20 Days of Tuck

Chapter 2: You’re Adorable, Micah Berk

October 6, 2015

The Following Year

Miss Kitty said, “I have a surprise for you.”

“What kind of surprise?”

We were in her kitchen, downstairs from the attic, and enjoying morning coffee and pineapple Danishes that she picked up from the local bakery during her morning walk. Miss Kitty was on an exercising kick and was trying to eat foods that were better for her, minus the martinis she enjoyed every night before bed, and Danishes for breakfast. She sat on one side of the breakfast table positioned between us, and I sat on the other side. The Danishes were delicious, sticky, and soft, just the way we both liked them.

“I don’t want to spoil the surprise for you, Micah. What kind of friend and landlady would I be if I did that?”

I rolled my eyes and said, “I’m twenty-six now and can handle it. Don’t you think I’m too old for surprises?”

She shook her head between bites of Danish and admitted, “We are never too old for surprises, darling. Don’t ever ask that again.”

The conversation changed to the mystery I had gotten published, Red Martini m******e. Henderson and Reed Publishing had picked up the three hundred page novel and was planning to publish it in hardback the next spring. I was excited about the book, the money I was going to make from it, and was already anticipating positive reviews from the literary critics.

The crime novel was being edited at that time by a New York City editor. Walter Monsieur from Henderson and Reed was currently working on the book. We both had hoped it would be done by the end of November. Professional photographer, Nelson Brodecker, was going to take my photograph for the back of the book near Thanksgiving. My publicist, Rudi Daye, was already arranging book signings for the spring, and a book tour covering surrounding cities. She had hoped that I would also end up on Buffalo, Pittsburgh, Youngstown, Cleveland, Columbus, Cincinnati, New York City, Boston, and Washington D.C. media stations. Henderson and Reed were planning on sending advanced reading copies of the mystery to literary critics, bookstores, and famous authors for their early reviews. The publishing house had expected that the mystery would do well and was investing lots of promotional cash into it.

“Are you working on a second book?” Miss Kitty asked, white cream cheese icing hung from her upper lip like an icicle, which she licked away with a swipe of her tongue.

I nodded. “It’s another mystery. Something bloody and wild. A very wealthy landlord is murdered by one of her tenants at Niagara Falls. A pianist is the key suspect.”

She raised her eyebrows, knowing that I was talking about her. “Do you plan to murder me, young man?”

I laughed and shook my head. “Of course not. I plan for you to read the book and catch any errors that you can, just as you did for Red Martini m******e. What do you say, Miss Kitty?”

“I’m going to say that I’m flattered and can’t wait for this project with you to begin.”

* * * *

Miss Kitty’s surprise arrived approximately one hour later. It was sunny and hot, I recall. The temperature was climbing to ninety degrees, and quickly. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the humidity was like fog, thick and unbearable. A blue pickup with a ladder rack pulled up in front of the Tudor. Planks of long oak boards and two ladders were strapped over the truck’s rack, safely tied down with colorful bungees. White lettering on the truck’s doors read: Bascoe Construction. Below the name of the company were an Erie address and a local phone number. A blurb beneath the business information read: Constructing Life for You.

I was on the front porch rewriting chapter three of my next mystery, looked up from my handwritten notes, and watched a six-two-framed man climb out of the pickup. He was thirty and weighed approximately two hundred and fifteen pounds, was bulky with crafted muscles, and didn’t wear a T-shirt, probably because it was too humid and sticky out. His chest was massive, hairy, and accessorized with two pink and hard n*****s. The construction man had bright blue eyes, an onyx-colored buzz cut, and wrinkles around his mouth. His chin and cheeks were covered in a smooth looking beard, which matched the color of his chest hair.

He walked around the front of the pickup with a Stanley tool box in his right hand and glided up to me. “You wouldn’t happen to be Miss Kitty, would you?”

“Funny,” I said, rolling my eyes, but smiling at the same time. “She went to the grocery store and said she’d be back in a half hour. Who are you?”

He set his tool box on the ground, next to his left foot, and told me his name. “Carl Bascoe.”

“And what are you doing here, Carl Bascoe?” I sounded cold and not at all pleasant. The guy might have been good looking, but he was still interfering with my novel work, and maybe trespassing on Miss Kitty’s property, uninvited.

He was confident when he spoke, and solid with his stance. He seemed aggressively masculine and sweet at the same time, which really made no sense to me. “I’m here to build an exterior set of stairs for one of Miss Kitty’s tenants.”

That was the surprise, which I appreciated and would love when completed. Thank you, Miss Kitty! I love you more than you know. Finally, I get a set of steps to my attic!

“You putting a door at the top of the stairs?” I anticipated nothing less and had hoped so. My Rumpelstiltskin setup was getting old. Plus, the rope was becoming weather-beaten and almost unusable from age.

He nodded, winked at me, and grinned from ear to ear. “According to the signed contract I am.” He rubbed his furry chin with his right hand, kept his view locked on me, and added, “You the tenant?”

I stood, nodded, and walked up to his block of muscular body. We shook hands, which was a powerful and warm connection between us. “I’m Micah Berk.”

“The book critic, right?”

“And writer.”

“Of course. Miss Kitty mentioned that to me. You have a mystery coming out next year. I like to read mysteries. Sometimes I consider myself to be a mystery.”

“I enjoy figuring out mysteries,” I said, nervous and attracted to him, no longer into rewriting at the moment.

Our handshake ended. He moved fingers up to my chin and grazed its smooth surface with a simple brush. “You’re adorable, Micah Berk. Miss Kitty says that you like dudes. Is that the truth?”

Miss Kitty knew too much about me, but God love her. “It’s the truth.”

“What about carpenters? You into hammering and nails?”

I wanted to laugh, enjoying our conversation and his fresh play. “Maybe. Maybe not. It depends how good you are with your tools, Carl.”

He chuckled. “Trust me, there will be a lot of work with tools on this project,” he said, winking at me again, taking in my good looks and smile. “Why don’t you help me unload my truck and we can start building you a set of stairs and door to your attic? What do you say, Mr. Berk, the critic, and the writer?”

The strangest thought came to me, drawn to him, anticipating a constructive affair with him, and a new relationship of friendship, or whatever else we could devise together, Twenty Years of Bascoe. It was bizarre how right it sounded, and balanced. It sounded comforting and not at all bogus, which caused my heart to warm and swell.

While following him to the side of the house, next to the sleeping and autumnal garden and wilted willow tree, the aluminum ladder, and the tattered bull rope that hung down from my attic window, I admired the handy man’s smooth looking back and broad shoulders, and said, “I’m in, Carl. I think this adventure with you will be something to remember. Feel free to lead me astray.”