Customer Service

"Yes."

"No. A couple of close calls, but Springers are about as quick on their feet as any breed out there. Sadie here got hit a few weeks ago, didn't you girl."

"In this snow?"

Deke and Stoddard just chuckled. "They hay-up this time of year, Mr Rankin," Stoddard said. "That hay barn of yours has at least fifty rattlers in it right now, unless Bert has put some cats in there at night."

"Is that what they're for?"

"You got any snake-proof boots?" Deke asked, pulling up a leg on his khakis.

"No? What brand are those?"

"Danner snake-proof boots. They'll last you more than a few years; good in mud, too."

"Wonder if Amazon has them?"

"I wouldn't know," Deke said, frowning. "I reckon Phil down at the dry goods store has your size, though. So, what could I do for you today, Mr Rankin?"

"It's Bob, please."

"Okay, Bob. What's on your mind?"

"I wanted to talk to you about...uh...what about these pups? Are they for sale?"

"Sometimes."

"What does that mean?"

"You know, Bob, I tend to look at Springers as being about two steps higher than most humans on the evolutionary scale. My pups go to people I know, and trust, to not only take care of them, but who know a little bit about love, too."

"Oh? And, so, what's the punch line?"

"I don't know you, Bob. You've been my neighbor for five years, and I don't know you. Now, is there anything else you need to get off your chest?"

"I wanted to talk to you about Tracy?"

"Oh? What about?"

"I've just heard a few things, things that don't sit well with me, and I wanted to get to the bottom of it."

"You ask her yet?"

"No, sir."

"Well, her life's her business, not mine. You have something you want to know, I suggest you ask her first. If she doesn't want to talk about it, then I'd guess it's probably none of your business, too."

"I see."

"There're a lot of busybodies in this life," Stoddard said, "and more than a few in town, too. I doubt there's one among 'em that can tell the difference between a good apple, and a rotten one."

"Bob," Tomberlin added, walking towards the door, "there's another way of lookin' at Tracy."

"Oh?"

"Kind of an old saying, and you may have run across it before, and it goes something like this: if a frog had wings, it wouldn't womp it's ass every time it hops."

"I don't get it," Rankin said. "What's that got to do with..."

"Some folks never do, Bob. Some folks just can't learn from their mistakes. They keep askin' 'what if' and 'why me' until their ass falls off..."

+++++

His house was something else. At least that's what folks who came up from LA said.

All made of logs and milled pine, with granite here and there, his home was fifteen thousand square feet of pure sybaritic bliss -- every convenience known to man woven into a tapestry of excess that had, frankly, bothered him when he contracted for it's construction. The guest wing alone had five bedrooms, five baths, it's own indoor swimming pool -- as well as a small gym -- while his side of the house was even more extravagantly appointed. The kitchen would have been ample for a small restaurant, and he had over five hundred bottles in his cellar.

So what, he said.

He'd been married once, thirty years ago, though they'd not had children, so he was it -- the end of the line. There was no one in line to pass the torch to, no one waiting to take over after he was gone, and he looked around this monstrosity, and he'd been wondering what would become of it after he was gone. It would go on the market, he assumed, and some tech mogul in Silicon Valley would scoop it up -- it was, after all, less than hour from Sun Valley -- and that would be it. There'd be parties out on the flagstone terrace by the pool and people would talk about how this had been built by that actor, ole What's-his-name, and people would look around blankly, wondering who the hell ole What's-his-name was -- before tossing down another Campari and soda.

So, maybe that's why he'd done what he'd done. Why he'd begun thinking about the day after tomorrow more and more.

He looked across the valley at the Tomberlin spread, at lights glowing in the little ranch house. Why had he not been over to Deke's house before? Why hadn't he introduced himself? Maybe he figured that, being an outside, he wouldn't have been welcome? But no, that didn't ring true -- yet that's what he'd made of his life out here. He was alone, and he was an outsider -- and a few months ago that had begun to bother him...more than bother him.

He picked up his phone, called Bert, his foreman.

"Bert? Can you come up to the house? I just want to bend your ear about a few things. Sure, come on in, door's open." He walked to the kitchen, poured another scotch and water and walked out to the living room, warmed himself by the fire for a minute, then went and sat at the piano. He started winding his way through Cole Porter's Night and Day, then drifted into Begin the Beguine, his melancholy mood inflecting the progression of notes with an unnatural, sleepy beat.

"That's nice," he heard Bert say a few minutes later, and he turned around a little at the voice.

"Go fix yourself a drink, Amigo."

"Yessir."

He sighed, worked his way into In The Still Of The Night, lost inside the music for the moment, then he heard Bert sit down by the fireplace and stopped. "Enough of that nonsense," he said as he picked up his scotch and went to the sofa.

"Bert? What am I gonna do with this place? When I'm gone, I mean."

"You won't need to worry about that for a while, will you, sir?"

"No, I reckon not just now, but it's been bothering me."

"You need to find a good woman, have a couple of kids."

"Plenty of women out there, Bert. Few of 'em are worth a damn, especially when it comes to someone my age."

"You still thinkin' about Tracy?"

"Night and Day, Bert."

"Damn. She too old for all that."

"I think that's what she said, just last night -- as a matter of fact."

"Oh? Well, she probably thinks you need a woman who could have some kids with you."

"I did everything but get down on one knee, Bert. Asked her to move out here, told her she'd make me happy."

"You ask what might make her happy?"

"Can't ever get her to open up about things like that."

"That's Tracy. Still waters and all."

"You dated? In high school?"

"Guess she told you that?"

"Yup. Has she always been this way?"

"No sir, not always."

"Did something happen?"

Bert looked away, took a long pull from his drink. "Not my place to say, sir."

He looked at his foreman, appreciated his integrity. "Okay."

Bert relaxed, looked at Rankin. "There's not an evil bone in that girl's body, sir. I'd kill anyone who tried to hurt her."

"Does she know how you feel?"

He laughed a little. "Only since second grade, sir."

"Oh, so this is a new romance, huh?" he asked, laughing too.

"I'm not in love with her now, sir. Got over most of that by the time she moved to New York, but she's one of those people you just can't shake, not completely."

"I can understand that. Let me ask you something, Bert. I visited Mrs Gibson in the hospital this morning, and she as much as called Tracy a slut, at least back then. You know what that's all about?"

He nodded his head, took another pull from his drink. "Yup, sure do."

"Something that happened in high school?"

Again, Bert nodded his head. "Yessir."

"And it's not your place to say? Is that about the size of it?"

"Mr Gibson. I think he tried something. Tracy left after that."

"I see. And Mrs Gibson? She had something to do with her leaving?"

"Yessir."

"Figures. Uh, Bert, about a month ago I revised my will. Assuming nothing changes, if I die tomorrow the ranch goes to you..."

"Sir? No..."

"Bert, shut up and listen, will you?"

"Yessir."

"I don't talk about shit like this often, and this'll be the only time you hear this from me. Like I said, I don't have any family, any kids, and, well, over the past couple of years you've become like a son to me. You're about the only person I trust, and the only person I've respected more than you, well, he's been gone a while. I don't want this place to go to some city-slicker, but neither do I want you to get a hold of this place and sell it off. I want you to keep it, work it the way you have for me, build it up into something special, something worth passing on."

"I don't know what to say, sir."

"Well then, don't say anything. Just don't start calling me 'Dad' -- or some such bullshit, alright?"

"You ready for a refill, sir?"

"Yup. Maybe one more."

When he came back a minute later he looked at Bert again. "What about you? You dating anyone now?"

"Yessir. A gal at the bank, for a few months now."

"Looking serious?"

Bert nodded his head. "I hope so."

"She's special?"

"Solid, sir. Not a mean bone in her body."

"Ah. Like Tracy."

"There isn't anyone like Tracy, sir."

"No, there isn't. There sure isn't. Well, why don't the two of you come up to the house for dinner this Friday? I've been wanting to ask a few folks for dinner, and that might be fun. Sound like a plan?"

"Yessir. She'd love that, been a big fan of yours for years."

"Good. I'll look forward to seeing you both. Say around seven?"

"Yessir. Thank you sir."

+++++

He looked across at the Tomberlin spread again, ignoring his scotch, his hands hovering over the keyboard -- and he turned, reached for his phone. He pulled up Tomberlin's number and called it again, waited for him to answer.

"Deke? Bob Rankin again, across the way. How're you this evening?"

"Fine, Bob. What's on your mind?"

"Well, it seems Bert has a new lady friend and I'm going to have a little dinner for them here at the house this Friday. I wondered if you'd like to come over for supper, maybe have a scotch or two around the fireplace."

"This Friday, you say?"

"Yes. We're going to meet up here around seven."

"You know, that sounds good to me. Count me in."

"That fella out there today, Stoddard? Could you call him and give him the invite, those two girls, too?"

"I will. But you're sure you want the girls to come?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Well, if you're sure."

"Never more, Deke."

"We'll see you Friday night, then. 'Night."

"Good night, Deke."

He rang off, looked at his phone again, and pulled up her number. He hit send, and crossed his fingers.

"Hello," he heard her voice say and his heart skipped a beat.

"Tracy?"

"Robert?"

"I need a date Friday night. You free?"

"A date?"

"I'm having a little wing-ding here for Bert and his new gal. I have a feeling things are getting serious between them, and, well, I just wanted to throw a party for them. I've invited your father and a few of his friends, but it just wouldn't be complete without you here. So yes, I'd like you to be my date."

"Who's cooking?"

"Why, me of course."

"You?"

"I do know how to cook, Tracy."

She giggled. "I'm sure you do, Robert. Look, I'm off Friday -- can I help?"

"Sure. I was going to the store around nine, pick up what I need then. Could I swing by and pick you up?"

He heard her thinking, calculating, then: "Nine sounds good, Bob. I'll be out front, nine sharp."

"And I'll be there, at eight fifty nine."

"Thanks, Bob, seeya then."

"Night." He rang off, pulled up his contacts and dialed another number. "Matt? Bob Rankin here. I wonder if you're free this Friday night. I'm having a few friends over, and you might liven things up a bit."

"Well, I, uh..."

"I think they've got about 2 feet of new powder at the Roundhouse, in case you want to head up for a few runs."

"I've got to be in London on Monday."

"You can catch the five thirty out of LAX on BA."

"You still have the Falcon?"

"Can you manage to find your way to Santa Monica? About ten Friday morning?"

"Look, this isn't for a bunch of Hollywood bozos, is it?"

"Nope. Locals, ranchers for the most part."

"Oh, well, that sounds fun. Count me in. So, ten o'clock, Friday, Santa Monica?"

"Be there, or be square."

"Oh, mind of I bring a friend?"

"Hell, no. Bring two."

"Ben's in town too. Can he come?"

"I don't know, can he?"

"Okay, Bob," Matt said, laughing, "sounds good."

"Night."

He pulled out his wallet, looked at the receipt from the diner last night, found the phone number and called.

"Donny's Diner, this is Becky."

"Becky? Bob Rankin. I think you served me the biggest chicken fried steak in human history last night..."

"Yes! Robert Rankin! How are you?"

"I'm still full. Uh, look, about that guy, Donny? Is that the fella behind the grill who waved at me last night?"

"Yes, that was him."

"If he's there, think I could talk to him?"

"Sure, hang on." She heard her calling his name, whispering 'It's Robert Rankin, for you!' -- then he heard all kinds of commotion as the man ran for the phone.

"Hello! Mr Rankin?"

"Donny, I was wondering what you and your gals were doing Friday night? I'm having a party out here..."

"Oh, gee, I'm sorry Mr Rankin, but we don't do catering."

"Well, gee, I was going to ask if y'all wanted to come out for a party I'm throwin' for my foreman..."

"For Bert?"

"Yup."

"You don't want me to cook?"

"Not unless you want to. I was planning on cooking."

"Well hell, I'd do anything for Bert. How 'bout me and the girls come out and just lend a hand."

"How 'bout y'all come out around seven and have dinner, take the night off? How many folks can I count on?"

"Five alright, Mr Rankin?"

"You got a wife?"

"Six, then. Is that okay?"

"Okay, that's Donny, party of six?" They both laughed. "See you then, Donny."

"Yessir, and thank you, sir!"

"Night."

He looked at his phone, at the time, then thought about the next call long and hard. "Every fire needs fuel," he sighed, then he pulled up the hospital's number and entered the number. "Eunice Gibson, please," he said to the operator, then he waited, listening to the ring on speaker.

"Hello?"

"Mrs Gibson, this is Rob Rankin. I just wanted to see how you're doing this evening?"

"Why Mr Rankin! I'm fine, just fine. Thanks for calling..."

"So? How're they treating you? Letting you out anytime soon?"

"Tomorrow morning, I think. Assuming I can, well, I..."

"I understand, Mrs Gibson."

"Eunice. Please, call me Eunice."

"Well, Eunice, assuming you feel up to it, I'm having a few friends over Friday night, kind of a dinner for my foreman and his gal."

"You mean Bert?"

"Yes ma'am. Dinner, cocktails, some music, and I wondered if you'd feel up to coming out?"

"Well, Robert, I'd love to. I hate to ask, but I may need a ride."

"I'll have someone pick you up around six-thirty. Think that'll work out?"

"A quick question? Shall I dress for a casual event?"

"Eunice, might you dress a little more seductively than that?"

"What?"

"You're a most attractive woman, Eunice. I'd love to see the effect you have on some of the guests that will be here."

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes."

"Oh, I see," she cooed.

"Eunice? See you Friday." He rang off and called his housekeeper, then his pilot, and filled them in, then picked up his scotch and walked back to his Steinway. "Yup, it's a Cole Porter kind of night," he said as he started in on In The Still of the Night again, but he shifted keys -- from major to minor -- and he liked this new vibe. He tossed a little Brazilian beat into the flow and shook it up a bit, and with his eyes closed he swayed in the new rhythm -- a little smile coming to life as his fingers danced through the night.

+++++

"You've never been out to the house?" he asked Tracy as she climbed up in the Rover. He waited until she was buckled in, then closed her door and walked around.

"No," she said, though he knew she didn't need to say why.

"Oh, well. I talked to the grocery manager yesterday and ordered most of the things I think we'll need. She said to just come on in and they'd help load things up, but I thought we'd make a walk-through first, maybe pick up a few things -- just in case."

"Okay. Do you have a list of things you're making?"

"Not really. Thought I'd shoot for something between Oscar Meyer hot dogs and The Four Seasons."

She laughed. "My dad thinks hot dogs are the best thing on earth. What did you order?"

"A couple of beef tenders, some shrimp and lump crab meat for starters, stuff for a caesar salad, and I'm going to make a couple of bourbon-fudge-pecan pies."

"You are -- going to bake pies?"

"I am."

"Do you, uh, like to cook?"

"I do."

"Do you like being deliberately vague?"

"Yup."

"I see."

"Good."

She laughed, shook her head and looked out the window as the Rover pulled into the store's parking lot. "It feels like I just left this place," she sighed, her breath frosting the glass.

"Maybe because you did?"

"Yup."

"Maybe you need to take some time off. I mean real time, not just a day here -- a day there."

"Not on my paycheck, I don't."

"I can imagine."

She looked at him then: "Can you?"

"I worked in restaurants and clubs in New York City for years, then moved out to LA and did it again for a few more years. I was in my thirties before I made a real buck, so yeah, I know where you're at." He pulled into a space near the front, set the brake and came around for her door.

"You know, you don't have to get my door. I'm a big girl, can manage that by myself."

"Oh? Well, yes I do have to. Sorry, but I'd hate myself if I didn't."

"Well programed, aren't you?"

"You have no idea. I have a biological need to worship women."

"All women?"

"Uh-huh."

"Oh, well, glad I'm nothing special."

He held her as she got out, but he didn't let go of her hand just yet; neither did he say a word. Instead, he simply looked into her eyes...

And, unaccountably, she felt herself going weak in the knees.

"Come on," he said after he finally let go of her hand. "Lots to do, not a lot of time to do it all."

'Now what the hell was that all about?' she said to herself as she fell in beside him. They got a cart and walked the aisles; she pointed out a few things her father liked and he picked up a couple of cases of Budweiser longnecks.

"Funny, I wouldn't have taken you for a beer drinker?"

"Funny? Well, you don't know me all that well, do you?"

An assistant manager was waiting for them at the customer service desk and he settled the bill, then a couple of kids rolled carts out to the Rover and he helped them load it, then he gave each a twenty. They smiled, said thanks, and he walked around, opened her door.

"That was nice," she said. "Ostentatious, but nice."

"I give 'em something every time I have a big load like this. I think it's fair, not an empty gesture."

"I didn't say empty..."

"'Ostentatious' is empty, Tracy. I'm not into either."

"What are you into?"

"Do unto others, if you know what I mean."

He helped her up, then stood in the Rover's open door. "You okay?" he said at last.

"Yes. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, the hard part comes next."

"Let's go, then."

They drove out in silence, and Tracy felt a sudden tension building between them as she watched the town slip by. When they got out to the house he backed into the garage, and it took them a half hour to get everything unloaded and put away in the kitchen. When they were finished he asked if she'd like a tour of the house.

"A tour? By any chance, do you sell tickets?"

"Haven't had much call. So, wanna take a look around?"

"Sure, lead on, oh master of mine."

"You're impossible," he smiled. "But I guess you know that."

"Yes, it's something I've been working on -- for years."

"Well, practice makes perfect." He took her to the guest wing first, showed her a room, then the pool and the gym, then he backtracked to his side of the house, took her to his bedroom.