Family Embolism by Mendelson Joe

Author:Mendelson Joe [Joe, Mendelson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781623098872
Publisher: BN Publishing

Chapter XVIII

“Call me Car”, said Mr. Warren. Marion presented Mr. Warren with a list of requirements in order of priority. Top of the list was high ground. What followed was acreage, rock, drilled well, survey, documented septic system, hydro, modern plumbing, log house, metal roof, propane furnace, wood stove, solar panels and an actual spring-fed private lake.

“You’ve done your homework” he remarked.

Mr. Warren requested a contact number to which Marion replied with Gailic’s special number at work in Montréal. She explained that she and hubby might tour the area another week or two and they would ring him every couple of days at a specified time suitable to him. Blackflies were assembling, soon to swarm.

The two peas in a pod in their Felicia got lucky. Mr. Warren’s secretary arranged for them to be chauffeured about by Carnegie Warren with three properties to be viewed. Upon entering Mr. Warren’s Ford Explorer, the stench of tobacco struck like a death-cloud. Nothing is worse than stale cigarillos. Marion suggested they travel in Felicia, but Mr. Warren gracefully offered “the wife’s Lincoln”. Mrs. Warren showed up in twelve minutes. No foul stink. Off they cruised in broadcloth comfort. No one smoked in Franny Warren’s land-yacht.

Fe rode in the back absorbed in Fe-thought. Marion rode shotgun in the event Mr. Warren (“call me Car”) drove worse that the smell in his Explorer. Like most self-assured males of the rustic world, young Car Warren learned to drive a Ford tractor before his eighth birthday. As a paunchy property broker, he drove too fast for Mar and neglected to signal when turning. Car was a typical example of one prone to what Felix called “slob-drive”. Born near North Bay in ’31, Carnegie Warren was a church-going man. The more he spoke, the less he concentrated on his driving. Elsie forgot to say he was erratic behind the wheel. When Marion grabbed the dashboard prompting a “please Mr. Warren, you’re making me nervous going so fast,” the mood became quiet until they arrived at the Ceconni property. It was perfect.

Mature pines lined the drive in from the road. Privacy. The log building was new right out of an architecture magazine. Felix detected Marion’s elevated gate until Warren accessed the strange padlock, a real estate combination device. The stench hit Marion like a wave. She presumed the Ceconnis had died from lung cancer.

Carnegie Warren locked up. Made a note to inquire about prospective properties being smoke-free so as to not waste time or as Felix would say, “life-time.”

Number two on the list, like the Ceconni place, was an attractive package. A sturdy timber bridge spanned the year-round (so it said on the detail sheet) spring-fed stream about a football field length from yet another log building, this one from the 1920’s with square-cut mortar-chinked beams. Again Marion’s blood rose. Too bad, another stinker. “Next please”. Marion turned to Felix as Mr. Warren refastened another combination real estate lock.

The last place on the circuit was a new listing. Mr. Warren had never seen it.

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