A bonus story from the Rifters universe…
Neat, sprawling lines curled across the page in rapid succession, creating Settler, Oregon’s newest festival, Pumpkin & Tinsel. Cordelia’s hand moved as assuredly as it always had, commanding the fountain pen to approve the transfer of ownership of the family home her father had built into the hands of the county. It was the last piece of his legacy to go. The grazing lands had been signed over to the town three decades ago. With her daughter in charge of the county’s assets, Cordelia knew the house would get the care it needed.
“Mother, are you almost done? I have a meeting.” Josie strode into the office as if she owned it, wearing trousers. Trousers. “Quit making that face at me.”
“Pants? They border on indecent.”
“Only you think so.” A white blouse and sweater vest completed, Josie’s outfit. Her tightly coiled brown curls were sleek and perfectly controlled. “It’s not the 1920s anymore.”
Cordelia glanced down at her clothes. The tweed skirt was softly full and straight, and she wore a boldly striped necktie with her white blouse. Her usual shawl in tones of black and gold wrapped around her shoulders, its gold fringe always blowing in a breeze. Sometimes of its own making. She caressed the silky fringe, wondering about an old friend from another world. This garment wasn’t a garment but a piece of him he left behind. He had helped her save this town, and she hoped to run into him one more time before she left this life.
So many years spent watching over the rift that connected Settler to forty-one other universes, and she didn’t know enough about what lay on the other side of the portal. Humans were forbidden to cross its threshold. The rulers implied she’d burst into flames or worse if she dared. Maybe one day she’d dare.
“You assigned me this task to create more business for the town. I’m only getting started.”
“You don’t have to work here.” Josie sat down, her expression softening. “You certainly didn’t have to retire.” She glanced around the room never updated from the 1920s: the same heavy oak desk, credenza against the wall under the windows, and the shelves crammed with her mother’s mementos and achievements behind her. The only change had been her replacing the old candlestick style phone with the latest model—a heavy, glossy black Bakelite affair, with a rotary dial and cloth-covered cords.
“I wanted more time with family, which I’m doing right now. I’m here with you, helping you.”
Josie raised a hand to quiet Cordelia. “You’re always welcome, Mother. This is still your office, and I’d appreciate your input on handling Mr. Newell if it comes to it.”
“If you’re sure…”
An abrupt laugh rattled from Josie’s perfectly painted, deep crimson lips. “You’re seriously going to make me say it again? That’s not like you to pounce on the hit of an invitation.” Bending her head, she read through sheafs of paper and with a decided hand, scrawled some notes on several pages.
Cordelia returned to adding skeletal structure to the new festival, which she decided would best serve the town the third weekend of October. Most neighboring towns had their harvest festivals before then, and the holiday season wasn’t yet in full swing. With her father’s old house rumored to be haunted, it was the perfect venue for a party celebrating all the most fabulous parts of all the upcoming holidays.
A sharp rap on the door announced the arrival of Josie’s meeting. Tim Newell stood in the doorway, the door already wide open in welcome. Cowboy hat in hand, he glanced between Cordelia and her daughter. Josie rose from the desk and offered her hand.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Newell.”
“Mrs. Cepeda.” His gaze remained on Cordelia until he was ushered into a chair.
The festival reclaimed Cordelia’s attention while Josie explained to Tim how the county needed to widen the road and would need to acquire a small strip of his property to do so. He hemmed and hawed as expected.
“We only require an easement, Tim,” Cordelia spoke up. “You retain the mineral, grazing, water, and all other rights to the land. If the road is ever decommissioned, the easement ends and the land is yours again. In the meantime, the upkeep of that strip is on us.”
“All righty then.” He shook hands with Josie. “Send the papers over to Bernard.”
“You don’t need a lawyer,” Cordelia commented.
“I think otherwise,” Josie replied. “Buttoned up and right is exactly what we’ll do, Mr. Newell. He needs to protect himself. One day a stranger will occupy this office, someone we’ve never met.”
“I can’t imagine such a day.” Not a day would come where Cordelia didn’t know everyone in town and everyone knowing they could trust her. “Do it your way.”
“I will, thank you.”
Raising such a forthright daughter could be trying, but Cordelia wouldn’t have changed a thing. The new-fangled phone clanged on the desk, irritating enough to provoke the dead. Josie didn’t pick up, letting it ring.
“You should have kept the other phone. This ring is so shrill.” She reached to pick it up.
Josie’s hand stopped her. “People should think I’m busy.” She picked up on the ninth ring. Her words were cheerful but efficient, not bothering with frivolity, then she gently set the receiver down on the cradle. “That was the school. Martin is sick. You said you wanted more time with family. Help me out and go take care of him?”
Protests swirled in her mind and snappish quips. Instead, Cordelia, packed the pen and papers in her handbag and made to leave. “Poor child. If you’d rather be home with him, I can manage the office, Josie.”
Her daughter blinked for a moment, thoughts flitting in her dark eyes before she answered. “Kind of you, but Geemaw coddles him best. He’d appreciate you fussing over him. Will you?”
“Of course.” She kissed her daughter’s forehead and left the office, gliding down the spiraling staircase made of marble and ornate wrought iron. Afternoon sun flooded in from the glass doors, tinting the pale granite tiles on the floor in brilliant splashes of yellow. Cordelia followed their invitation out into the cool September air. The courtyard hemmed by buildings on three sides stretched in pleasant green, the soft grass defying the relentless desert air.
The building on the left was the backside of the county library and the firehouse, services that forged the backbone of Settler. A young man stood on a scaffold, his arm sweeping color across the concrete and conjuring pine trees from his fingertips.
Cordelia diverted from the proper walkway to traipse across the grass. She cleared her throat loudly.
The young man set down the brush and hopped down off the scaffolding. “Cordelia.” He nodded.
“So, you’ve decided on the mural then, Mr. Hester?”
His eyes narrowed. “I have. A happy lumberjack.” He wiped his hands on a cloth covered with different splotches of paint. “Why the formality all of a sudden? Did I screw the Rifters up already?”
“No, no, you haven’t, Len. I’m sorry. So much change is not easy.”
“And not for a spitfire like you. No need to apologize, but I’d like to stop by once the rift closes to discuss the season with you if you don’t mind.”
“Two weeks left. I’d be happy to provide some counsel if you truly need it. Doubts abound on that score. I selected you for a reason.”
“I will not disappoint the confidence you place in me, but until this summer we were a team. There’s still value in that, Cordelia.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to beautifying the town and handling the rift. My grandson needs me.”
His face fell. “Oh, which one?”
“Marty. He’s fallen ill.”
“Nothing serious I hope?”
“Most likely an upset stomach. Your kind thoughts are appreciated, though.” She returned the walkway, hurrying toward the school, her heart heavy. The county didn’t need her. Josie was more than capable and could certainly plan this festival on her own. The Rifters didn’t need her. She hadn’t heard one whisper or rumor in town all summer about anything strange going on. According to Josie, the rift had opened a record twelve times since June, and had spit out monster after monster.
At the corner, she turned left and headed up the hill past the firehouse and the library toward the new school gleaming with new concrete and glass, flags snapping in the breeze from the pole. The fringe on her shawl joined in.
The administrative offices were off the entry, and Cordelia found Marty sobbing in a chair. She remembered crying like that when her parents sent her to her aunt’s one summer, the summer that took her mother from her. She knelt in front of him, cupping his tiny face.
“My dear, Marty, whatever is the matter?”
“I threw up,” he hiccupped.
“That happens when you get sick.”
He sobbed harder. “On Judy.”
He’d had a crush on Judy since he started kindergarten last year. “Oh, well… Someday, the two of you will laugh about this. I promise. Can I get you home?”
He nodded, and she picked him up, carrying him out into the sun and down the hill. A few blocks southwest of town, she entered a quaint two-story Victorian built by her late husband. Josie and her family had moved in years ago, and Cordelia had moved to the carriage house out back.
After making her grandson take a warm bath and getting him in his jammies, Cordelia tucked him in to bed. She handed him a warm cup of ginger tea. “Sip on that and lie down. You need your rest.”
“What do I tell her, Geemaw?” His tiny brow was furrowed as seriously as if he contemplated the meaning of life.
“Judy?” She pointed to the tea cup. “Three small sips, then put it down.”
He nodded and dutifully took a small drink. “I made her cry.” He shrank, smaller than his already tiny six-year-old frame.
The room he shared with an older brother had been painted in blue and had once been yellow when occupied by his mother and her two sisters. The dollhouse and tea table had been replaced with a train set, Lincoln Logs, and tin soldiers.
“Well, you tell her you’re sorry first of all, and we’ll take her to the movies with us when you’re better. Flash Gordon comes out next week. Do you think she’d like that?”
His expression remained somber and serious. “She’s more into the Red Rider.”
“Then we’ll take her to that one or let her pick. We’ll go into town and make a day of it. Get her a new dress to replace the one you puked on.”
He giggled and set down the tea cup. “Geemaw, you said puked.”
“Our secret, Marty. Now close your eyes, and I’ll tell you of the latest Green Hornet adventure.” She often made up new stories for him and her other grandchildren. Sometimes they were based on real adventures she’d had in her life with monsters from the rift.
He settled in, smiling in a drowsy way. “You always make me feel better, Geemaw.”
There was no better job. Marty and his cousins could keep her busier than she ever was as county commissioner or leader of the Rifters. She wanted them to really know her, and she wanted to get a sense of the people they would become. She’d finish planning the festival, and after that she knew she wouldn’t visit her old office any more.
