Chapter 5 #3
Michael Bastian, who had worked for years as a foreman at the lumber mill, had taken over maintenance of the building soon after his father had bought it. It was just before the cancer diagnosis, when Sawyer’s life had taken yet another heart-wrenching turn.
He spotted a push broom leaning against the wall.
He grabbed the thick handle and, despite the room being virtually spotless, proceeded to shove the thick bristles along the vinyl tile flooring.
The monotonous motion was surprisingly soothing, giving his brain a much-needed break from all the thoughts that had been swirling around in there for the past couple of days.
Between the plans for this flood-protection system that were starting to make him more and more nervous by the second and what seemed like an insurmountable task of breaking past that barrier Paxton had built up against him, Sawyer didn’t have time to think of much else.
But a germ of an idea had managed to burrow its way into his head after he talked with so many of the mill’s workers at Belinda Jones’s sports bar.
It wasn’t until he’d passed it on his way to the bar’s grand opening that Sawyer even remembered exactly where this building was located.
He didn’t get out to Landreaux all that often.
He didn’t have a reason to. Other than one small filling station that doubled as a grocery store, a few churches, and the bar, the area was made up of mainly residences.
But many of those residents were his father’s loyal workers, men and women who made it to work at the lumber mill before the sun came up. Hardworking people whose families would benefit from a place where they could hang out in the afternoon and on weekends—a place like this building.
Over the past four years Sawyer would get the occasional phone call from Mike, inquiring about plans for the space, but up until now Sawyer didn’t have an answer.
During the final year of his life, he and his dad never had a chance to discuss it.
Sawyer had been content to let the building sit there unused.
Until now.
A flash of light through the uncovered window caught his attention.
There wasn’t another house for a half-mile on either side of the stretch of highway that led to the bridge over Landreaux Creek. Sawyer carried the push broom with him as he made his way to the door.
A rusty Ford pickup, circa 1981, pulled up alongside the Buick. The driver’s-side door opened and the overhead light illuminated the truck’s cab, revealing Mike Bastian’s leathery face.
Sawyer broke out in a smile as he leaned the broom handle against the outside wall and walked over to the truck.
“How’re you doing, old man?” he asked, clamping Mike’s calloused palm in a handshake before bringing him in for a hug.
Mike returned the hug, then slapped Sawyer on the shoulder.
“Don’t you go scaring me like this. You had me thinking somebody had broken in here.
Myra Jacobs called Felicity at the house and told her she’d spotted the lights on here but didn’t see my truck.
You’d better be happy I didn’t grab my shotgun.
Your behind could be full of buckshot right now. ”
“It’s nice to know so many people are keeping an eye out,” Sawyer said, patting Mike on the back as they returned to the building.
Mike took him on a quick tour, showing him where he’d repaired the wall after frozen pipes during last winter’s brief freeze burst. He had also taken liberties with the kitchenette, installing a new wash bin he’d found for cheap on Facebook Marketplace.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Sawyer said, reaching in his back pocket for his wallet. “How much do I owe you for it?”
Mike waved him off. “I’m not worrying about no money, boy. If I didn’t spend it on the sink, Felicity would spend it on all those knickknacks crowding the house. Teapots are her new thing. Got more damn teapots in that house than the British.”
Laughing as he stuffed the wallet back into his pocket, Sawyer followed Mike into the main area of the building.
“So, what you doing all the way out here?” Mike asked. Sawyer told him about the bar’s grand opening, which, of course, Mike had already heard about.
“I decided to drop in here and see how the building was holding up, since it was on the way home,” Sawyer told him. “You’ve taken good care of it.”
“Nothing else to do now that I’m retired from the mill,” Mike said with a shrug.
“Don’t you think it’s time we do something with this place?” Sawyer asked. “My dad wouldn’t want it to just sit here, giving you an excuse to get away from Felicity every now and then.”
“You’d better not tell her that,” Mike warned.
“I won’t.” Sawyer laughed, then sobered.
“I’m serious, Mike. My dad and I never discussed it, but I think we could maybe turn this place into a rec center for the families of the mill workers who live over here in Landreaux.
There are a lot of them on this side of the creek.
Don’t you think they would appreciate a place for their families, something close to home that doesn’t require them driving all the way to downtown Gauthier? ”
He walked to the far end of the room. “I’m picturing five or so computer stations here. And maybe in the corner over there we could do a reading area. Hell, this place is big enough to put in a wall or two. They can hold several different events at one time.”
Sawyer couldn’t be sure he’d ever seen Mike wearing a smile as big as the one on his face right now. On the average person, it would barely be considered a grin.
“Earl did a pretty good job with you,” Mike said, that smile widening even more. “When your mama passed on he was scared as hell that he would mess you up, but Cheryl Ann would be proud of the son he raised.”
Sawyer couldn’t deny the pride warming his chest. “Thanks, Mike. That means a lot coming from you.” His hands on his hips, he looked around the vast, empty space. “So, what do you think?”
Mike patted him on the back. “I think I got myself a new excuse to get away from Felicity’s teapots.”