.”

            The crowd gathered. He heard his name from different voices. Hoyt and Merritt’s names. People were talking about it again. Hard not to, him standing there with a beauty of unknown origins, flames dying and rising and dying and rising fifty yards away, marking his Great Failure.  One of the firetrucks was honking to keep people away whenever Freddie Simon took a breath from the megaphone.

            As the people bunched and pushed Tim and Reny closer together, comments and questions unceasing, she said, “Seems like I picked quite a day for my town initiation.”

            “Yeah… yeah.”

            He worried about Hoyt, hoping he’d simmered down. This was the last thing Nathaniel needed to be dealing with. Lennox and his like were a constant thorn in the sheriff’s side. Everything damn thing was a battle, seemed like.

            “Did Lennox burn up in the fire?” asked Mrs. Abigail Dunn from the edge of the crowd. She owned the liquor store down the street and was about as old as Mere Valley itself. She wasn’t inclined to disclose her true age and anyone who knew for sure was long gone.

            “He didn’t burn up, Mrs. Dunn. You stay over there.” Tim guided Reny in Mrs. Dunn’s direction. He watched Mere Valley’s newest Transplant and its most senior Townie shake hands as he did the introductions.

            “Saw smoke and the ass uh that stupid car. Thought you might’ve caught yourself a break, Timmy. Bastard shouldn’t be breathing. It was nice to meet you, sweetheart.”

            Mrs. Dunn was something like ninety pounds and still got around well. She was away from the din of the crowd before Reny or Tim could say goodbye. “Ok, what’s going on around here?” the young woman asked.

            So Tim told her. Merritt Lennox hadn’t just put him out of business. He was married to his ex-wife. They were barely divorced when Shayna traded up.

            “Wow,” Reny said. “That’s—”

            “Why people, friends like Hoyt, get so riled up. They want to protect me.”
            “No offense, but can’t you protect yourself?”

            “I’m going to do more than that,” Tim said, suddenly serious. “This isn’t over.”

            “What have I walked into?”

            “Welcome to Mere Valley, Ms. Davies.”

Chapter Two: 

            Gable chose a wise spot for her bistro. A few years ago, when Tim was helping her convert an old warehouse into something like its present form, he had his doubts. It was too far north of the town square, he said. She all but guaranteed that a ton of new developments would spring up around her in the coming months and years. New roads. New shops and offices. “Hi,” Tim said to a pair of women wearing strange angular clothing as they kept their pace, oblivious to his simple greeting, coming from or going to one of those new shops and offices.

            “Hey there, Semple,” Gable said, holding open the door. Holding back a smile.

            “Hey, Gabes,” he said, looking over his shoulder.

            “No, they wouldn’t have gotten out of the way.”

            “So you saw that?”

            “See it every day, buddy. Rich women take no detours and suffer no delays. Not even for cute boys.”

            He kissed her on the cheek as she welcomed him in and closed the door behind. It was mostly dark, but Tim knew the place down to the square foot, having put serious time into the renovations. “How’s your day going?” he asked as she turned up the main dining room lights.

            “Uneventful, I’d say,” she said, playfully or sarcastically. Tim couldn’t quite tell. “Compared to you, that is, Mr. Semple. I am but a simple, humble restauranter, preparing once again for another ravenous host.”

            He rubbed his brow with a hand that shrouded cinched eyes. His body and mind were preparing for whatever Gable had in store, be it a prosecution or peppering.