by Paula Gail Benson
A year with Covid-19 hit everyone
hard. In Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, we felt it deeply. Our economy,
dependent on the tourist trade, faltered when the hotels and restaurants had to
shut down.
Not that I’m an expert. I’m just a
thirteen year old guy trying to string enough words together for an eighth
grade paper. I stupidly took the honors course on my Uncle Sage’s enthusiastic recommendation.
“Oh, man, Double Mack,” Uncle Sage told
me, brushing back his shoulder length gray hair with his fingers, then shaking
it out like Mufasa in The Lion King
or maybe a feeble attempt at copying the moves of that model on Granny Mott’s
romance novel covers. Fabio, I think she called him.
“I wish I’d been able to take economics
at your age,” Uncle Sage had said. “That stuff’s the basis for living well.”
If that was so, I decided I’d be looking
for a simpler lifestyle. Maybe the monastery at Mepkin Abbey, in Moncks Corner,
near Charleston, would take me. I could handle gardening, bee keeping, managing
guest retreats, and setting up the annual crèche festival in exchange for room
and board.
Uncle Sage--being co-owner with my
mom of the formerly twenty-four hour breakfast spot, Cinnamon and Sage--understood
or at least encountered economic issues daily. The restaurant had to close down
completely in March and reopened only on a limited basis by summer. Cutting
back from twenty-four to ten hours a day meant a huge loss of revenue and
staff, not to mention a greatly reduced menu. No more fifty varieties of
waffles. I particularly missed Number Twenty-five, the Christmas Special,
alternating quarters of red velvet and key lime served with raspberry syrup.
Today, I had a bigger problem than
food or honors economics.
Our home was a two story dwelling, located
one row back from the beach, built to accommodate four rental units, two
upstairs and two down. We lived on the second floor--my mom, nineteen-year-old sister
Shandeigh, and me on one side and my Granny Mott, my dad’s mom, on the other.
In a good year, we kept a steady flow of renters on the lower level.
This had not been a good year. We had
barely enough lodgers to put a dent in the taxes and insurance. So, when Mr.
Fenster Landress asked to take both lower units for two weeks right before
Christmas--well, it was a gift.
He did want some extra services--light
housekeeping and a change of linens midway through his stay. Normally, we provided
the basics to renters as a self-serve operation. But, we couldn’t afford to turn
Mr. Landress down, considering he paid top seasonal rates and we really needed
the money.
With mom and Shandeigh picking up
shifts for laid off workers, I offered to do Mr. Landress’ cleaning. It gave me
a break from Zoom classes and the paper, which had to describe a small business
philosophy. Besides, I figured, how hard could the cleaning be? One uptight
adult shouldn’t mess up too many towels and sheets. I never understood why he
rented both units just for himself. Maybe he liked having the extra space.
I headed downstairs in the late
morning, after hearing Mr. Landress slam the door as he headed out for his
daily beach walk. I saw him striding toward the boardwalk, decked out in trench
coat and, as best I could tell, a suit. He didn’t seem to have leisure wear.
What I didn’t expect to find in Mr.
Landress’ rooms was a sealed envelope with the printed message: In Case of My
Demise. Not hidden away, in a drawer or suitcase, but in plain view on the
counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area. Right where I couldn’t
miss seeing it.
I finished sweeping and dusting,
dumped the used linens upstairs in the laundry room hamper, and then did a
stupid thing: I went back to the counter, scooped up the envelope, and pocketed
it in my leather jacket.
Grabbing my bike, I pumped the pedals
as I headed toward Cinnamon and Sage. I breezed up the highway, passing by the
city’s holiday street decorations that had been in place since well before
Thanksgiving. I tried to keep my nerves steady and my breath even behind my
facial mask. Hidden inside my jacket’s inner pocket, the envelope felt like it
must be a Taser sinking its prongs into my chest as I rode toward the
restaurant.
After securing my bike in the back
hallway where the employees had cubbies to store their stuff and a peg board
for their coats, I circled around to the front door. Mom always wanted us to
use the main entrance if we were eating, not working.
Stepping into the entry area, I
stopped to admire the tree decked out with gold and glass molded waffle
ornaments, featuring breakfast dishes and ice cream waffle cones, as well as fifty
porcelain ovals tied by ribbons to the tree’s branches. Granny Mott had painted
each oval with one of the waffle varieties formerly on the menu. I noticed Number
Twenty-five had a prominent spot.
At the reception stand, Mom told a
group of five it would take a few minutes to prepare a table. Seeing everyone
masked, even the kids, was so weird.
Mom pointed for me to take a booth in
the back. I followed her instructions, passing by the counter where Uncle Sage
and Shandeigh conferred. Uncle Sage wore his Santa “ho, ho, ho” face mask, where
the clear plastic covering over Santa’s wide-open mouth revealed Uncle Sage’s
lips. Shandeigh, in a white mask dotted with tiny gold stars, plead her case to
advertise her latest waffle creation as the week’s featured item.
“Hey, Double Mack,” Uncle Sage
called, motioning me over.
“Just ‘Mack’ will do,” Mom told him as
she went to clean off the customers’ table. Usually, Mom overlooked what Granny
Mott called Uncle Sage’s “boisterous jocularity.” But today, Mom’s voice held a
simmering intensity that indicated she was ready to snap. Probably not a good
time for me to tell her I’d swiped a letter from the boarder’s room.
“Okay, Moan-nah,” Uncle Sage said, putting
heavy emphasis on the “moan.” He motioned for me to come closer. “Call it,
heads or tails.”
“Tails, I guess.”
Uncle Sage tossed the coin, caught
it, and looked at the result. “Heads. Sorry, Shandeigh. Maybe next week.”
Okay, now I’d made my sister mad.
But, I had to talk with someone and I didn’t think Uncle Sage was an option.
When Shandeigh came to my table, pad
in hand, she said, “You’re having the egg nog waffle.”
I winced. “Is it any good?”
Shandeigh fixed me with her laser
stare. “It’s my recipe. If you hadn’t called the toss wrong, it would have been
this week’s featured item. Now, I have to encourage an overwhelming number of
folks to order it to get Uncle Sage to promote it.”
I almost pointed out that Uncle Sage
didn’t actually show her how the coin landed, but I decided not to encourage a toss
redo. “Can I also have hot chocolate with marshmallows?”
“Suit yourself.” She flipped her pad
shut and headed to the kitchen.
When she returned with my chocolate,
after taking orders at the table with five and getting a few more willing to
try her egg nog waffles, she was in a slightly better mood.
“Thanks,” I said for the chocolate. “We
need to talk.”
“I don’t have time to deal with your economics
drama now. Later, after work.”
Shandeigh juggled serving at Cinnamon
and Sage with her next to last semester in the baking and pastry arts program
at Horry Georgetown Tech. She wanted to start her own bakery after graduation.
I figured she’d be running an international company in ten years. Maybe getting
a job with her would be my ticket to avoiding economic challenges, but for now
I needed guidance about our boarder.
“Not the course. It’s this.” I took
out the envelope from my jacket and laid it on the table.
“What is it?” she asked, squinting as
if she hadn’t worn her contacts.
“I found it this morning when I
cleaned Mr. Landress’ rooms. It says, ‘In Case of My Demise.’”
Her eyes widened. “Was he dead?” she
whispered.
I shook my head. “He was walking on
the beach.”
“Why did you take the envelope?”
I kept asking myself that on the ride
over. “I don’t know. I guess I thought if it disappeared the problem would
too.”
Shandeigh, who read murder mysteries
like Granny Mott read romance, gave me her scrutinizing eyes. “You may have
made it worse. Your finger prints are on it now, if we ever have to hand it
over to the police. What does the message say?”
“The envelope’s sealed. I didn’t open
it.”
“Could make the situation better.” She
shifted her shoulders. “Or worse. Let’s consider what we may be dealing with.
He’s a loner. Maybe he’s depressed and decided to come to the beach to end it
all.” She closed her eyes. “OMG, if he took his life in our rental, we’d have a
tough time leasing it again.”
Not to mention, we’d be the ones to
discover a dead body. But, I didn’t sense he was ready to end it all. “He
doesn’t seem depressed. Just distant.”
She opened her eyes, staring at me. “So
he wants to leave a message behind in case he dies suspiciously.”
“If he dies at all.”
Mom walked across the dining room.
She looked in my direction after hearing me say “dies.”
“Everything all right?” she asked.
I took off my mask to cover the
envelope. “Fine,” I answered. The syllable came out as a croak.
Mom looked unconvinced, but, noticing
customers waiting, continued to the reception stand.
Shandeigh had been considering the
possibilities. “Maybe he’s concerned about being the victim of a staged
accident.” She looked off into space, as if mentally ticking off all the murder
strategies she’d read. “Or, maybe he’s paid someone to kill him because he can’t
bring himself to do it. He could be leaving a message to convince the insurance
company he wasn’t complicit.”
“Are you really sure you want to be a
baker instead of a cop or lawyer?”
“Shandeigh,” Uncle Sage called from
the kitchen. “You want to come mix your special recipe?”
“On my way,” she answered, then
looked back to me. “One thing is certain. You’ve got to return the envelope to
his room.”
After the egg nog waffle, which
turned out to be surprisingly good, and a second cup of chocolate with extra
marshmallows, I’d built up my courage to return home. I donned my mask and
pocketed the envelope. As I pedaled back, I worked out a plan for re-entering
the rental.
Coasting into the family driveway, I
noticed a tall man with shaggy dark hair eyeing our residence from across the
street. Dressed all in black--slacks, polo shirt, and trench coat--he leaned
against a column on the porch of Seaside Sundries, which Granny Mott compared
to her father’s neighborhood store, because it tried to be all inclusive, stocking
the stuff folks forgot (like sun screen or flotation devices) or decided they couldn’t
live without (like soda or ice cream) for a day at the beach. The shop occupied
a first floor portion of the condo building that blocked our view of the ocean.
The family joke had always been with one good hurricane we’d be beachfront
property.
I locked my bike in the storage
closet. By the time I made it to the internal stair case, the man had
disappeared. I took the steps two at a time and knocked on Granny’s door.
“Come in,” she called.
Mom worried about her being so
trusting. When I unlocked the door and entered, I found Granny sitting in her
sturdy, padded rocker, knitting needles in hand, her yarn caddy propped open on
the floor beside her, and a narrow table on the other side holding a reading
lamp, pile of romance novels, and the TV remote. On the wall, her sixty-five
inch screen showed a Hallmark Christmas movie with the sound muted.
“Did you check me out in your video
viewer, Gran?” I asked. “I might have been an ax murderer.”
“I’d recognize an ax murderer’s
knock,” she assured me with a smile. “And, yes, I checked you out to make sure
someone wasn’t holding you hostage to gain access.”
“You and Shandeigh need to go into
the writing business.”
“I dare say we could make a go of it.
What can I do for you?”
“Do you still have those extra pine
cones I decorated as mini-Christmas trees for the scout project?”
“In the hall closet. Why do you need
them?”
“To brighten up the place for Mr.
Landress. It doesn’t look much like Christmas down there.”
“What a terrific idea from a
thoughtful boy!” She pondered for a moment. “Wonder if there are some other decorations
you can take down there?”
I didn’t want to be loaded down with
stuff so I could get in and out fast, using the decorated pine cones as my cover
to replace the envelope. “Maybe I should see how he reacts to these first,” I
told Granny. “I think he likes his space uncluttered.” Finding the box I needed,
I pulled a couple of the prickly, decorated giant cones out and was rewarded
with a sprinkling of glitter.
“You’re more like your father every
day,” she said as I took the cones and headed toward the door. I passed by
photos of my dad and granddad side-by-side in frames on the wall. Both wearing
military uniforms. They had each been special ops, Dad in Afghanistan and Pop
Pop in the Gulf War. Neither came back from their last missions--listed as
MIAs--but Granny Mott kept the faith.
“Thanks, Gran,” I called as I left,
making sure the door was locked behind me.
“We need to offer him Christmas dinner,”
I heard her yell from inside.
I just hoped Mr. Landress remained
alive that long. Replacing my mask, I headed downstairs and reached the door to
the rental unit when a voice from behind startled me, making me drop the cones.
I turned to find the man in black directly behind me.
“Sorry,” he said.
“No problem.” As I stooped to pick up
the cones, the sealed envelope fluttered from my pocket, landing next to the
man’s shiny patent oxfords. Up close, I could tell his wardrobe was more
upscale than it appeared from a distance. I glanced at his face and found him
watching, particularly looking at the handwritten words on the envelope. I
grabbed it and shoved it back in my pocket before retrieving the cones.
“Something I can help you with?” I asked as I stood.
The man pointed to the metal sign
attached to the corner of the upper floor of our residence. “Do you have any
openings?”
“You’d have to check with the
management company,” I told him. I didn’t mention the management company was
Mom.
“Okay. Thanks.” The man stared at me,
which made me nervous.
A car pulled to a stop on the road. I
turned to see Giorgio, a local Uber driver, opening the back door of his Tahoe
for Rhonda and Fonda Collingwood, two sixtyish sisters who lived in one of the
elegant, long established private homes on North Ocean Boulevard. Giorgio would
bring them here so they could walk the portion of the beach from our house to
the pier, where Giorgio would be waiting to take them home.
“Hello!” They waved consecutively as
they exited, then adjusted their sunglasses and totes before heading toward the
sand.
The man in black clapped a hand on my
shoulder, almost making me drop the pine cones again. “Take care of yourself,”
he said before hailing Giorgio. “Hey, if you’re available, I could use a ride.”
He sprinted toward the Uber.
I barely took stock of the situation
when the door to the rental opened and Mr. Landress peered out.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I just thought you might enjoy some
Christmas decorations,” I replied.
Mr. Landress gave the cones a
scrutinizing look. “How much?”
“No charge. Actually, they come with
the rental. We meant to have them out before you arrived.”
Mr. Landress reached for the cones.
“You make these yourself?”
“Yeah. For a scout project.”
“Nice work. Thanks for thinking of
me.” He closed the door.
Well, that had been a bust. And, now
it was time to return for the Zoom economics class. Right after lunch, when it
was most tempting to nap.
Today, Mr. Karlsson explained cost
benefit analysis. “Think of our own time honored tradition of the ‘early bird
special.’ If four people dine at your restaurant between four and six in the
afternoon and spend approximately twelve dollars each, you earn forty-eight
dollars. Let’s say the food itself costs two bucks a meal. You netted forty
bucks. If you offer the same meals for seven bucks, you’ll only earn five bucks
each meal. But, if you now attract ten diners between four and six, you net
fifty bucks. As long as you don’t need more staff, that early-bird special
increased profits twenty-five percent.”
I rested my head on my desk. In
earlier classes, we’d discussed how compromises required giving up something
you counted upon, but could be beneficial if the sacrifice gave you a greater
earning power. There were lots of different business applications. I wondered
if Uncle Sage’s making Shandeigh show her egg nog waffles were selling before
he promoted them was kind of like a compromise. And then, there were the Collingsworth
sisters, who could have afforded to drive most places, but provided some regular
income for Giorgio by patronizing his Uber during these times when people
weren’t traveling.
I must have dozed off as I was
contemplating compromise.
“McElhannon McKinley Mott.” Mr.
Karlsson called me by my full name. Well, he left off the third, but it
probably meant I was in trouble.
“Sorry, sir.” When I shook my head to
clear it, I realized I’d drooled on my iPad. I heard my classmates giggling.
“It’s not that we blame you for snoozing
off,” Mr. Karlsson said. “It’s just your snoring was a getting a bit loud.”
The laughter made me too embarrassed
to answer.
“Let’s call it a day,” Mr. Karlsson
continued. “Mack, please stay online with me.”
Good grief. This day had been a bust.
“Listen, Mack,” Mr. Karlsson said
when we were alone. “I sense you’re a little uptight about the paper.”
“I promise to work harder.”
“You know, economics is more working
smarter than working harder. May I make a suggestion?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t let economics terminology throw
you. It may seem a different language, but it’s basic common sense. Think about
a ‘win-win strategy.’ If I make you feel better about yourself, then you might
be willing to spend money on my product. Similarly, the reverse. If your
spirits are boosted by buying my product, you may be willing to pay more for it
and recommend it to your friends. See what I mean?”
“I guess.”
“Think about it. See you next class.
And, Mack? Don’t stress.”
What Mr. Karlsson said made sense,
but it always increased my anxiety when people told me not to stress.
I finished up my classes for the day,
then did some research for the paper. I googled win-win strategy and linked it
with economics. I found a few connections.
“How’s it going?”
I’d been concentrating so hard, I
hadn’t heard Gran enter. And, I should have noticed because she brought a plate
of fresh baked red and green sprinkled sugar cookies, hot out of the oven.
“Not so great. I just don’t get
economics.”
She nodded. “Sounds difficult. Can
you make any personal applications?”
“I’ve tried.”
“The closer you can make it to
yourself, the greater that possibility that something will click.” She put down
the plate. “Remember a few years ago when I was feeling blah? Every time I
passed by a place, I only remembered the times I’d shared there with people no
longer here.” She sighed, then gave me a smile. “I had to make a mental shift.
Find my own reason for joy, not just what I’d shared with someone else.”
I didn’t have an answer. I felt bad I
hadn’t noticed her being down.
She watched me. “You know, what my father,
your great-grandfather said about running a store?”
“No. I remember you worked there.”
“Both a character building and
humbling experience.” She laughed. “I could find endless ways to mess up, but
Dad kept me on because he said people liked seeing my smile and my taking an
interest in their lives.”
“That’s like what Mr. Karlsson called
a ‘win-win’ strategy. Making someone feel better could encourage them to spend
more.”
Gran laughed. “Perhaps. Dad never
mentioned how much money he lost because I measured in the customers’ favor so they
would benefit from my mistakes. I guess he figured the good will kept them
coming back.” She paused before continuing. “My Dad had three rules for store
keeping.”
“What were they?”
“First, make it personal. If you care
about what you are selling, you can find something to do with it if no one buys
it. Mom and I sure got enough presents from the extra inventory. Second, find a
benefit no matter how your sales go. As long as you learn something in the
process, it won’t be a total loss. And, finally, figure out how to stay in the
game, even if you have to change your expectations.”
“Wow. He sounds like a smart guy.”
Her eyes twinkled. “I always thought so.
Maybe a few of his genes passed down to you.”
“Thanks, Gran. Do you mind if I share
these cookies with Mr. Landress?”
She held the back of her hand to her
forehead and gave a dramatic sigh. “I suppose I can make more.”
“If you sprinkle some flour over your
face, I’ll believe your struggle.”
She gave me a pouty lipped frown.
“You must get the smart aleck from your mother’s side. Back to the kitchen.”
She waved her hand as she departed.
I hid away a few cookies for a later snack,
then put the rest on a paper plate that I covered with green cellophane and
took downstairs. A frazzled Mr. Landress opened the door.
“What is it?”
“My grandmother made some Christmas
cookies. I thought you might like some.”
He seemed stunned by the idea.
“That’s . . . very kind.” He reached for the plate.
“Mr. Landress,” I hurried to speak,
hoping to avoid the door being closed in my face, “could I come in, please? I
have something I need to tell you. I’m not very proud of myself, but I have to
be honest.”
He gave me an appraising look before
making a stiff nod. “You’d better come in. The doorway is no place for
confessions.”
“Thanks.” I stepped inside, then
turned back to face him.
“Let’s have a seat.” He motioned
toward the living room, sat on the couch, and placed the cookies on the coffee
table.
I perched on a chair and pulled the
envelope from my pocket. “I took this from the counter when I did the
housekeeping. It was stupid. I just hoped if it went missing, you wouldn’t
think about . . .” There was no good way to say it. “. . . well, about not being
here. Like I said, it was stupid and I’m sorry.”
Mr. Landress reached for the
envelope. He held it in his hands for a moment before turning it over. “You
didn’t open it?”
“No, sir. It wasn’t my business.”
Mr. Landress’ dark eyes seemed to be
boring holes in mine. “But, you showed it to someone.”
How could he know? “Just my sister.
She told me I had to bring it back to you.”
His eyes narrowed. “No one else?”
I thought for a moment before
remembering my previous botched attempt at returning the envelope. “Oh, Gosh. I
dropped it on the porch and the man in black saw it.”
“The man in black?”
“High end clothing. He’d been
watching our building from across the street and came over to ask if the rental
was available.”
“You’re sure that’s all he wanted?”
The longer this day got the less sure
I was of anything. “Mr. Landress, if you’re in trouble in any way, I know my
family would do all we could to help you. My granddad and dad were military
heroes and my family’s respected in the community. People would listen if we
asked.” I looked at the envelope in his hands. “Maybe that’s why I took your
letter. I didn’t want you to have to feel alone.”
He was silent for a moment before
putting the envelope on the table. “What’s your name, son?”
“Mack Mott. Well, really McElhannon
McKinley Mott, the third, to be formal, although my uncle calls me ‘Double
Mack’ to irritate my mom.” I paused. “Too much information.”
He held out his hand. “Nice to meet
you, Mack Mott. What do you know about me, besides that I’m your tenant?”
I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you,
too, sir, and not much.” I didn’t want to say we were grateful his check hadn’t
bounced.
“Have you heard of a prodigal son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m a prodigal father.”
“Okay.” I had no idea what he meant
and he could tell.
The tiniest crack of a smile creased
his lip. “Ever heard of a company called K Southers?”
“Who hasn’t?” I whistled the
five-note intro to their TV slogan. “‘It’s not suit that makes the fellow, but
the fellow who makes the suit.’”
He chuckled. “K Southers was my
mother. She thought it clever to have advertising that directed attention from
the fact a female designed the line. But, she always considered herself one of
the fellows. Anyway, the motto’s served us well. At least during my tenure running
the company. My son joined the business last year and he’s got all these new
ideas, like us offering a monthly clothing box to subscribers. They select
their preferences and sizes, then each month decide if they want to keep what we
send them.”
I thought about my
great-grandfather’s rules about learning what works and staying in the game.
“How are sales?”
“Through the roof! Especially this
year with Covid making everyone shop from home.”
“So, that’s good--right?” I could
tell from his expression it wasn’t.
He reached for the cookies and folded
back the green cellophane. “Smells like your grandmother’s a good cook.”
“The best. Only, I think these are
from frozen cookie dough. Somebody in the neighborhood was selling them for a
school project. She may have added the sugar on top.”
“Good call. Especially for the
holidays.” He took one and put the plate back on the table. After tasting the
cookie, he said, “Very good.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Mack, you’ve made me face something
I need to do. Something I realized after making the list I sealed in this
envelope.” He finished the cookie before continuing. “I was jealous of my son’s
success and began to wonder if I was any value to the company. So, I completed
all the paperwork to turn the business over to him, then took off for the
beach.” He pointed to the old fashioned television in the corner of the room.
We hadn’t been able to afford an update and were glad it still operated. “Watching
one of those Christmas movies on the cable channel, I heard a mother tell her
daughter to make a list of all the achievements she wanted to be remembered for
in life. I decided to make my own list.” He picked up the envelope and handed
it to me. “I’d like you to read it. Tell me what you think.”
Carefully, I opened the seal and
unfolded the paper inside. After reading it, I looked at him and smiled. “That
really says it all.”
“Good.” He stood, putting his hands
in his pockets. “Now, to tell my son. I got a voice message that he’s at the
beach looking for me and suspect he’s the man in black you met. I’d just like
to show him that I can track him as well as he can track me.”
“So you have the upper hand in giving
your presentation?” I thought I remembered that creating an advantage in
business. When he nodded, I told him, “Let me make a couple of phone calls. I
think I can find out where he’s staying.”
Again, I took the internal stair case
two steps at a time. After I told her what had happened, Granny Mott called Rhonda
and Fonda Collingswood, who gave us Giorgio’s number. In a half hour, his Uber
arrived to take Mr. Landress to his son’s hotel.
That evening after dinner, Mom
gathered Granny Mott, Shandeigh, and me all together and said she wanted to
know why Mr. Landress had extended his stay for two more weeks.
“He said his son would be joining
him, thanks to a little talk he had with you, Mack. Care to give us more
details?”
I told them about the day’s events,
including struggling with the economics class as well as finding, taking, and
returning the envelope. I got some questioning looks, but nobody yelled at me.
“What was in the envelope?” Shandeigh
wanted to know.
“Mr. Landress wrote that he left a
folder with an obituary and funeral preparations in his office, but he wanted
his family to remember him for three things.”
“What were they?” Granny Mott asked.
“Being a good man for his family. Making
a positive difference in people’s lives. And, looking for new hope each day.”
For a moment, we all were silent.
Then, it hit me. “It’s like a sound business philosophy, really, don’t you
think?” I asked.
We all laughed so hard, which felt
really wonderful.
Granny Mott said, “With all the
economic strategies you’ve encountered today, I guess you won’t have any
difficulty writing your paper.”
“Not as long as you keep me supplied
with cookies.”
We all laughed again, talking about
supply and demand and whether we should use some of the rent money to replace
the old-style televisions with large screens for our renters or maybe even
offer breakfast service.
But, best of all, Mom called Uncle
Sage and told him there would be two featured waffles promoted next week:
Shandeigh’s egg nog specialty and my favorite Christmas Number Twenty-five.
THE END
