Story Not As Simple As It Seems

[ncsfsgm]

Chapter Thirteen

Patty left before sundown, just as the rain began. It fell soft and steady through the night, a gentle drumming on the trailer roof that lulled Bud to sleep. When it stopped just before dawn, the sudden quiet woke him. He rolled out of bed, tugged on a tank top, cargo shorts, and Tevas, then started coffee and heated water for a Mountain House Biscuits and Gravy pouch.

Once everything was ready, he carried the meal outside to the awning. His chair had stayed dry. The first bite was mediocre; by the last, he’d decided: no more freeze-dried biscuits and gravy. He could make better biscuits and gravy himself.

Later that morning, Hemmings Fuel Supply rolled in and installed the fuel tanks with manual pumps. Before they finished, Patty and her crew arrived with a boom truck for the vortex generator. They unbolted the head from the mast, fitted an adapter collar, and hoisted the new blade into place. Patty wired a rugged tablet inside the battery bank shed to log charging rates.

Bud eyed the setup. “That vortex generator looks longer than the ones at the warehouse.”

“It is,” Patty said. “This is the six-foot version. The warehouse ones are four-footers.”

“Why not use six-footers there?”

“Didn’t have them in stock at the time. Besides the four footers are working fine.”

Her crew mounted a temporary wireless anemometer, Bluetooth-linked to the shed’s pallet for wind-speed data. Bud watched it spin for a moment, then decided he wanted a full wireless weather station. He’d look one up later.

Patty’s team wrapped up around 2:00 p.m. Bud radioed Mike: “Heading to Plymouth to hunt for a silo.”

At Helena Agri-Enterprises, the manager didn’t know offhand but called in two veteran drivers. One remembered a pair of old clay-tile silos near Wenona. Bud got directions and drove over.

Able Johnson’s family had settled Washington County in 1915 with a sawmill and dragline. They cleared timber, dug canals, built roads, then turned to farming and dairying. In the early 1920s they erected three silos from salt-glazed structural clay tile shipped by rail from W.S. Dickey Clay in Kansas City. The material was chosen for its durability, airtight seal, and resistance to moisture—wood-and-iron designs rotted fast in eastern North Carolina’s humidity. Two of the three silos still stood.

Able wasn’t keen to sell at first. After Bud explained his plan, though, he softened. “It’s an antique, a real beauty,” Able said. “If someone’s going to enjoy it, might as well be you.” They settled on a price roughly equal to replacement cost—though Able had no intention of installing a new one. The dairy days were long gone.

Bud paid a few thousand more than he’d hoped but got exactly what he wanted. Back at Southern Breeze Farm, he found Mike and sketched his vision on graph paper: not a full rebuild, but a two-room structure. The lower level for light storage and garden tools; the upper for the battery bank, elevated well above any storm surge. He’d cap it, seal the interior walls with basement-grade waterproofing, add ventilation and dehumidifiers upstairs to control moisture. Glass Blocks would serve as windows to allow natural light in. The final height would around 35 feet.

Mike studied the sketch. “I know a family masonry outfit near Edenton that can handle disassembly and re-erection. I’ll get them on it.”

Bud left him to negotiate.

Saturday morning, Patty found Bud in the garden, weeding and staking tomato plants heavy with small green fruit. She picked up one of his tying strips—soft, stretchy fabric.

“Where’d you get this?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“Sewing shop in Plymouth. Lady sold me bolt-end scraps.”

Patty nodded, half-smiling. “Makes sense. I came for readings.”

“Help yourself. I mounted the remote in the UTV cab.”

“Thanks.” She drove off to the warehouse.

When she returned with data on a thumb drive, Bud was pounding stakes in a circle where pasture fence met garden fence.

“What’s all this?” she asked.

“Concrete base for the silo. Marking it out.”

“A big silver silo? Here? That’ll stick out like a sore thumb among all this.”

“Not silver,” Bud said. “This one’s brown and purple salt-glazed tile. It will be less tall once we’re done.”

Patty tilted her head. “What exactly are you doing with it?”

“Splitting it into two levels. Upper room for the house and outbuilding battery bank—keeps everything high and dry in a surge. Lower for garden-tool storage. I’m tearing down the old wooden shed.”

“Smart. You’ll need help designing the battery room climate control.”

“Counting on it.” He wiped his hands. “I made coleslaw. Salmon patties for lunch sound good?”

“I’m in.”

Monday, Bud met Gene Davidson, the masonry company’s eldest son, and drove him to Able’s farm. Gene took notes, shot elevations with a hand transit, measured the base, and ballparked the weight.

On the drive back to Columbia, Gene said, “You’ll need at least a thirty-foot pad, six inches thick.”

“Already marked thirty-five feet,” Bud replied. “Going eight inches.”

“That’ll work. We’ve got the gear to move the tile. What about leftovers?”

“Got a few projects in mind.”

“We can start next Monday. Gives us time to stage equipment.”

“Perfect.”

Back at the farm, workers buzzed around the house: scroll saws shaping gingerbread trim for the upper balcony railing, in-floor heating finished, original pine floors being sanded, stained, and sealed. Bud’s dream was taking shape.

Later he stopped at Sound Side Nursery, cart already half-full with six Brussels sprout plants. He wandered the fruit trees, still mulling trellised scuppernongs.

A woman approached. “Need help?”

“Wish I could grow peaches here along the shore,” Bud said.

“You can,” she replied, “but they need a lot of babying.”

“Yeah, that’s the catch. I’m setting up a small gentleman’s farm—country feel, low maintenance.”

“Where’s it at?”

Bud looked at her properly and squinted. “Up past Columbia, along the sound before the Alligator River woods. Do I know you?”

“If you do, your memory’s better than most.” She smiled. “Who do you think I am?”

“You remind me of a girl I had a crush on as a kid—older version, obviously. She was on TV and movies, in her roles she was always getting into and out of wild scrapes. Diana Gilmore.”

The woman laughed softly. “Nailed it.”

Bud’s eyes widened. “You’re Diana Gilmore?”

“In the flesh. I figured out before I was twenty that acting wasn’t my future. Disappeared from the spotlight, moved here with my folks. Mom and I built this nursery. I’ve been happy ever since.”

“Good for you. I’ve heard child actors don’t always land well.”

“You have no idea. My parents never exploited me. Dad got us out clean when I was ready. They’re enjoying retirement here now.”

“Your secret’s safe. I came here for similar reasons—just without the fame.” Bud paused. “You carry scuppernong vines?”

“Of course. Right this way. These are from wild seed we propagated ourselves. Planning a fence row or a proper trellis?”

“Big trellis, like my grandmother’s. Used to walk under it on stilts to pick.”

She handed him a few design handouts. “Start with four vines—they grow fast. You’ll have to prune and train your runners, though. Eats into that leisure time.”

“I won’t mind for the payoff.”

“Let me grab another cart. These are in three-gallon pots.”

She returned quickly. Bud loaded four vines.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“Think that’s it. Friend said Brussels sprouts do well here.”

“They do, but shade them from the worst sun for the first stretch.”

“Got screening for that?”

“Right over here.”

 

[Mr Bill]

Thanks for the update

 

[sssarawolf]

Thank you, got to read this evening.

 

[Sportsman]

Thank you.

 

[ncsfsgm]

Chapter Fourteen

“Yes, right along that wall over there,” Diana said, pointing.

Bud glanced over. “Alright. Let me get these vines situated first, then I’ll come back for it.”

“Need any flowers while you’re here?” she asked.

“Not yet. I’m having the house painted soon—don’t want to wreck the beds with scaffolding.”

Diana nodded. “Makes sense. Well, if you want help with layout or plant suggestions, just swing by anytime.”

“I will, Diana. That’s what you go by, right?”

She smiled. “Yeah. People around here remember faces forever, but names… not so much. Too bad they never watched my movies.”

“Got it. I’ll be back,” Bud said, giving her a small nod as he pushed the cart toward the exit.

He left the nursery with a trellis instruction diagram sheet in hand and stopped at the building supply yard on the way home. Preserved posts, 4×4 timbers, galvanized lag bolts in every length they had—he loaded up enough to keep him busy the next morning.

That evening, Bud sat at the dinette reviewing cabinet layouts for the outdoor kitchen. The old screened porch had been a disaster—rotted pine flooring, years of leaks. He was having it rebuilt with cypress, re-screened, and fitted with impact-rated storm panels so it could stay usable through winter. His goal wasn’t a showpiece; it was a real working kitchen: vented grill and smoker, sink, ice maker, mini fridge, the works. Every appliance had been chosen deliberately. This was his forever place. He wanted it built to outlast him.

Wednesday morning the coin dealer from Vienna finally called back. When Bud mentioned the extra coins and jewelry he’d uncovered, the man’s voice lit up. They set an appointment for the following Wednesday. Bud could practically hear the dealer already lining up buyers.

Later, he opened his food-planner spreadsheet and ran the numbers again. It was set up for five people for a full year—even though he lived alone—it gave him a generous safety margin. Fresh produce would come from local stands; everything else was already calculated and tracked. Each storeroom door had boat-style vinyl lettering—A through F—so he could match inventory to location in seconds. He’d even synced the whole system to his phone.

He was thinking about running up to Winterville Saturday to stock up. Maybe Patty would ride along.
He didn’t hear from her until Friday morning when she pulled up for her readings. He mentioned the trip; she lit up at the idea.

“Come early,” he said. “I’ll make breakfast.”

Saturday she arrived at seven sharp. Biscuits were still baking, sausage gravy simmering. Bud slid the first cheese omelet onto a plate just as she knocked. He poured her coffee, split a hot biscuit, drowned it in gravy, and set it in front of her before starting his own.

Patty took one bite and closed her eyes. “This is better than the diner’s sausage gravy. By a mile.”

“Jessy Jones sausage,” Bud said. “The diner probably uses those cheap twenty-pound boxes of frozen crumbled patties—no flavor. I actually prefer dried-beef gravy, but I wasn’t sure you’d go for it.”

“Dried beef?” She raised an eyebrow. “Never had it.”

“I’ll make it for you sometime.”

On the drive to Winterville, Patty flipped through his spreadsheet on her phone and frowned. “You forgot personal hygiene stuff.”

Bud chuckled. “Yeah… tunnel vision on food. Add whatever you think I’ll need.”

She started a list on a notepad from the console—shampoo, toothpaste, razors, soap, laundry detergent, bleach. Bud swapped the generic detergent for Tide when they reached Sam’s. They split up: he took the flat cart for bulk staples, she took a regular buggy for the rest.

By the time they finished, the trailer was packed tight—bus pans, paper goods, gallons of car wash, feminine products (Patty picked those), and enough toilet paper to survive a siege. They ate lunch at Mayflower Seafood, crossed the road to Fred’s for more canned vegetables and fruit, then made one last pass through Sam’s for overflow.

On the way home, Patty asked, “What’s tomorrow look like?”

“Unloading whatever’s left in the trailer tonight, then starting the grape trellis. I keep meaning to get to it, but something always comes up.”

“You’re supposed to rest on Sunday.”

“Getting things done is restful for me. Riprap finishes Monday, dock crew’s coming, Vienna’s Wednesday. Every day’s got something.”

“I’m helping you unload tonight,” she said firmly. “You need a break.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I’m still helping.”

Back at the farm, Bud backed the trailer straight into the warehouse and dropped the gate. They worked together, him marking items off the wall clipboard, her carrying lighter loads. Bulky car-wash jugs went up onto Storeroom A’s roof via ladder.

“That’s going to be a pain getting stuff up there,” Patty said, eyeing the step ladder. “And a little sketchy.”
“Only water-safe things go on top. I already ordered a 12-step rolling ladder from Uline.”

They finished just as full dark settled in.

Patty looked toward the road. “God, I hate crossing that bridge at night.”

Bud shrugged. “Then don’t. Stay. You can have the bed; I’ll throw a bivy tent next to the trailer.”

“I’m not kicking you out of your own bed!”

“It’s no trouble. But all I’ve got to ready eat is cheese, water crackers, and whatever wine you want. I might even have a roll of Danish salami in the freezer.”

She hesitated, then smiled. “I’ve got an emergency bag in the truck.”

“Good. Let’s open something cold.”

Bud parked the trailer, and they drove back to the house. While Patty grabbed her bag, he set out a cutting board, sliced the half-thawed salami, fanning it out with slices of Cracker Barrel white cheddar and crackers, and poured a chilled Riesling.

Patty walked in carrying her small duffel and paused.

“Just toss it on the bed for now,” Bud said, still slicing.

She did so and took a sip of wine and let out a long breath. “I shouldn’t take your bed.”

“I don’t mind. Call it bridge-fear therapy. I like sleeping in a tent anyway.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“You don’t owe me anything. You’ve gone way out of your way to help me already. This is just payback.” He paused, then added casually, “Feel like being my co-pilot Wednesday for the Vienna run?”

“You don’t need a co-pilot. You’ve got a GPS.”

“GPS is boring. I’d rather talk to someone interesting. Plus you’re a hell of a lot better to look at.”

Patty laughed. “You’re full of it.”

“Guilty. But I make good biscuits.”

“That you do. What’s your secret?”

“Always sift the flour. Traps more air. I’ve actually got an oak Hoosier cabinet being restored in Virginia—original hardware, milk-glass jars, the works. I’m having the flour and sugar bins swapped for custom stainless with graduated measuring dials so you can dial in exactly how much you need.”

Patty tilted her head. “What’s a Hoosier cabinet?”

“Old freestanding kitchen cabinet—early 1900s. Built-in storage for flour, sugar, spices, pots, everything. It has an enamel pull-out cutting top. I found one in Pennsylvania and tracked down a full set of the milk-glass spice bottles.”

“Where are you putting it?”

“Kitchen. I already framed out a spot.”

She smiled over the rim of her glass. “You really love this stuff, don’t you? Cooking, building, planning…”
“It’s satisfying. I saw this Japanese ad once—woman eats something amazing at a restaurant, then goes home and makes it better. She’s tasting it, smiling like it’s the best thing she’s ever had. I love eating out, but you can make food just as good—or better—yourself.”

Patty leaned back. “Well, I know where I’m coming when I don’t feel like going out.”

“Anytime. But fair warning: sometimes I’m perfectly content with sardines and crackers or Vienna sausages with hoop cheese.”

She laughed softly. “I’ll call ahead and check the menu.”

Bud raised his glass. “Deal.”

 

[Mr Bill]

Thanks for the update.

 

[CGTech]

Something is brewing, and it ain't beer!

 

[feralferret]

Thanks.

 

[ncsfsgm]

Chapter Fifteen


Bud and Patty sat up late, sipping wine, picking at the cutting board, and letting old country tunes drift from his CD player. Around eleven, Bud hauled his bivy tent from a storage compartment and pitched it under the awning. He slid in a mattress pad and a jungle blanket, then changed into a pair of UDT shorts and turned in, leaving Patty to settle in the trailer on her own.

He woke at dawn to the smell of coffee already brewing. Patty had beaten him to it. He whipped up more biscuits, fried bacon, and scrambled eggs, pairing them with a fresh jar of strawberry preserves for a solid breakfast.

Patty lingered most of the day. They strolled the property, listened to music, and inspected the house progress. Bud walked her through his plans for the expanded outdoor entertainment area—the big screened porch—and she offered a few sharp suggestions that he tucked away. By four o’clock she headed back to Elizabeth City. Bud lingered outside afterward, wishing she hadn’t had to go.

Tomorrow, he had a full morning ahead, so he turned in earlier than usual.

Monday, the crew had finished the riprap and deflection walls. The rock wasn’t meant to stop water outright but to blunt the waves and curb erosion. The dock installers rolled in with a truck loaded with telephone poles and a skiff carrying a fire pump. A barge crane soon anchored offshore within reach of the pole pile.

The process was methodical: the crane lifted a pole, positioned it, then the crew used the high-pressure hose to jet water around the base of the pole, washing the pole down into the sandy bottom. They repeated it pole by pole until the set reached a certain depth. Later they planned to yank out the old, rotted stubs farther down the shore—barely clearing the water and a hazard to boats.

Bud watched for a bit, then turned back to his own work: pounding posts for the garden fence. He finished setting the stakes, attached the insulators, strung the wire, and tied it into the pasture fence. To test it, he grabbed a four-foot length of rebar, wrapped the middle in a piece of pool noodle he’d found on the beach, shoved the bare end into the ground, and touched the wire. A satisfying spark snapped. The noodle kept his hand from getting zapped—he’d learned that lesson the hard way years ago on an orienteering course, when he’d relieved himself on an electric hog fence in the dark by accident. These days he was a lot more careful. A man shouldn’t pee on a fence to see if it was hot.

He was stowing tools and pulling out what he needed for the grape trellis when Patty pulled up. She joined him at the warehouse, where he loaded the Defender with six bags of Sakrete, a roll of nursery tie wire, his drill and bits, tool belt loaded with eight-penny nails, hammer, a one-and-a-half-inch chisel, and pliers. He hooked the auger to the tractor; Patty drove the Defender.

They laid out the post holes. Bud augered them deep, set the posts, dumped in the Sakrete, and soaked it thoroughly. While the concrete set, he notched the four-by-fours and positioned them for bolting. He fetched cypress one-by-twos from the house for the lattice top. Patty helped hoist and bolt the horizontals until the main frame stood solid. He nailed on the lattice strips, then they wheeled over the Scuppernong vines in the wheelbarrow and planted them; clustered under the center. Trained properly, the vines would eventually fuse into one thick trunk. They gently lifted the runners and tied them upward with nursery wire, training them toward the lattice. The ties would need redoing every few days as the tendrils reached upward.

“Well, that’s finally off the list!” Bud said, wiping his brow. “Thanks for the help.”

“I enjoyed it. See? A day of rest, and you get twice as much done the next.”

“I’d rather rest as I go,” Bud replied, tossing the shovel into the Defender.

“I’ll drive this back to the warehouse,” Patty said.

Bud took the tractor to the garden shed and pressure-washed the auger clean.

“What’s for dinner?” Patty asked.

“Breaded pork chops, mac and cheese, turnip greens.”

“You staying tonight? If not, I need to start cooking soon.”

“Do you want me to?”

“That’s a loaded question if I ever heard one,” Bud said. “Got your little emergency bag?”

“Yes.”

“Then dinner can wait a bit.”

They unloaded the Defender and wandered to the dock. The crew had set all the pilings and trimmed them to about five feet above the water. They were laying two-by-six treated deck boards, securing each with six galvanized bolts to prevent curling or storm blow-off. Every board got inspected for checks and knots first—only the strongest went down. Bud told the supervisor he’d buy any rejects for other projects.

Patty wanted to check the house next. Finish carpenters were framing the kitchen island and installing hand-crafted panels that matched the cabinet doors. Granite counters would go in once the panels were up. The pantry shelves gleamed pearl white. In the library/office, oak built-in shelves were taking shape. In the great room, a worker stained the raised-panel wainscot.

In the sitting room, a woman held wallpaper samples to the wall.

“Hello, Ms. Isley,” Bud said.

Her head snapped around. “Good afternoon, Mr. Campbell! Which of these do you prefer?”

“I’m hopeless with wallpaper. Patty, which one do you like?”

Patty took the samples, studied them, then pressed each against the wall. “This blue-maroon. What do you think, Bud?”

“Early American Confederate whorehouse,” he deadpanned. “But what do I know? We’ll take that one, Joan.”

Joan gathered the samples and marched out.

“Did it really look like a whorehouse to you?” Patty asked.

“Never been in one. Just wanted to rattle her cage. She already thinks I’m uncouth.”

“She’s a good judge of character!”

“Don’t you start!”

“And what do you know about whorehouses?”

“Mostly from westerns.”

“Hmph.”

Back in the trailer, Bud pulled pork chops from the fridge and set water to boil for the macaroni. Patty spotted the box of whiskey bottles.

“Where’d the pork chops come from?”

“Food Lion.”

“And that wasn’t all you got,” she said, nodding at the whiskey.

“ABC store’s right across the highway. It’s going in storage—unless you’ve got a sudden yen for rye.”

“No thanks.”

The water boiled. Bud dumped in the noodles, covered the pot, and lowered the heat. He handed Patty a can opener and a can of turnip greens, then set her up with a small pot.

He unwrapped the chops, mixed flour with garlic and onion powder, salt, and pepper, then whisked egg powder and water in a bowl. He added Panko to the seasoned flour. Double-dipped the chops—egg, then flour mix—while the cast-iron skillet heated with a couple of big spoonfuls of lard. When it bubbled, he laid in the chops.

He grabbed a bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge and opened it. Patty squeezed past to snag two glasses.

“I can’t wait to cook in the new kitchen,” Bud said.

“At least we won’t be rubbing butts the whole time,” Patty grinned.

“We can always come out here. No downside to a little butt-rubbing.”

“Feeling randy?”

“Around you? Always.”

Bud slid aside to flip the chops. Patty drained the noodles, stirred in butter and the cheese packet, then hit it with extra shredded cheddar. She set the turnip greens to heat.

“I forgot the cornbread!” Bud said. He greased an eight-inch skillet, mixed cornmeal, egg powder, baking powder, buttermilk powder, salt, and milk, then poured it in and slid the skillet into the oven. He pulled the chops to drain and sighed.

“Still cramped for two in here.”

“Quit griping. Come drink wine while I rub your butt.”

“You’re getting dangerous, lady.”

When the cornbread was done, Bud sliced and buttered it with Kerrygold Irish butter. He’d switched after Land O’Lakes dropped the old packaging—it just didn’t taste the same. Surprising to find good Irish butter way out in the swamps.

Dinner was excellent. Patty kept the wine glasses full.

“This is so good you should’ve lit candles and dimmed the lights,” she said.

“I’ll save that for the first dinner I cook for you in the new house.” Bud grinned. “Still coming with me to Vienna?”

“Yes. Second thoughts?”

“Pack for an overnight and a nice dress for dinner. I want to take you to this little Peruvian place I hit once on a business trip. Best ceviche I’ve ever had.”

“Pickled fish?” Patty frowned. “I don’t know.”

“If you hate it, I’ll buy you the most expensive bottle of wine in the place. They’ve got some good ones.”

“Sounds like you win either way.”

Bud grinned. “Maybe.”

 

[Mr Bill]

Thanks for the update.

 

[feralferret]

Thank you.

 

[sssarawolf]

Never buy Land O Lakes while the Somli's work there, folks thta have been in the plant say its just disgusting inside.

 

[ncsfsgm]

Chapter Sixteen


The next morning, Bud walked slowly through his nearly finished house, admiring the work in the dim light. A few touch-ups remained here and there, but it was almost ready. He climbed the stairs, his sandaled footsteps echoing in the empty rooms, and continued down the hall to the French doors at the end. Stepping onto the balcony, he welcomed the cool fog against his skin.

Last night had felt otherworldly. The clink of her earrings hitting the shelf had startled him to intense awareness for a moment. As they undressed, nervous laughter bubbled up between them. Then she stood there in nothing but the necklace he’d given her. The fresh sheets he’d put on that morning suddenly felt crisp and strangely foreign. They turned to each other and kissed—enthusiastic at first, then briefly awkward as they both tried to figure out whose nose went where. Soon all hesitation melted away. Their breathing began to sync—not perfectly, but enough to notice. And suddenly the trailer seemed smaller, warmer, quieter in the ways that mattered.

Afterward, they lay beaded with sweat. Bud sat up, opened the window above the bed, and let the breeze cool them. When he settled back, Patty immediately curled into his chest, claiming the space as though it had always belonged to her. A few minutes of silence and they were fast asleep, holding each other tightly, their breathing and hearts synchronized, their bodies molded into one another perfectly.

He woke a few hours later to breaking daylight. Patty had rolled toward the window, so he eased out of bed without waking her. He pulled on a tank top and UDT shorts, strapped on his sandals, poured a glass of icy cold orange juice, and slipped out the door.

Was this what he wanted? The answer came instantly: Yes. He needed to share it with someone. He could rent her an apartment for nights when she couldn’t make it home from Elizabeth City before dark, but he wanted her here—as much as she’d stay. Then his stomach muscles clenched, sharp and sudden. What if she didn’t want the same thing? He’d play it by ear until he knew for sure.

Back at the trailer, he quietly set up the percolator, refilled his glass of juice, and carried it outside to sit under the awning. The chair felt shockingly cold from the morning mist. He frowned, memories of other misty mornings flickering—sometimes waking surprised he was still breathing. He shook them off and drank more juice.

A muffled burst of salty language came from inside, followed by drawers slamming. Then the door opened and Patty appeared, wearing only one of his tank tops—Shania Twain screen-printed across the front, the hem reaching almost to her knees.

“You left me!” she pouted, her bare foot stomping the damp ground.

“Separated, not left. I’d never leave you.” Bud winced inwardly the moment the words left his mouth. Too much?

Patty stepped around and settled into his lap. She took the glass from his hand, sipped, then took another long drink.

“What’s on your schedule today?” she asked.

“Joan’s coming by at one to show me furniture designs. I need to install the racks and some components into the network closet in my office. That’s about it. Oh—the garden could use some attention.”

“What kind of furniture are you looking for?”

“Comfortable. Older feel. Definitely not the steel Danish-modern stuff people cram into vacation houses these days. Something that’ll last. No faux anything. I’d settle for oak and leather.”

“I’ve got to go pack,” she said.

“You won’t have much to pack.” Bud grinned wickedly.

She slapped his shoulder. “You don’t have time to spend all day in bed. You’ve got things to do!”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll remind you of that later.”

“Hush.”

Bud grunted and gently pushed her off his lap. “Let’s make breakfast. Buckwheat Pancakes with blueberries sound good? I need to rebuild my strength and stamina.”

“Your strength and stamina are just fine,” she said, smirking. “But pancakes sound perfect. From scratch?”

“From the best Buckwheat pancake mix Hodgson Mill makes!”

After Patty left, Bud cleaned up, changed, and headed to the nursery. He wanted six pecan trees planted along the county road, thirty feet back—plenty of room for the nuts when the trees matured.

Diana was busy with another customer, so he browsed. When she finally reached him, she asked how she could help.

“Six pecan trees for along the county road. The stretch is 246 feet.”

She nodded. “That gives you about forty-foot spacing—perfect. We have five-footers in buckets you could plant yourself, but we also have twenty-footers in the field. Those should start producing nuts this year, with more each season after.”

“How do you even move twenty-foot trees?”

“Skid steers with tree spades. We can truck two at a time. Done in an afternoon.”

“In that case, I’ll take six of the twenty-footers. I trust you to plant them right.”

“Come on, we’ll do the paperwork.”

Joan arrived promptly at 1300. Bud had sweet tea ready—glasses with ice, pitcher on the kitchen island.

She opened her binder and flipped through photos.

“Joan, two things: oak and leather. Durability. No stainless steel, no maple.”

“That narrows it nicely. I may need to source from Norfolk or Raleigh.”

“Don’t worry about cost. I can handle the debt. Just make everything comfortable.”

“Understood.”



Patty called. “Want me to spend the night? We could leave early tomorrow.”

“You comfortable with that?” Bud asked.

“More than comfortable.”

“Okay. How about coming now? We’ll head to Vienna this afternoon and stay over.”

“I’m on my way!”

Bud packed his travel bag, grabbed a blazer on a hanger, and set the metal box from Office Max—coins and jewelry inside—on the truck’s back floorboard, covering it with a blanket. When Patty arrived, they transferred her bag and left.

They fought school buses and farm equipment until Emporia, then hit I-95 and made good time. They reached the Courtyard by Marriott in Vienna at seven. After cleaning up, they walked to a nearby bistro for dinner—nothing special, but decent.

The next morning, after breakfast, Bud called the dealer, who happily moved their appointment up. Twenty minutes later they arrived. Two men carried the heavy box inside. Bud unlocked it. The dealer’s eyes lit up at the stacked coins and jewelry bags.

“It’ll take time to appraise everything fully,” the dealer said, “but here’s the numismatic value on what I can offer for the other coins.” He handed Bud a form.

Bud stared. $3,864,758.00

“I took three percent off for commission,” the dealer explained.

“That’s fine. I just… didn’t expect this much.”

Bud signed, provided banking details for the transfer, took his receipts, and left with Patty.

He checked his watch. “We’ve got hours before dinner. What do you want to do?”

“Let’s find some furniture stores—see if we can spot what you’re after.”

They stopped at a café with outdoor seating, scrolled phones, and jotted addresses. At the first store, they found a two-pedestal mahogany desk that looked like it once belonged to a sea captain—leather-inlaid top, leather-padded horsehair chair. The padding felt stiff, but Patty assured him it could be reupholstered with memory foam. She snapped photos. Bud liked it and paid to hold the set for his designer.

The store recommended another place. There they found dark-oak side tables, a twelve-place dining table, occasional tables, end tables, and enough bedroom pieces to furnish all five bedrooms. More photos, more holds.

Lunch was at a small Cuban spot whose aromas pulled them in. Afterward, Bud declared himself done with furniture shopping. Patty searched “things to do in Vienna, Virginia” and kept getting results for Vienna, Austria, so they returned to the hotel.

In their room, Bud pulled two bottles of wine from the mini-fridge. “I’ve been thinking about the money. I want to split it three ways: one-third to the workers, one-third to St. Jude’s, one-third to Shriners' Hospitals. I’ll need your help putting thing together the workers’ shares.”

“I can handle that. Do you have the list?”

“It’s back at the trailer. We’ll deal with it when we get home.” She grinned mischievously. “Right now, you should lie down. Take a nap.”

“Is that safe?”

“Lie down here,” she said. “I won’t hurt you.”

 

[feralferret]

Thank you.

 

[CGTech]

Thank you!

 

[Mr Bill]

“I won’t hurt you.” famous last words.
Thanks for the update.

 

[sssarawolf]

Thank you, they need a ring on it.

 

[ncsfsgm]

Chapter Seventeen


Bud had reservations at Pisco y Nazca for 7:00 p.m., so they dressed with plenty of time for the thirty-minute taxi ride into Vienna. Patty slipped into a sleek little black cocktail dress that highlighted her figure to perfection. Bud wore slacks, a crisp collared shirt, and his blazer.

The meal unfolded in three courses. For the first, Bud ordered ceviche while Patty—squeamish about raw fish—chose Tostones de Cangrejo, a fresh crab salad. She did sample his ceviche and admitted it was surprisingly good.

The main course was Lomo Saltado: seared tenderloin strips tossed with soy-oyster sauce, red onions, tomato petals, jasmine rice, and crisp fries.

Dessert was simple—flan, a smooth egg custard topped with a slice of pineapple.

After dinner, Bud convinced Patty to try a shot of pisco, the clear (sometimes faintly golden) grape-based brandy distilled primarily in Peru and Chile. She tossed it back instead of sipping and grimaced. “Okay,” she said, “but I think I’ll stick to wine next time.”

The bill rivaled some people’s monthly rent back in Vienna, but Bud paid without hesitation and left the waiter a generous tip. Another taxi whisked them back to the hotel.

The drive back to the farm the next day felt twice as long. They made a couple of pit stops and one fuel break, arriving around 4:00 p.m. Bud immediately called Joan to report what they’d found, emailing her copies of the receipts—including store addresses—while Patty forwarded the photos she’d taken. Now it was Joan’s turn to fill in the gaps.

“Want to spend the night?” Bud asked as they stood in the driveway.

“I probably should check on my houseplants,” Patty replied. “But I really enjoyed this trip. Let’s do it again soon.”

They hugged and kissed. Bud loaded her bag into the Nissan, and she headed back toward Elizabeth City.

"So far, so good", Bud thought.

The painters had made good progress. Scaffolding framed the front of the house, and the main color—a light gray with bright white trim—was already taking shape. Bud checked a couple of empty buckets; the paint was exactly what he’d ordered: Sherwin-Williams Weathershield exterior, made to withstand the coastal weather.

He walked out to the garden, checked soil moisture, uncoiled the soaker hoses, and gave everything a deep watering. The corn stood taller than his head, tassels swaying. Tomatoes were beginning to blush red. Cabbages and collards looked healthy and full. In the garden shed, Bud logged the plants’ progress on his calendar and compared it to the seed-packet estimated growing times. He’d read about staggering plantings for a longer harvest window instead of one massive picking. It made perfect sense—he was the one who’d be doing the canning. Next year, he would plan it properly.

The following morning a nursery worker arrived to mark the pecan-tree locations. Bud showed him the spots; the man checked spacing, drove stakes, and promised to run a line for a perfectly straight row.

Later, Bud hitched up the trailer and drove to Lowe’s for another freezer to place in the warehouse. The upright already destined for the pantry would handle everyday use, but he wanted extra capacity for Food Lion sales and the fall Spot run. He could already picture himself at Whalebone Junction, filling garbage cans with fish. Maybe he’d even book a charter for tuna or flounder. For now, though, crabs were the focus. He had a family pack of chicken wings thawing to bait his six pots, which he’d space along the dock edges. A consistent dozen crabs per haul would mean a crab boil with Patty.

"Speaking of which"… He added a large seafood-boil pot to his cart—essential equipment around here. He also picked up a Hatteras hammock and stand.

The Amish had it right: better to walk slowly and stay upright than rush and fall. Bud would be meticulous with most of the farm setup, but food storage was different. That, he would rush. Stockpiling now would reduce travel if things ever went sideways. He wanted enough reserves to bridge the gap until his own garden and preservation efforts were fully online.

He positioned the new freezer in the warehouse, let it run empty for two days to stabilize, then loaded fifty pounds of flash-frozen, shelled, and deveined shrimp from Cunningham’s Seafood—ten-pound cartons, neatly stacked. Shrimp Étouffée or Crab-and-Shrimp Gumbo danced in his mind. Étouffée won for the weekend.

The appliances for the house arrived and were installed: refrigerator, range, ovens, dishwasher, washer, and dryer. When the kitchen fridge and freezer hummed to life, Bud felt real progress. He’d wait twenty-four hours before stocking fresh food. The pantry already had basics, but gaps remained—dinnerware, small appliances, linens. Patty suggested Greenville over Norfolk; Bud hated Norfolk traffic anyway. He pictured making Étouffée Friday night, having Patty stay over, then heading to Greenville early Saturday for a full day of shopping. All he had to do was sell her on it.

Joan was now a constant presence. The Vienna furniture arrived that day, and she moved through the house with clipboard in hand, directing traffic. Bud stayed nearby with his toolbox, ready to assemble. Nothing came off the trucks in logical order, of course. The desk and chair went into the library first, then the beds appeared. Bud headed upstairs and spent the morning bolting frames together. By the time he finished the queen in the master bedroom, his knees ached from kneeling on hardwood. One of the delivery guys helped lift the box springs and mattresses into place.

Downstairs, Joan arranged the dining set and occasional tables. Another truck brought couches, two La-Z-Boy recliners, and pieces for the sitting room. Bud hadn’t been sold on a dedicated sitting room—the space had felt awkward for anything else—so he’d let Joan decide. The house now held furniture but still felt bare without the small touches: lamps, rugs, decorative items. Joan had already bought several coastal-themed paintings and framed prints, but Bud wouldn’t see the full effect until Greenville.

He ordered HughesNet internet and DirecTV, then made a run to Elizabeth City for office supplies: legal pads, printer paper (a full case), an HP all-in-one printer, pens, pencils, paper clips—double quantities, with extras for storeroom A.

Patty agreed to Friday dinner, so on the same trip Bud stopped at Walmart for queen sheets, pillowcases, pillows, towels, bath essentials, shampoo, soap, bubble bath for her, and anything else that promised squeaky cleanliness. He moved his clothes and belongings into the house but held off sleeping there until Friday. Showers, though—he was already using the cavernous master bath. It could hold four people comfortably (six if everyone was very friendly), a far cry from the trailer’s cramped stall.

Bud inventoried his Étouffée ingredients and realized he was short green onions. A quick Food Lion run fixed that, plus a gallon of milk, fresh eggs (goodbye powdered), and more Kerrygold butter. Chickens were moving higher on his to-do list.

Thursday was quiet. He weeded and watered the garden, picked two perfect red tomatoes, and set them on the kitchen windowsill to ripen further. He jotted “okra” on the planting wish list—fried okra would have been perfect with Étouffée, but it wasn’t in season yet. Frozen Bird’s Eye would have to do.

The masons called: silo demolition was complete, blocks ready for delivery Monday. They’d recovered all but one lightning-damaged top block. The foundation had cured for weeks and was waiting. Once the blocks arrived, the driveway could be finished.

Everything, finally, was falling into place.

 

[CGTech]

Thanks!

 

[Mr Bill]

Thanks for the update

 

[sssarawolf]

Thank you.

 

[feralferret]

Thank you.

 

[ncsfsgm]

Chapter Eighteen

Bud didn’t even hear the car pull up. He was dozing in the hammock when he sensed someone nearby. Slowly cracking open his right eye, he found Patty standing over him in a soft yellow sundress, her seafoam-green eyes—light and crystalline, like foam at the edge of a gentle wave—gazing down.

“Is this what a gentleman farmer does on his day off?” she teased.

“Only when he wants to open his eyes to a dream like you,” Bud replied, sitting up with a grin.

“A nightmare, you mean?”

“God, no!”

“Is the house done?”

“For now. Still a few finishing touches…”

“Well? Show me!”

Bud took her hand and led her to the front door. He opened it with a theatrical bow and waved her inside. They wandered through the downstairs rooms, feet whispering across the polished pine floors, until they reached the kitchen, rich with the aroma of simmering spices.

“This is magnificent,” Patty breathed.

She opened cabinets and drawers—empty, of course.

“We’ve got to fill these,” Bud said.

When she swung open the refrigerator, it was stocked.

“What are you cooking?”

“Shrimp étouffée over rice, fried okra, and French bread.”

“French cooking?”

“Creole, actually.”

“Can we go upstairs?”

“Right this way…”

“Wait—let me grab my bag from the truck.”

“I’ll get it.”

Bud hurried out to her Nissan, retrieved the bag, and returned. She waited at the foot of the stairs. They climbed side by side, turning left at the landing. The master suite door stood open; Bud gently guided her in by the elbow.

On the way to the bedroom, Patty stopped and opened a door. Inside were grilled shelves from the top of the closet to the bottom.

“Is this a linen closet?”

“Yes, but with an added feature I borrowed from the U.K. It’s called an airing cupboard. This closet is heated to keep the linens warm and dry from the humidity. Hot water from a tank is pumped through these pipes you see to circulate hot water to provide the heat.”

Patty took it all in—the spacious bedroom, the bath—then stepped inside. “This is awesome!”

“All with you in mind,” Bud said, setting her bag on the bed.

She crossed to the closet and opened the double-louvered doors. The cedar lined closet was enormous, though only a few of Bud’s clothes hung on one side.

“You’ve got a lot of room to fill,” she said.

“Only half. The other half is yours.”

Patty’s head snapped around; she turned fully to face him.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying half the closet is for you.”

“You want me to just… move in?”

“Uh—no, this is coming out all wrong. Out of order. I planned to get a ring first, then ask you to share this house with me—as my wife.”

Patty smiled, stepping close and looping her arms around his neck. “A ring we can get tomorrow. I accept your proposal—rough as it was.”

They shared a long kiss, the kind that promised everything ahead.

Later, Patty set out dinnerware from the trailer on the kitchen island while Bud plated rice, ladled étouffée over it, and added fried okra to the side. He broke off chunks of French bread and poured Syrah into their glasses.

Patty took a bite and closed her eyes. “You’re amazing. I’ve never had this before, but it’s delicious.”

“The okra’s frozen, but not bad,” Bud said.

They ate quietly, savoring each bite. Patty used a piece of bread to mop up the last of the sauce. “I know it’s bad etiquette, but that was too good to waste.”

“There’s more in the pot.”

“No—let’s save it for tomorrow. It’ll be even better after sitting.”

Bud transferred the leftovers to a ZipLock container and slid it into the fridge. They washed and dried the dishes together, a comfortable rhythm already forming.

“I’ll take these back to the trailer tomorrow,” Patty said. “We won’t need them here after that.”

“You better wait. We’ll have to wash all the utensils and dinnerware we buy tomorrow before using it.” Bud reminded her.

“Breakfast at the diner?”

“Perfect.”

The next day, they hit Bed Bath & Beyond—Patty’s one-stop recommendation for quality over Walmart’s bargains. Armed with carts, they started with trash cans (kitchen, baths, bedrooms), then moved to gadgets: measuring cups, spoons, salt and pepper grinders, whole peppercorns and sea salt. Patty chose two identical eight-place dinnerware sets and a flatware pattern she loved; Bud added chef’s knives and steak knives. Pots, pans (including cast iron), placemats, potholders, dish towels, and high-thread-count sheets (Patty insisted on 1000 or 1200) filled their carts. Bath linens, towels, washcloths, and bath sheets piled up. Patty selected an “Ocean Breeze” diffuser scent—clean, not marshy—and bought several.

Four hours later, the trailer floor vanished under plastic bags. A store employee directed traffic like a cop while Patty checked items off her phone. Bud wandered to appliances, picking up a digital convection toaster oven/air fryer and a safe-grip can opener. Patty was deep in sheers when he returned.

“I thought we had curtains.”

“These are sheers,” she explained.

Bud rolled his eyes playfully and grabbed ceramic chowder bowls.

At Best Buy, they added a Samsung big-screen TV with mounts, a DVD player, twenty movies, a Cuisinart coffee maker, a Panasonic music center, a paper shredder, and an AcuRite 5-in-1 weather station.

Exhausted, they grabbed Chick-fil-A sandwiches and drinks next door.

“I’m shopped out,” Bud groaned. “There’s a Zales down the street. Let’s get your ring and head home.”

Patty grinned. “Whatever you say, honey.”

At Zales, she chose a white-gold ring with a 1.44-carat diamond. Bud started to propose on the spot, but she stopped him. “Wait till we’re back at the farm.”

They drove home singing along to country CDs, windows down.

Bud backed the trailer to the front door. As they climbed the steps, he pulled the ring from his pocket, dropped to one knee, and asked properly. Patty said yes. He unlocked the door and carried her over the threshold.

After freshening up, they unloaded: electronics to the great room, linens to the washer. Bud loaded the dishwasher while Patty started sheets and towels. They paused for wine.

“Thank God we won’t have to do that again,” Bud said, stretching.

“That was a lot of money,” Patty replied.

“Necessary. And now it’s done.” He paused. “Shit—I need to check the crab pots.”

“I’ll come.”

At the dock, Bud had set pots in deeper water. Each held four or five keeper crabs—not huge, but decent. He dumped them out and reset the empty pots.

“Why not keep them?”

“Not ready for a boil yet. I’ll reset Friday—we’ll do one next weekend. We’ll need sausage, corn, potatoes. Crabs might need to be bigger; I may get a boat and talk to Pete Midgett.”

They strolled back, warmed the étouffée and okra over rice, and opened a Pinot Noir. Supper was leisurely. Afterward, they finished laundry and dishes, set up the TV and DVD player, and tried a movie—pausing every so often for chores. By the end, they’d missed half the plot and laughed about rewatching it properly.

They went to bed tired but content.

The next morning—Sunday—Bud brewed coffee in the new maker. Patty folded laundry from the dryer.

“Hypocrite,” Bud teased. “You said rest on Sunday.”

“Touché. Just wanted this done.” She handed him a stack of towels. “Put these away.”

“Forced labor,” he grumbled, heading to the kitchen.

Sunday afternoon, they settled on the sound-side deck—cypress boards and pergola that would soon weather to soft gray. They carried out chairs to read under the shade. Patty mentioned shopping for loungers later.

They were deep in their books when Bud heard rotors. A helicopter approached, growing louder. He set his book aside and spotted it: a Eurocopter AS350, sideslipping toward the open area between the riprap and yaupon trees, descending fast.

Bud stood, shielding his eyes against the sun. “Who the hell is that?”

 

[ncsfsgm]

Chapter Nineteen

Bud stood and started toward the helicopter just as the blades wound down to a stop. It was Joe Hemingway. Bud waited on the path as Joe climbed out and walked toward the house.

“Your magic chariot finally turn into a pumpkin?” Bud asked.

Joe grinned. “Nah, this is my personal bird. Just dropping by to see how you’re settling in.”

“Moved in over the weekend. Still short a few things, but it’ll sort itself out.”

As they reached the deck, Joe glanced around and whistled softly. “You’re definitely not short on eye candy.”

“Patty, this is an old friend, Joe Hemingway. Joe, my fiancée, Patty.” Bud turned to her. “I’ll grab us some tea.”

“Could you bring me a glass of Chardonnay?” Patty asked.

“Got it.”

Joe bowed theatrically. “Madam, I stand ready to whisk you away from this reprobate.”

“Be nice,” Patty said with a laugh. “Sorry—we weren’t expecting company. We don’t have enough outdoor chairs yet.”

“No trouble at all. I’ll just lean against this post and admire the view.” Joe’s eyes sparkled. “I still can’t believe someone finally got Bud to surrender.”

“Unconditionally, too,” Bud added, handing Joe a sweating glass of iced tea and Patty her wine.

Joe raised his glass. “Then allow me to offer an early wedding gift. I know a craftsman in Edenton who builds handcrafted redwood outdoor furniture. Patty, be honest—tell me exactly what pieces you want.”

“Joe, you don’t have to—”

“Hush, Bud,” Patty said, grinning. “He seems like a nice man.”

“Oh, I am indeed!” Joe replied. “Government employee—happy to help.”

Patty rolled her eyes. “Fine. Two loungers, two chairs with ottomans, and four side tables.”

“I’ll call the craftsman tomorrow,” Joe promised, clinking his glass against theirs.

Bud took a sip of tea. “So, you been busy?”

“You know me. Flitting from pillar to post.”

Bud shook his head slowly.

“When are you two tying the knot?” Joe asked.

Bud gestured toward Patty. “That’s up to her. I have no idea.”

“I’ll have to talk to my mother first,” Patty said. “Weddings are a huge deal in my family. And she doesn’t even know we’re engaged yet.”

“You’re in for it, son,” Joe told Bud.

“I don’t care,” Bud said. “I’ll iron my best pair of bib overalls, knock the dirt off my Wellingtons, shine them with a little tallow, and call it good.”

“You don’t even own a pair!” Patty protested.

“I’ll order them off eBay or run over to Tractor Supply up in Elizabeth City.” Bud grinned.

“Hmph.” Patty took a healthy swallow of wine.

“Make sure I get an invitation,” Joe said. “I’ll wear a tux, Patty.”

“What are you doing next Saturday?” Bud asked.

“Nothing special.”

“Good. Come over around three. We’re doing a crab boil.”

“I’m in,” Joe said immediately.

Bud nodded toward the helicopter. “Where’d you get the Eurocopter?”

Joe chuckled. “From a senator whose wife caught him with his pants unzipped at the wrong moment. He’s liquidating assets to pay for the divorce. It was rough when I bought it—ran into the ground. I had the engine overhauled, everything inspected, and added some upgraded avionics. She flies like a dream now. You still fly?”

“Not in a while. No time, and now the farm keeps me plenty busy.”

Patty turned to Bud, surprised. “You didn’t tell me you could fly.”

Bud shrugged. “Never came up.”

Joe stood. “I need to get going. See you Saturday!”

Bud walked Joe down to the helicopter and inspected the sleek 350 while Patty returned to her book. Bud was rated for helos but preferred fixed-wing. He watched Joe lift off and head north across the sound. Helicopters, he reminded himself, had the glide ratio of a brick.

Back on the deck, Bud settled into his chair. Patty closed her book.

“Why didn’t you tell me you could fly?”

“Like I said, it never came up. Besides, there’s no general aviation field in Tyrrell County. Closest is Edenton. If I kept a plane—probably a seaplane—the chop in the sound can hit three to five feet in Sea State 4. Too risky to land safely. I’d end up at Northeastern Regional and paying someone to shuttle me back.”

Bud didn’t mention the time he’d landed a de Havilland Beaver in Norway under similar conditions.

“Can you fly helicopters too?”

“Yes, but I’d need a checkride.”

Patty grinned. “Well, there you go.”

“I’ll think about it,” Bud said, setting his book aside.

“Let’s run over to Soundside Nursery. I want to talk to Diana Gilmore about landscaping. Since it involves flowers and plants, you should come.”

They gathered their books and trash, and Patty slipped into sandals.

Diana was at the checkout when they arrived. When Bud mentioned landscaping, she introduced them to her designer, Kathy Hill, who set an appointment to visit the farm Monday morning.

Patty and Bud browsed flowering plants before heading home.

Sunday, Bud’s only chores were watering the garden, picking a few tomatoes, and moving his hammock stand to the deck. Patty drove to Elizabeth City for more clothes and her houseplants. When she returned, she found him dozing in the hammock, book on his chest. He helped unload, then added screw hooks to the pergola for her ferns.

Monday at ten, Kathy arrived with graph paper on a clipboard. She sketched the house roughly to scale and asked what they wanted.

“First, no gutters—I don’t want to change the look of the house,” Bud said. “So I’ll need a drip-line drain around the foundation.”

Kathy nodded. “We can trench, line it with AA block, and fill with limestone. The house sits high enough above the sound to run a leach line toward the water.”

“Perfect,” Bud said.

Kathy jotted notes. “Now, shrubs and flowers…”

Bud stepped back and let Patty take the lead. The two women walked the property, pointing and discussing while Kathy scribbled.

“Oh good—you already have yaupon,” Kathy said. “Did you know indigenous people made a tea from the leaves? Used it ceremonially and for hospitality. War chiefs served it to warriors before battle.”

“No fighting allowed on this farm,” Bud called.

Patty laughed. “Can you eat the berries?”

“No—toxic to humans. Causes kidney failure. Wildlife handle them fine, though.”

They ended on the deck. While the women talked, Bud went inside and made sweet iced tea for everyone. He carried the tray out; it barely interrupted their conversation. He bowed out quietly.

Inside, Bud opened the case for his Beretta A400. The shotgun was supposed to be corrosion-resistant, but the humidity demanded vigilance. He kept a desiccant packet inside, but still checked often. He wiped it down with a cloth sprayed with Corrosion-X, then stowed it again. "Need a proper gun safe with an electronic dehumidifier", he thought.

He was cleaning up when the women returned.

“This is such a beautiful home,” Kathy said.

“We’re trying,” Bud replied.

“It’s a work in progress,” Patty added. “I’d love some throw rugs to warm things up.”

“There’s a woman in the Bethel Community who makes gorgeous hand-crafted rugs,” Kathy said. “If you give me your number, I’ll text you her info.”

Patty recited her phone number. Kathy promised to message her later.

“We can start Wednesday if that works,” Kathy said.

“Fine with us,” Bud and Patty agreed.

They walked her to her truck and watched her drive away.

“Another thing crossed off the list,” Bud said.

Before they reached the door, an 18-wheeler loaded with block from the silo pulled in. Bud directed the driver to the silo pad. The driver dropped the trailer and left. Minutes later, three pickups arrived—two towing equipment trailers with skid steers.

Gene Davidson stepped out of the lead truck. “Ready for us?”

“Absolutely,” Bud said, smiling.

The crew unloaded the skid steers—one with pallet forks, the other with a concrete mixer. “We’ll start as soon as the truck with the mortar-mix arrives,” Gene said. “Just need water and a hose.”

Bud ran out a hose from the hydrant, added a 50-foot section with a sprayer, and positioned it near the work area. The mixer truck rolled in soon after. Bags of mortar were dumped into the hopper, blocks were offloaded, and the crew snapped a string line and marked a circular outline on the concrete pad with a lumber crayon.

As they laid the first block, Bud slipped back inside. Another idea had occurred to him.

Directly across the county road lay a cleared two-acre field—an old homestead site where the house had burned years ago. Only a barn remained in the southwest corner. He could fence it, buy a couple of beef yearlings, and raise them for meat.

He went to find Patty.

 

[ncsfsgm]

Chapter Twenty


“Patty, I’m thinking of fencing that open area across the road. I want to put a four or eight joule charger over there to hold a couple of yearlings. I’ve been wondering about the solar fence charger and would the battery last for several days of constant overcast?”

“It would if you added more batteries. The PV panel will charge them. There isn’t that much drain on the battery unless the fence gets shorted out. Just put a small shed there to weatherproof the batteries.”

“Okay. I’m going to go bush hog the area then plow it up to plant pasture grass.”

Bud hooked up the mower and cut the open area but didn’t get around to plowing it until the next day. He first went to Plymouth and bought more Bahia grass seed then plowed in the seed. After plowing, he broadcast the seed and dragged a harrow over the field. He was just in time. They had a light rain that night and the grass was sprouting before the end of the week.

The landscapers came in with a backhoe and dug the dripline trenches and put four inches of concrete in them. Three days later they lined the trenches with AA block and filled them with one-inch crushed limestone. During this time, others were putting in flower beds and planting azaleas under Patty’s constant observation. Part of the time that week she was on jobs for Coastal Alternative Energy. She hadn’t quite decided whether she wanted to quit working or not. It helped her brother out though.

Bud stopped by to see Pete and ask him for recommendations on a boat to crab the deeper parts of the sound.

Pete grinned. “Getting’ the bug, huh?”

“Well, I can catch them off my dock but I can get bigger ones in the deeper sections.”

“Yeah, I used to do that too. Back before Elizabeth passed, I’d go crabbing in the deeper areas. Then I started having spells and Elizabeth was afraid I’d have a spell pulling in pots and she made me quit. I crabbed off the docks for a while and did have a spell and collapsed on the dock. I haven’t crabbed since.”

“Well, I want you to come over to the house Saturday afternoon. We’re having a crab boil.”

“Going to catch them yourself?”

“If I can’t get some good ones I’ll run down to N-Seine Seafood and grab some.”

“Well, I can’t pass up a good crab boil!” Pete said. “What kind of boat are you lookin’ for?”

“I don’t know. Something sturdy and safe in heavy swell. I want to ask your advice.”

“Come with me,” Pete said, heading to a building near his dock.

Bud helped Pete open the double doors and there sat a pristine white 24 foot 2000 Tidewater Carolina Bay boat.

“This is what you need,” Pete said.

“She’s a beauty. Is this for sale?”

“Naw, Don’t need the money and the IRS would want their share. My daughter lives in California now and has no use for it. What about if you just take it and register it in your name and I’ll come and crab with you ever so often?”

“You’re giving me this boat?!”

“But, you have to take me crabbin’! I’ll even show you the best spots.”

“Oh, I certainly will!” Bud said. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothing you have to say. Look Bud, I’m not going to live forever. I’ve outlived six dogs and a wonderful wife. I’ve had good times and bad. I’m just looking to have a few more good times before I haul in my sea anchor.”

“Pete, I appreciate this and we can go crabbing whenever you feel up to it.” Bud said.

“Oh, by the way. My granddaughter loves this boat and she’ll be a might disappointed that I don’t have it no more. She’s coming up for a month this summer so don’t be surprised if she starts hugging your leg like a squirrel monkey to get you to take her out on the boat.”

“I’ll be more than happy to take her out.” Bud said.

“They closed the doors and Pete asked, “You finished with the house yet?”

“Pretty much. My fiancé is filling it up with dust catchers.”

Pete chuckled. “Cherish them, boy….cherish them.”

When Bud got back to the house he called Mike Ferguson.

“Mike, I need a boathouse and a concrete boat launch put in ASAP. Do I have enough cypress to do that?”

“Not quite but I can get enough. I’ll get a crew together.”

“You know how to contact me.” Bud said.

Bud sat on the steps at the house thinking before he went in. The thought of a concrete boat launch brought to mind the seaplane ramp over at Dare County airport in Manteo. If the launch were built a little bigger, he could transition right out of the water and into a hanger. Snapping his fingers, he went to his home office and cranked up the computer. While the computer was booting, he went to find Patty.

“Guess what!” Bud said.

“What?”

“Pete gave me his bay boat!”

“For free?!”

“Well, I have to take him out crabbing and give his granddaughter rides when she comes up this summer.”

“That was nice of him.” Patty said.

“Yeah, he’s feeling his age and wants to have a few more fun moments.”

“God bless him! Did you invite him for the crab boil?”

“I certainly did! I’ll be in the office.”

“I’m making BLTs for supper!”

“Okay, that’s fine.”

Bud sat down at his desk and did a search for De Havilland DHC-2 Beavers for sale. Most were in the northwest and Alaska but then he found a Viking DHC-2T Beaver sitting in Hawkesbury, Ontario. They must be using pontoons and the Ottawa River to take off and land because Hawkesbury is over one hundred kilometers from the nearest airport. The plane wasn’t cheap but again it was the turboprop version of the DHC-2. it had just had its 300-hour inspection and the article said it was hangered so It might be all right. He’d have to go check it out though. For now, he would just have the launch built larger and hold on to his dream.

Bud shut the computer down and went outside. He got a hundred-foot tape measure and a tree spike and walked out toward the shore and looked around. If he was going to put in a ramp and a hangar, he needed to check out the space. The hangar would have to be 50 feet deep and sixty feet wide to handle the length of the plane and the wingspan. Well, he didn’t really need 50 feet deep, the plane was only 30 feet long but he could use the extra space for tools and storage. He did need the width for the 48-foot wingspan.

He would have to take out a couple of solitary Yaupon trees but he found space for the hangar and a place to put the ramp in and area for the taxiway between the two. He stacked all that into memory and went to see if he could help Patty.



“That’s a wide boat launch.” Mike said.

“That’s because it’s going to double as a seaplane ramp. I wanted a plane I wouldn’t crash as much without going multi-engine.”

“Sounds smart!” Mike deadpanned.

“How long will it take to build a hangar?” Bud asked.

“Ninety days, at least, building it from scratch.” Mike replied.

Bud frowned. “I was hoping to get it quicker than that. That plane won’t stay on the market for long.”

“Then what about a steel hangar? You could have it in half the time.”

“I guess I could tie the plane down outside for that long.” Bud agreed. “Okay find me a hangar 50 feet deep by sixty feet wide; and I want storage and workspace on the back wall.”

Wednesday, Bud set his crab pots back out around the deck. He only Caught a couple of dozen small and medium sized crabs. He was running out of time so he went down to N-Seine Seafood and ordered four dozen large Blue Crab and ten pounds of unshelled shrimp to be picked up Friday afternoon. After paying the bill, he almost wished he’d taken the boat out, but He really didn’t want to do that until he had a boat house built. It seemed a shame to take out such a pretty boat just to leave it out in the weather until the boat house was built. Well, he’d have the crab. He had corn on the cob from Food Lion in the freezer, five pounds of smoked sausage, ten pounds of shrimp, fifteen pounds of baby potatoes, a bag of large onions, and a big container of McCormick Old Bay Seasoning. He needed to get another case of beer and it wouldn’t hurt to get more fresh garlic for the garlic butter. He had fifteen pounds of butter in the freezer and had bought two 29-piece sets of Crab Leg Crackers and Tools for Seafood at Walmart. Patty had gotten a big pack of adult plastic bibs from somewhere with crabs printed on them . Bud was going to wear a tank top with UDT shorts. You were going to get wet with something anyway, mostly garlic butter. Bud made another run to Food Lion to see if there was anything else he didn’t know he needed.

Friday night, Bud and Patty crushed garlic cloves and made garlic butter. The melted butter was poured into plastic bowls and allowed to solidify in the freezer, then stacked in the fridge. They could be quickly reheated in the microwave without an eater having to wait too long. They sliced bell peppers, cut up corn, selected potatoes and prepared everything to start cooking on Saturday. Bud hated a bland boil so he had all his spices lined up ready to use; most prominent were The Bay seasoning and the canister of Slap Ya Mama Cajun Seasoning.

Patty was up early Saturday morning making sweet, iced tea. She was making it in two-gallon pots until she had a 5-gallon Igloo water cooler three quarters full. Bud filled the rest of the cooler off with crushed ice. It would water the strong tea down as well as cool it. Bud set up a wash tub with ice, beer, bottled water in one liter stainless-steel bottles, and sodas. Bud had the crabs in a cage down at the dock. When he was ready for them he would carry half of them back in a large plastic laundry basket.

 

[Kiwibutterfly]

Great, thanks 3 chapters to read while I have breakfast.

 

[CGTech]

Thank you!

 

[Freebirde]

Flatten, plastic grocery bags make good, red-neck bibs. Tuck the handles inside the collar.

 

[Mr Bill]

Thanks for the updates.

 

[feralferret]

Thank you.

 

[sssarawolf]

Thank you.

 

[faceless 1]

Thank you for writing, even if I do hate sea food

 

[ncsfsgm]

Chapter Twenty-One


They set up three eight-foot folding tables and covered them with restaurant-grade food wrap, then topped each with a sheet of butcher paper. One table was for eating, one for dumping the contents of the boil pot strainer, and the third for condiments and extras. Bud was already frying up a big batch of hush puppies, their golden edges crisping in the oil.

When Pete arrived, Bud started the boil in earnest. He measured out his ingredients into prep bowls, filled the pot with water, and set it heating. In went the Bay seasoning, Slap Ya Mama, three bottles of Killian's Irish Red, a quarter cup of salt, three large onions quartered, four lemons quartered, three jalapeño peppers (ribs and seeds removed), and diced red and green bell peppers. He brought it to a rolling boil, then dialed the gas back to a slow roil.

Joe pulled up in a pickup loaded with outdoor furniture. Patty directed Pete and Joe on placement while Bud cranked the heat and added the potatoes. Ten minutes later, he tossed in the corn and chunks of smoked sausage. Another ten minutes, and the crabs went in to cook for about eight minutes. Finally, the shrimp—added last so they wouldn't overcook—turned pink, signaling it was time.

Bud lifted the basket, let it drain back into the pot, then carefully dumped the steaming pile onto the designated table. Patty stood ready with tongs and aluminum buffet trays so everyone could serve themselves.

Bud mostly stood to eat, ready to pass condiments, extra garlic butter, or drinks. The bibs helped some, but butter and broth still flew as people tore into the blue crabs. Bud methodically disassembled one, picking out the meat into a bowl, then using stainless-steel chopsticks to dip pieces in garlic butter. He kept watch on the dump table; when crabs and shrimp ran low, he added more to the pot.

Pete finally stepped back, popped half a hush puppy into his mouth, chewed, and chased it with beer.

“Bud, you’d better notify the Rescue Squad. I might need an ambulance tonight.”

“For what?!” Patty scolded. “You still have a crab left in your pan!”

Pete picked up the crab and tossed it onto Patty’s tray, then grabbed an ear of corn and gnawed away.

“Man, there was a time I could eat a dozen crabs easy,” Joe said, ripping off paper towels. “But the size of these things…”

Those who’d tapped out kept cracking crabs, saving the meat in bowls for Patty. She planned to make crab salad and dip later. Bud boiled the remaining crabs and shrimp for other recipes.

When the food was gone, cleanup kicked in. Contractor bags filled up and went into Joe’s truck—he’d drop them at the county container site on his way back to the Point. Bud hosed down the deck, and everyone retreated to the screened-in porch. Spirit bottles lined a cabinet; people poured what they wanted.

“We could’ve handled a few more guests,” Bud told Patty. “Should’ve invited Dan and his wife.”

“They’re up in Charlottesville this weekend,” she replied.

“Well, we need to do this again anyway.”

The masons had been steadily laying the glazed block. A doorway was framed on the house side of the silo. As they worked upward, they installed a steel-reinforced oak floating staircase to the second floor, anchored by a single wrought-iron post fashioned from an old streetlight. The curved steel railing followed the stairs perfectly. They’d reached the second floor and added brackets for the flooring around the wall. Tongue-and-groove two-by-six oak would cover it, while the silo walls rose another ten feet. Small ventilation ducts would go in, and Patty was overseeing the move of the battery bank for the house and outbuildings up there. Dehumidifiers and a small cooling unit would follow, with the entire upper level weatherproofed. A high-performance lightweight concrete cap would seal the top, topped by a decorative lightning rod matching the house’s.

Mike arrived Monday morning with a crew to lay out the boathouse. When they started forming for a concrete floor, Bud questioned it.

“Let me tell you what happens without one,” Mike said. “Fire ants tunnel under the walls and build mounds inside the cooler house. You kick one over and get the hell bitten out of you.”

“What if they tunnel under the slab?” Bud asked.

“Then the mound pops up outside next to the base. You can pour boiling water on it, spread diatomaceous earth to damage their exoskeletons and dehydrate them, or use targeted baits and poisons to wipe out the colony.”

“I won’t ask any more questions,” Bud said.

“I want you to ask questions,” Mike replied. “So you know everything about your property.”

“Did you find a hangar?”

“Yes—talked to a private owner at Northeastern Regional who just built one. Called the company; they’re sending a rep to survey the site. The ramp won’t be an issue.”

Bud grinned. “Okay! Good!”

Back at the house, Bud made calls. Patty was working at a new gated community near White Hat Landing, so he’d handle supper. First, he confirmed with the seller in Hawkesbury, Ontario, that the DHC-2T Beaver was still available and set up a visit. He crossed his fingers it hadn’t sold—buyers might be waiting for a price drop or unwilling to travel. He booked flights from Pasquotank County Regional to Montréal-Pierre Elliott Trudeau International, about an hour from Hawkesbury. The route looked convoluted, but it couldn’t be helped. He pulled his pilot’s logbook from the safe and packed it.

At the computer, Bud reviewed finances. Operating the Beaver would run $160 to $190 an hour—realistic for a turbine conversion, factoring fuel, maintenance, and reserves. No legitimate business write-off, just pleasure flying. He might volunteer it for county Search and Rescue, but the IRS paperwork would be a nightmare. Better to keep ownership private and offer help when needed.

That afternoon, he thawed two pounds of lean ground beef, chopped onions, garlic, and bell pepper, and mixed a meatloaf. Potatoes were boiling when Patty got home.

“We’ve got a wedding date reserved at Holy Family Catholic Church—June 12th,” she announced.

“Where’s that?”

“On Highway 17 north of town—or North Road Street.”

“You’d better start confessing. You’ve got a lot to atone for.”

“As if you didn’t have anything to do with it!” Patty said, hands on hips.

“I’m pure. I didn’t ask to be enticed!”

“Let’s see how pure you stay until the wedding, buster!”

Bud laughed, stood, and hugged her. “You couldn’t stand it!”

“What are you making?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Meatloaf in the oven, potatoes boiling for mashed, green beans to heat, and King’s Hawaiian rolls in the pie safe.”

“I’ll do the mashed.” She drained the potatoes. “There’s fresh sour cream in the pantry fridge.”

“What’s Mike working on?” she asked.

“Boathouse now, hangar soon.”

“You’re getting a helicopter?!”

“No—a seaplane.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t land on choppy water!”

“With this one, I can. I need to fly up to inspect it.”

“When?”

“Wednesday.”

“How long?”

“Giving myself five days for inspection and check rides.”

“You’re flying it back?”

“Not until the ramp’s done.”

“Can I go with you?”

“When I fly it back here. I don’t need you squealing like a pig during check rides.”

“I do NOT squeal like a pig!”

“Remember you said that. I’ll remind you later.”

“Hush!” Patty blushed.

When it came time to cap the silo, Bud jokingly sketched what it might look like—a giant glazed phallic symbol. The masons played along, describing additives that would make “the head swell” and coloring to darken it. Patty finally stormed off to the rug maker.

In reality, the cap was nearly flat with a slight conical rise for the lightning rod. The ground wire was run down inside the tubing of the ladder to prevent a lightning strike from blowing out the side of the silo like a shaped charge.

Three days later, forms off, Patty saw the cap shape and sighed in relief.

“I’m going to get you for making me believe… that!” she said, pointing.

“Are you disappointed?” Bud laughed.

“You just wait!” Patty warned.

 

[ncsfsgm]

Chapter Twenty-Two


Bud’s trip turned out better than expected. He endured the usual TSA hassles and a couple of delays, but he made it to Montreal via Albany without major drama. He rented a car with GPS and tracked down the plane’s owner the next morning.

“Why’d it take so long to get someone up here to look at her?” Bud asked Clyde Sherón.

Clyde shrugged. “Guess I didn’t advertise as aggressively as I should have. I love this plane, but business picked up, and I had to step up to a Twin Otter.”

“What’d you use her for mostly?”

“Ferrying fishermen and hunters up north, around Lac Montjoie mostly. She pulled duty as an air ambulance for a while too—the stretcher racks come with her.”

Bud poured over the maintenance logs. Regular services, no red flags.

“I see a pontoon got damaged a couple years back,” Bud noted.

“Yeah, my co-pilot was flying. Hit a submerged stump. Could’ve patched it, but I didn’t want to risk it—I called Viking and had a new one shipped up.”

Bud rubbed his chin. “It’s been years since I flew a Beaver. Only about two hundred hours in type. Mind giving me a check ride?”

“Not at all. She’s fueled and ready.”

Clyde watched closely as Bud completed his walk-around and cockpit checks. The turbo version had a few differences, but nothing alarming. Bud taxied onto the river, raised the gear, and set flaps.

“You’re one of the few I’ve seen who handles flaps right,” Clyde observed over the intercom as the PT6A-34 turboprop roared to life.

Bud turned into the wind, scanned instruments, and began the takeoff roll. He eased back gently on the yoke, built speed, and transitioned smoothly into cruise.

“I like this Garmin G500 TXi glass panel,” Bud said.

The plane practically flew itself off the water. “Good takeoff—perfect!” Clyde praised. “Some guys yank the flaps too soon before they’ve got speed and end up swimming. She’s not as simple as a Cub, but she’s forgiving in her own way.”

Meanwhile, Patty met her mother at Hoppin’ Johnz for lunch.

“Patty, I’m worried,” her mom said. “This all feels so sudden. We haven’t even met him!”

“Don’t worry, Mom. This is the real thing. Even Dan likes him.”

“But you’ve only known him a short time! You’ve never dated much.”

“Mom, I spent my teenage years watching girls treat good guys like disposable toys—breaking hearts without a second thought. They were fools. Tears were everywhere, like spilled popcorn at the movies. Around sixteen, I promised myself: if I ever found a man who truly loved me and I loved him back, I’d treat him right. Not just give him my body, but do the small things that made him proud to have me at his side. I’d treat him like a king. The only tears I wanted from him were happy ones—seeing our first child, maybe. I waited a long time for the right man. I heard so many women complain there were no good men left. Then, on that old broken-down waterfront farm, I met one who proved them wrong—and thank God, he was single. I’ve never been happier. Every day I thank God he walked into my life.”

“Your dress…” her mom began.

Bud leveled off at 15,000 feet, tested the autopilot, and ran through some landings and takeoffs with Clyde. The older pilot shared a few landing tricks, and they returned to base.

“She’s nice,” Bud said. “Got wheels for her?”

“Twenty-inch tundra tires and skis too—they come with the deal.”

Bud chuckled. “Won’t need skis. We get maybe an inch of snow once in a blue moon back home.”

“But they’ll look good if you ever sell.” Clyde said.

“Looks like you’ve got yourself a buyer. How do I handle registration and insurance?”

“There’s an FAA rep in Montreal who can sort registration. My agent can set up insurance—North America coverage. We’ll just change the tail number. Takes about a day.”

“If you can hand over the logs and manuals, I’ll study them tonight. We can finalize tomorrow.”

Bud passed him a certified check.

Back at the hotel, Bud hauled the stack of manuals to his room and refreshed himself on the details he had forgotten.

“Hey!” Bud answered the phone.

“Where are you?” Patty asked.

“Still in Canada. I bought her. Been going over logs and manuals. Registration and insurance tomorrow. Plan to start flying home Saturday, weather permitting.”

“Congratulations! How long will the trip take?”

“Should be back Monday. No auxiliary tank, so I’m figuring no more than 500-kilometer legs. She’s got an Iridium sat phone, so I’ll call you en route.”

“Just be careful.”

“I will. I think you’ll love her.”

“As long as you come with her, I will.”

“Gotta get back to the books. Love you.”

“Love you too. Take care.”

Bud used iFlightPlanner to sketch the return: Hawkesbury to Hartford-Brainard (about 460 km), Hartford to Salisbury Regional in Maryland (around 469 km), then Salisbury to the farm (269 km). He’d avoid busy corridors, major airports, and restricted airspace. No full wingtip tanks—just conservative legs to keep fuel safe.

Instead of pulling the bank batteries and leaving the fridge/freezer offline for hours, Patty told Dan to install fresh ones in the silo. The company could repurpose the old set for emergencies. A little rewiring, but straightforward.

Saturday dawned clear with light fog dissipating over the river. Bud and Clyde loaded the towbar and some boxed spare parts Clyde tossed in. The skis and wheels would ship south later. Bud did his walk-around, fired the engine, let it warm, then eased into the river. He turned into the wind and lifted off cleanly.

Once airborne and on heading, he leveled off, engaged autopilot, and called Patty. “I’m up and headed home.”

Patty had decided to quit Coastal. The farm offered plenty to keep her busy. No big garden this year, but she planned to can—roadside markets had vegetables aplenty. More expensive short-term, but worth it. Next time Bud called, he’d just landed in Connecticut to refuel. She shared her decision.

“Familiar with canning and freezing?” he asked.

“Oh yes. I Helped Mom since I could shell peas and snap beans. We put up soup mixes, tomatoes, peas, beans, corn, chowder mix, sweet and dill pickles, pickled melon squares, okra, chow-chow. Jellies, jams, preserves from grapes, strawberries, apples, peaches, pears. Applesauce, salsa. Froze corn on the cob, cut corn, broccoli, cauliflower, okra. Even made sauerkraut.”

“I was leaving the work choice to you. I Just want you happy.”

“I’m more than happy—with the decision and with you here on the farm.”

“Use the debit card for supplies. When I’m back, we’ll add you to my account at Southern Bank.”

“I’ve got cash for now.”

“I’m sure. Humor me.”

“Next stop Salisbury?” she asked.

“Or nearby—depends on traffic.”

“Okay. Just be safe.”

“I will. Love you.”

“And I you—twice as much.”

Bud refueled, used the facilities, grabbed a V8 Energy and water. He was making good time—no need to overnight. From Hartford, Salisbury was only about an hour forty-five at cruise. He could push straight home, but he’d be tight on fuel. Better refuel in Salisbury and finish in daylight. He’d skirt Norfolk restricted airspace but still reach the farm before dark. If weather or timing went sideways, Elizabeth City Regional or Northeastern were options. He just didn’t want to land on pontoons on a runway after sunset.

 

[sssarawolf]

Thank you. Always nice to have a morning read.

 

[Mr Bill]

Thanks for the updates

 

[feralferret]

Thank you.

 

[ncsfsgm]

Chapter Twenty-Three

Grinning, Patty pulled the debit card from Bud’s desk drawer and headed to Food Lion. She loaded the cart with several boxes of pectin, two cases of pint Mason jelly jars, and one box each of gallon, quart, and pint Ziploc freezer bags. Sugar was already stocked in abundance in the warehouse and pantry. Canning equipment could wait—she’d grab it at Walmart later. She’d spotted beautiful strawberries at a roadside stand near St. Johns; they’d be perfect for jam.

Late that afternoon, Patty had just returned home when Bud called. “Fifteen minutes out,” he said. “Meet me at the dock.”

She rushed outside, hurried down to the water, and scanned the sky. She heard the plane’s low rumble before she saw it. Bud flew past slowly, banked, and settled the floats onto the water. To Patty, it was beautiful—the way the aircraft kissed the surface, white foam curling around the pontoons. To Bud, the familiar thud and gentle deceleration meant home.

He taxied up to the dock, cut the engine, and stepped onto a float. Snapping a line to a cleat, he tossed the other end to her.

“Tie it off to a piling!” he called.

He secured another line from the rear float as the plane nudged against the dock’s bumpers, then climbed ashore and tied off himself.

“Honey, I’m home!”

“Thank God! You’re a whole day early!”

“I goosed it a bit. I wanted to spend tomorrow with you.”

“I haven’t even started supper yet,” Patty said apologetically.

“There are pizzas in the freezer and beer in the fridge. Let’s make do and relax.”

“Sounds good. Go sit and rest.”

“I’ve been sitting since 0600. I’m going to check the garden.”

“I’ll start the pizza.”

Bud picked six ripe tomatoes from the garden, dropped them into a plastic bucket, and stopped by the silo to inspect the final work. An old, weathered ship’s door—salvaged from a dismantled Liberty ship in Wilmington, Mike had explained—now served as the entrance. The bottom level was lit by two fluorescent tubes; garden tools leaned against the walls, waiting for racks. Bud climbed the spiral stairs to the second level and opened the metal door, where the hum of electronics greeted him—monitors for the battery bank and air handling system. The room felt cooler, drier, with the humidity pulled from the air.

He descended, grabbed the bucket, and headed to the kitchen. After rinsing the tomatoes, he arranged them in a basket on the counter and sank into his La-Z-Boy. He picked up a copy of The Daily Advance, Elizabeth City’s local paper—Patty must have bought it. Bud only read it for the regional news; anything beyond the adjoining three counties was just regurgitated national opinionated B.S.

He skimmed an article about a suspect wanted for a weekend shooting, then checked his watch. Too late to call the Elizabeth City Regional Airport authority about their Jet-A supplier. He wanted a 500-gallon tank installed near his hangar for emergencies—no more twenty-mile flights to Elizabeth City or Northeast Regional just to refuel quickly. He kept reading until Patty brought a tray: a thick slice of supreme pizza loaded with extra cheese and an icy Killian’s. This was home.

Monday morning, Bud walked out to the boathouse as the carpenters nailed up the last of the cypress board-and-batten siding. Curing concrete reached down to the water’s edge. Mike joined him for a walk-around.

“Power runs tomorrow,” Mike said. “Do you want an electric garage door?”

“Yeah, as long as it can handle high winds.”

“Once the concrete cures and we strip the forms, the crane will set the pre-cast taxiway blocks. They’ll extend out into three feet of water. The steel crew starts on the hangar floor Thursday. Have you thought about that fuel tank? Your plane uses 100LL?”

“No—Jet-A. It’s a turbo. I want 500 gallons. I’ll call the airport authority in Elizabeth City for their supplier.”

“It’s Moffitt. They have an office on Gumberry Road.”

“Thanks. I’ll give them a call.”

A vehicle rumbled up the drive—Pete’s 1949 midnight-blue Chevy pickup, towing the Bay boat.

“I would’ve come to pick it up,” Bud said. “I didn’t think that old truck could haul it.”

“When I found this truck, I had it rebuilt just for jobs like that,” Pete replied. “Looks like you’re about ready here.”

“Yeah, wrapping up.”

“Good, ’cause I’m gonna need the space.”

“What’s up, Pete?”

Pete frowned. “I got a call from my daughter Charisse last night. They’re heading this way. Something about California collapsing—she said they had to leave fast.”

“Is she in trouble?”

“I don’t think so. But I’ve been following the news they don’t show on TV. That pansy Governor Newscum and the Democrats have wrecked the state. Things are coming to a head—people fleeing like rats from a sinking ship. Interstates are jammed with folks heading out. I’m worried if they’ll even make it to Las Cruces.”

“If you give me vehicle details, I can call some people to keep an eye on their route and make sure they get here safely.”

Pete’s eyes were weary. “I’d appreciate that, Bud. I’ll call Charisse for the info.”

“Give her my number if they run into problems.”

While Pete made the call, Mike and Bud walked down to the ramp.

“How many pre-cast slabs here?” Bud asked.

“Six total—three pairs side-by-side. I checked the freeboard for a fully loaded Viking DHC-2 and made sure it extends far enough to drop the gear and roll on.”

“You, sir, are a man among men.” Bud texted Joe: <Need your help.>

Pete’s truck door slammed. He approached with a notepad sheet. “Names, box truck, and SUV details.”

“I’ll have someone check on them. In payment, I expect you to help me catch some big crabs.”

Pete grinned. “Yeah, sure.”

He expertly backed the trailer into the boathouse.

“I don’t expect them for five or six days,” Pete said, “but I need the house cleaned. Don’t want Charisse griping the second she arrives.”

Bud chuckled and shook his hand. “Put out some fresh flowers. Women like that kind of thing.”

Pete left, and Bud told Patty he was heading to Elizabeth City to arrange for the fuel tank. “Want to come?”

“No, I’m meeting Mom at Le Perfect Boutique to look at wedding dresses.”

“Okay, I won’t be long.”

At Moffitt’s office, Bud asked for an above-ground 500-gallon Jet-A tank.

“We’ve got one on skids with a free spill containment tray—EPA and state grants cover it. No one wants contaminated soil.”

“I’ll take the tank and tray. Might as well get some use out of my tax dollars.”

“Delivery and fill tomorrow?”

“Excellent.”

“Pump too? Manual’s cheap, but for a plane… I’ve got Fill-Rite 12-volt DC pumps.”

“Fill-Rite, with a hose long enough for a Viking DHC-2.”

The man noted the specs from a manual in his bookcase. “Anything else?”

“That’s it.”

Bud paid, including the fill, and left. He could have leased, but it’d likely be a used one painted fresh.

On the way home, he stopped at a florist and bought Patty an arrangement of red roses.

Back at the farm, Bud untied the plane, pushed the nose away from the dock, and took off for Northeastern to top off. He landed carefully on Runway 19—pontoons’ wheels touching pavement evenly. A mistake could grind a float. He taxied to the FBO, refueled including the wingtip tanks (extra forty gallons), paid with a credit card, and prepared for departure. No tower, so he listened carefully, announced on the radio, set flaps, and powered up. Leveling off over the sound, he was halfway home. He descended, lined up into the wind, and made an easy landing two hundred yards out, settling gently onto the water.

 

[Sandcastle76]

Thank you

 

[Mr Bill]

Thanks for the update