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Lily's Mechanic

By Seralynn Lewis

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Carson Brown’s back stiffened, and he had a death grip on the wheel as he turned his truck into the entrance of the narrow road that led to his uncle’s small airstrip. He slowed to a halt and got out of the truck to remove the chain. The gravel lane would take him to the hangar, terminal, and farmhouse.
The airport’s sign dangled from one rusty bolt. Stiff May breezes slapped the faded marquee against the equally neglected pole. The other pole was bent at an odd angle and led him to believe someone, or something, hit it and caused the sign to break off on one end.
Except for his uncle’s funeral, he’d been to Worthy, Ohio, only a half dozen times since he left for the Navy, and he hadn’t even had time to visit the homestead after the funeral.
A keen sense of loss enveloped him when thoughts of his jovial uncle poured into his brain. He should have made more of an effort to visit.
Uncle Patrick had been instrumental in his life’s profession, but now his uncle was dead, and re-visiting the airport and farmhouse gave him a sense of homecoming and peace. It wouldn’t last and would be bittersweet. Soon the airport and his childhood home would be owned by someone else, and it pained him.
He drove along the narrow lane, eager to see the Cessna and prop plane his uncle kept in the hangar near his farmhouse. The two beauties heightened his love affair with aircraft, and it never waned in the ensuing years. They launched memories of the times he spent working on them with Uncle Patrick.
A sadness smashed him in the chest, and he idly rubbed the area around his heart to ease the pain of loss for the uncle he loved so much. And for the land and planes both he and his uncle loved so much. Carson had spent the bulk of his grade school and high school years here when he and his mother came to live with Uncle Patrick. The sense of loss overpowered him, knowing the place would be sold and everything torn down to make way for housing developments. His gut burned with frustration.
Larger than life, his uncle had been the only male influence he’d ever had–or wanted–when he was a boy. His mother’s brother epitomized the man he had wanted to become.
What had happened to the place since the last time he’d been here? Had it really been five years ago? When he spoke to his uncle on the occasions he was stateside, Uncle Patrick told him everything was wonderful. Had he not wanted Carson to worry?
Not that he could have done anything about it while he was at sea, but he could have made an effort to visit more regularly after he’d left the military. At a minimum, he could have come to town before his uncle died. Regret clawed at his gut.
The strong breezes pushed the unkempt tall grasses until they were almost parallel to the land. Stately pines beyond the left side of the lane and the thick swath of trees to the far right past the field created a wind tunnel of sorts. He inhaled deep of their clean, fresh scent. The expansive oak and elms ran the length of his uncle’s property and formed a barrier between the airport and the Sandburg Farm just on the other side.
As a kid and even as a teenager, he flew kites in the football-sized tract. He recalled the wind as it rushed in his face and the joy of a fun afternoon. Uncle Patrick told him the location of the trees made the area an ideal spot for it.
On other occasions, Carson laid in the grass and relished staring at the blue sky. When the planes took off, he gazed with wonder at the underbellies of the small aircraft.
A heartfelt sigh filled his lungs. Time to see how the rest of his uncle’s place fared.
As he pulled into the makeshift driveway at the old farmhouse, and got out of his truck, he whipped off his sunglasses and rubbed his jaw. His gaze wavered from one building to the next.
The old homestead wasn’t in great shape, with its less-than-level front porch and green peeling paint. Could it be his uncle had never painted the place since he was a teenager?
The hangar seemed in better condition than the terminal, and there were two additional outbuildings. They hadn’t been there the last time he visited. No surprise his uncle added new buildings but hadn’t painted the house. Uncle Patrick’s priorities were always about the planes and never about his living space. Carson couldn’t disagree with his thought process.
Air punctuated by cow manure wafted around him. The smell wasn’t unwelcome, but he’d forgotten the pungent aroma and how it made his nose wrinkle.
Where am I headed? The question wrapped around his chest like a vise as he remembered his uncle’s funeral six weeks ago. What would he do now that he found himself without a wife or a job? Rudderless in a sea of confusion. That’s what he was.
Uncle Patrick made it clear he planned to give his estate to charity, but Carson longed for the place that held so many wonderful memories.
The eerie silence gripped him until a rumble of an engine caused him to squint toward the end of the lane. He glanced at his phone. The attorney was right on time.
William Bottleson had been one of his uncle’s many close friends. He vaguely remembered Uncle Patrick’s legal counsel, but he had little contact with him back then and only briefly saw him at the funeral. There were so many folks who wanted to extend their condolences and tell wonderful stories of his uncle that Carson hadn’t spent a lot of time with any one person.
The attorney leveraged his more than portly figure out of his late model SUV and waddled to him with the strap of his satchel slung over his shoulder. He extended his beefy hand for a hardy shake. “It’s good to see you, Carson. After the funeral, you left before I had a chance to speak with you, and your uncle insisted I talk to you in person.”
His shoulders bowed and more regret piled on his already weighted conscious. “I had a family emergency and had to leave.” It still left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“No matter. I have the keys to the house and the hangar padlock. We’ll go inside and discuss Patrick’s estate.”
The attorney handed Carson the keys, and he unlocked the door.
He preceded the attorney and wiped his feet on the outside mat like his uncle had taught him all those years ago. Some habits were ingrained. The place reeked of dust and grime in the stagnant air.
The attorney coughed and wiped his mouth with displeasure. “We should open some windows.”
Bottleson led him to his uncle’s kitchen and opened the back door and window above the sink. The peeling and cracked wallpaper was in even worse shape than it had been in his boyhood days. It had a cluttered, lived-in look.
His uncle’s attorney shifted in the uncomfortable chair. “The paperwork we need to go over won’t take long.”
“Uncle Patrick told me he’d planned on giving his estate to charity. I love this place, but wish I still had my uncle alive and well.” Carson lowered his tall frame on the opposite side of the scuffed oak table.
A small smile played on the attorney’s lips as if he had some secret. “Your uncle knew you loved him, and he loved you, too, which is why he left you his entire estate.”
Carson rose and paced one end of the kitchen to the other, which took about four steps. His right hand gripped the back of his neck. “But he told me he was leaving the place to charity.”
A pair of cheater lenses emerged from the attorney’s breast pocket, and he perched them on the end of his nose. “Patrick changed his will less than a month before he died.” Bottleson eyed him over the top of the lenses.
“But why?” He slumped into the chair, folding his arms over one another on the edge of the table. “He’d made it clear everything would be given to charity and never even hinted he’d changed his mind when I spoke to him three months ago. I even offered to buy the planes from him, but he refused.”
The attorney squirmed and flipped through the pages in the thick file he’d pulled from his muddy brown case. “Your uncle decided you needed something other than the loss of your marriage to focus on. He was adamant, though, on the requirements for the transfer.”
He leaned forward and clasped his hands, his breathing forced. “What do you mean?”
“Your uncle wanted to renovate and make it into a regional airport of substance. He planned to invite you to move here permanently and give you the position of head mechanic. No one could have imagined a blood clot would take his life.”
“I don’t understand.” He slowly shook his head and pulled in his lips.
“Your uncle left specific instructions. To inherit the estate, you must complete the renovation, and demonstrate the airport’s profitability. If you can’t or refuse, the estate will go to auction with the proceeds distributed to his favorite charities. Except the land he bought from Nils Sandburg. It will revert to him or his heirs.
Bottleson pushed the paperwork toward him.
He snatched the three-page document and scanned its contents. “In less than six months?” His voice rose as he crumpled the edge of the document. “This is impossible. When did he buy land from Sandburg?”
The late spring sunshine warmed the old kitchen, but even with the door and window open, and the slight movement of air in the room, the walls closed in on him. Decades of aircraft oil filled his nostrils.
“Patrick bought the land some four years back. The deed is in the file. About a year ago, he hired an architect to re-design the airport and hangar. Meet with the architect and fulfill the terms of the will, and everything will be yours.”
The attorney’s matter-of-fact tone rankled, and the terms twisted his innards. But he’d play along.
“Did my uncle leave funds for the renovation?”
Beads of sweat dotted the attorney’s high forehead and made him question what Bottleson wasn’t saying. “There is some money in your uncle’s accounts… but certainly not enough to complete the entire renovation. It’s my understanding Patrick planned to obtain a line of credit for the difference to complete the financing. You’re free to do that, but it might be difficult since there are conditions to ownership. I don’t think your uncle considered the final piece of financing needed when he changed his will. I hope you have personal funds to draw from for the renovation.”
He’d have to partially finance the renovation? How much would he have to ante up? And if he failed? He’d lose his hard-earned savings.
His mind swirled with so many questions he blurted the foremost thing in his mind. “Why do you think he changed his will?”
The attorney took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye. “I believe he sensed his death.”
“What?” If smoke could have shot out of his ears, it would have filled the small room and obliterate the man before him. “You were one of his best friends, and you did nothing?”
The attorney’s face became mottled with pinks and reds, and the sweat that had beaded earlier now made its way down the side of his cheek. “Now look here, Carson. Patrick never once gave any indication he had a notion his time was up. Sometimes people just know when the end is at hand. That was my gut feeling and why I think he changed his will.”
A sense of remorse filled Carson’s spirit. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
Bottleson gave him a slight nod, lumbered to his feet, and handed Carson the folder. He shut the kitchen door and window. “Prayerfully consider it. The architect’s contact information is listed in the file. I suggest you contact him sooner rather than later.”
Carson held the folder close to his chest as if doing so would help him understand what had been going through his uncle’s brain in the six months before he died.
“Patrick’s savings and investments have been placed in an escrow account ready for when you make your decision.” The attorney gave him an understanding look. “I rarely give a personal opinion, but I hope you decide to fulfill your uncle’s dream. He would have liked that. I hope to see you in church on Sunday.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He’d need the Lord’s guidance with this entire situation, a step of faith if ever there was one. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
As he exited the farmhouse and locked the door, Carson looked up in time to see two young boys barreling across the field toward the trees.
He stepped off the porch and pointed. “Hey, you. Stop,” he screamed and was about to run after them, but Bottleson grabbed his arm.
“Let them go. You have more important things to worry about than two kids crossing your uncle’s land.”
The little guys raced into the trees and looked over their shoulders to check if he chased them.
He gave the boys a thoughtful stare. “I don’t remember Uncle Patrick saying there were young boys living nearby.”
The attorney ambled to his car, opened the door, and chuckled. “They were probably treasure hunting.”
His legs ate up the distance, and he put a hand on the attorney’s arm. “Wait. Treasure hunting? Since when has there ever been any treasure on this land?”
“Your uncle caused quite a stir a few years back. Claimed there was treasure buried on his land.” The man grasped his chin and the corner of his mouth lifted in a grin. “You know what a jokester he was. Told me he wanted to get people interested in coming out to look at the airport. The folks of Worthy and even some people from Columbus came out and searched, but most folks believed your uncle had a few screws loose. Patrick laughed it off.”
“What do you think?”
Attorney Bottleson heaved a sigh and gripped the car door. “I think it was a failed marketing ploy, and I told him so. He smirked, but never denied it.”
He pointed to the trees. “Who do you think those kids were?”
“Check the Sandburg farm, they might know.”
“I’ll do that.”
After the attorney drove away, he leaned his head back to stare at the cloud-streaked sky. “Great. If I take on Uncle Patrick’s challenge, I’ll have to worry about kids getting hurt on a construction site.”
***
With hands propped on her hips, Lily Bennett looked around the old farmhouse kitchen in dismay. When did her childhood home turn into such a pit?
When her sons’ grade school year ended in Austin, she consigned whatever was left of their family’s furniture, loading her two boys and the meager possessions they could fit into her old SUV, and hightailed it back to her father’s dairy farm in Worthy, Ohio. A place where she’d be able to regain normalcy and relax before she figured out her next steps.
By moving, she thought she had escaped the disaster that had become her life. But she was wrong. When she arrived yesterday, she stepped into a catastrophe she sensed might be worse than the last several years. Her father’s jubilance at their homecoming curtailed any questions about the farm and the house.
While she tackled the house one room at a time, she’d unravel the deplorable condition of her childhood home.
She blew out a breath and swiped stray hairs from her face and tucked them under her headband. “This house will take weeks to clean and organize and it doesn’t even include the farm issues,” she grumbled to herself.
Project management skills she acquired over the years would help with the overwhelming tasks, but she couldn’t remain unemployed for too long.
The front door slammed, and she wiped her hands on her old apron as she stepped into the somewhat more organized version of the living room. Her sons ran inside and flopped onto the faded floral sofa, releasing plumes of dust in the air. Her nose wrinkled in disgust.
Despite the filth, her heart filled with joy as she looked at her two young sons, who seemed to have settled into farm life in less than a day. “You boys are all sweaty. What have you been doing?”
Evan, her youngest at nine, cast a swift glance at his older brother for direction.
“We just ran across the farm,” twelve-year-old Lucas explained and shifted his eyes from her to his brother.
The head tilt toward Evan was a dead giveaway they’d been into something she wouldn’t be happy about. But now wasn’t the time to get into it when the old farmhouse needed a spring cleaning that should have been done ten years ago. They’d spill their secrets soon enough, and she didn’t have the energy to play twenty questions.
“I see.” She pointed her finger at the four super-sized trash bags next to the couch. “While you take those out to the cans in the garage, I’ll put lunch on the table.”
Evan’s red face scrunched with distaste. “Aw, Mom. Do we have to?”
She folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot in her old running shoes. The muffled sound on the threadbare carpet hadn’t given her the desired effect, so she resorted to the look.
Lucas poked his brother and shoved off the sofa. “Come on. Let’s go. I’m starving.”
They fisted the bags and dragged them out to the garage. She chuckled and stepped into the kitchen to pour three tall glasses of tangy lemonade.
The boys slid into the kitchen, sat in their chairs, and grabbed the glasses as she placed a sandwich, carrot sticks, and two cookies in front of each boy.
Lucas gulped the drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Mom, you make the best lemonade.”
“Use a napkin, son.”
“And cookies.” Evan crunched the sweet treats with crumbs falling out of the corners of his mouth.
Her lips twitched as she sipped the lemonade. Despite everything that had happened in the past six years, she sensed a new chapter of her life had begun. “Eat your sandwich.”
Evan grabbed half and held it in mid-air. “Grandad told us there was buried treasure over at the old McClellan place.” Her son’s face got red, and he slapped the other hand over his mouth, then lowered his head to stare at the table. “Sorry, Lucas.”
“Can’t keep your trap shut,” Lucas muttered and grabbed his sandwich and stuffed it in his mouth.
“Is that what you were doing? Looking for buried treasure?” She cocked her head and took a bite of her sandwich.
Evan’s eyes grew wide, and he wiggled in his seat. “Grandad… er, Farfar told us all about it. He said we could look for it.”
So little fun had existed in her sons’ lives that she’d not begrudge them the intrigue of searching for non-existent buried treasure. Her father, however, should rein in the tall tales.
“He did, did he? You can look, but you will not dig anywhere over there, understood?”
Evan’s brow furrowed and she could almost see the wheels flying around in his brain. He cupped his chin in his palms and frowned. “But Mom. How are we going to find it if we don’t dig? It’s buried, you know?”
“The land doesn’t belong to Farfar, so you can’t dig over there, OK?”
Lucas’s shoulders drooped, and his breath came out in a whoosh. “It doesn’t matter. The guys who showed up this morning didn’t seem to want us there.”
She sat up straight and forced her gaze from one son to the other. “What guys?”
Evan leaned toward her and lowered his voice as if he were on a super spy mission. “Two guys came out of the house just as we ran through the field to come home. The tall guy yelled for us to stop, but we kept running. He stared at us but didn’t chase us.”
Her mind whirred. It could only be Carson Brown. Who else could it have been? She’d relegated his name to the section of her brain marked lost love, but lately he invaded her dreams, and she couldn’t figure out why. I guess you never forget your first crush.
What Carson was doing over at the airport was none of her business. She had too many of her own problems to worry about, but her mind remembered how her entire body trembled with hurt when her dad told her Carson had married.
“We were behind the hangar when they drove up. All the buildings were locked.” Evan’s shoulders registered a dejection she hadn’t seen since he lost his father to the justice system.
“I should hope so,” she mumbled into her glass. A tiny frown forced its way to her lips.
Lucas grabbed another cookie. “After we got past the fence, we watched from behind the trees. The short guy got into the SUV and the tall guy watched the other guy drive off. Then he went inside the hangar. We watched for a while, but he didn’t leave, so we came home.”
Evan’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. “Do you think Farfar told us about the treasure so we wouldn’t bother him?”
They’d had so little male interaction since her husband had been imprisoned and even before, that she expected her father could fill the void. With deliberate movements, she set the glass on the table. She placed her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her fist. “Did he tell you to go, or did you ask him if you could go?”
“We asked,” Lucas said.
“There you are. He didn’t tell you to go. He said you could go. Big difference. I’m sure Farfar loves having you around. When you’re through eating, go call him in for lunch.”
When her dad came in, he reeked of cow. She’d have to reacquaint herself to the various animal smells. He washed up in the chipped farmhouse sink and sat to eat his lunch.
Her youngest son made a beeline to the chair next to her dad. “Tell us more about the buried treasure.”
Her father grunted and chewed on his sandwich.
She placed a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Go upstairs. You have one hour to play video games, then I’ll need your help.” The horror of doing chores always made them hide in their rooms.
Lucas jumped out of his chair and grabbed his brother’s hand. “Come on, Evan. Mom wants to talk to Grandad.”
As the boys tromped up the steps, she sat and stared at her father. The years of farming had weathered his face with dark creases. His skin sagged, and he looked… unwell.
“Dad, are you OK?”
“I’m fine.” Her father bristled and chomped on his sandwich. “Thanks for making lunch. I’m always so busy, I forget to eat.”
“We won’t let you forget to eat, Dad.” She placed her hand on his veiny hand and he turned his palm up to curl his fingers around hers.
“You have your mother’s hands.” He gave her a wistful smile, as if he remembered the texture of her mother’s touch in their clasped fingers. “I’m so glad you came home. I’ve missed you and the boys. They’ll be a huge help around the farm.”
She leaned forward and tilted her head. “I don’t know how much help they’ll be with your tall tales. Since when has there been a buried treasure over at the airport?”
A look of confusion passed over her father’s face. “Patrick said there was. He died, you know.” The comment brought a sadness to her father’s faded blue eyes.
She squeezed his hand and pulled hers away to stack the dishes. “I know. He was your best friend.”
“He was… And I miss him.” His face brightened. “I hope Carson comes back and opens the airport.”
For a moment, her mind traveled to a time when she and Carson spent all their summers and school days together. She remembered their last conversation before he left for the military. But he’d broken her heart, and she’d resigned herself that a relationship with him wasn’t meant to be.
The sound of her father clearing his throat brought her back to the present.
He stilled and squinted at her. “Are you coming to church on Sunday?”
The abrupt change of her father’s demeanor caught her off guard.
“I’m not sure I’m ready to handle Worthy’s gossip mill, Dad.” She glanced around the room. “There’s so much to do around here. When was the last time anyone cleaned? I threw out four big bags of trash and that was just from the living room.”
Her admonishment made him hang his head. “I was going to clean, but I never got around to it. Since it was always just me, there didn’t seem to be much point.” His shoulders drooped and his voice trailed off to a whisper.
“Well, I’m not living in squalor, so I’ll clean, paint, and make any necessary repairs.”
Her father’s head slowly shook from side to side. “That takes money, and I don’t have it.”
“I’ll pay for the repairs and do the painting myself. I don’t think any of the rooms have been painted since Mom died.”
He frowned and lifted himself from the chair with a slight groan and took his plate to the sink. “The boys need to have the Lord in their lives.”
“And you can take them with you on Sunday.”
Her father exhaled softly, and he gave her a brief nod. “I’m headed out to the milking barn.”
After her father shut the kitchen door with a quiet click, she rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. Why was her father interested if they went to church? It was another thing she’d have to tackle, and she wasn’t ready for it. She hadn’t set foot in church since she left home all those years ago when she’d decided to depend on herself for success.
How’s that working out for you?

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