(Well, it’s bitter cold here in South Texas right this very weekend – and what better time to post half a chapter of the next Luna City Chronicle – A Half Dozen of Luna City, wherein Lew Dubois surveys his newly expanded kingdom and finds it good …)

 

On the River in Spring

 

“Ramona,” said Lew Dubois on the afternoon of a day which had begun cool and foggy, but which had the promise by afternoon of being fair, cool and bright, “Take messages from everyone who calls, save from my wife and the children. I wish to spend the afternoon on the river, examining the work done – and I must be able to consider matters without distraction.”

“Yes, Lew,” his senior assistant and executive secretary replied, veiling her mild annoyance that Lew would be out of pocket during regular business hours yet again. Ramona had come to VPI’s corporate office some fifteen years previously, with the highest possible recommendations from an agency which specialized in providing experienced and bonded C-level staff to select corporate clientele. She had never quite become accustomed to Lew Dubois’ penchant for informality, to the extent of routinely spending one morning a week (when matters allowed) in the Country Kitchen restaurant, bussing tables, or taking orders, out with the golf-course or garden maintenance crews, mowing the grass or digging holes for new plantings … or other, even more lowly work. Her previous executives had been nothing like that; Ramona would never forget the occasion when another director from the Houston main office called for Lew and would not accept her assurances that Mr. Dubois was unavailable, and could she take a message? Eventually, she had to admit that Mr. Dubois helping to run a mechanical snake though a blocked sewage outfall from one of the guest cottages …

“What shall I tell anyone who persists in asking where you are?” Ramona entertained the faint home that Lew would be doing something … something not embarrassing.

“On the river, dear friend Ramona – examining the work done so far on the boathouse and the stables. And then, I think I will go into town with Harry, and observe progress on the hotel renovation.”

“You know, Lew,” Ramona ventured; she had become confident in being equally informal with Lew, “You have people whose job is to make reports to you. You don’t need to waste time seeing for yourself; you’re a manager!”

“Ah, but the time is never wasted, chère Ramona. Besides seeing matters for myself, I find that they are more willing to speak honestly when I am there, with my feet in the mud, and my hands dirty – just so as they are. It is how I have always managed – how I have built two of VPI’s grandest properties – and you will help me to build a third, n’est-ce pas? By managing my office so that I may manage by walking around. Be at ease – I shall return no later than half-past four, and I will keep my telephone turned on.”

“Yes, Lew,” Ramona acquiesced gracefully, as both she and Lew knew that she would. Ramona had come with Lew from the Houston office, where she had worked for him for several uneventful years, to their mutual satisfaction. Ramona, starchy, middle-aged, given to dress for the office in very correct skirt suits and sensible shoes, was nonetheless a secret reader of the most lady-like romance novels, and privately made weak in the knees by a man speaking with a deliciously French accent, besides being a minor star in the VPI firmament. Lew stepped into his private office, made a single terse phone call, and donned his barn coat, slipping his more than usually elaborate tablet phone into the biggest pocket, and departed, whistling.

It was all going very well – even with the delay of a month, caused by discovering the bones of that poor unfortunate. Which was a sad thing – but Lew was a man with many fish to fry and pots to tend, as Grand-Pere Lucien was wont to say, and quite capable of keeping a very good eye on all of them. Now Lew walked quickly down through Mills Farm, noting both routine preparations in hand for spring, and those in hand for the planned expansion – a new roadway and additional gardens, to lavishly adorn the grounds and perpetuate the illusion that such had always been ‘just so’ at Mills Farm – a row of young and soon-to-appear mature  native trees, some artfully-arranged thickets of shrubs and flower-meadows, all to beautify the short road leading towards the new recreational facilities – a road designed with equal art to lend to the illusion that the distance was actually somewhat greater than it was.

Past the Country Store, and the restaurant, past the rebuilt Riverbank Cottage, and along to where there was a new and expanded dock – built as part of the expanded riverine excursion program, to be offered in the coming summer. At the new dock, Harry Vaughn waited patiently in his little aluminum motorboat, the boat rocking gently on the clear green water.

“How’s it going these days?” Harry asked

“Very well, mon vieux,” Lew replied, stepping carefully from dock to boat, settling himself on the center seat. “And if not – it soon will be. I have only to say the word – and sometimes only to appear sorrowful, that I have been let down by those in whom I have placed such trust.”

“No one writes a ticket for a guilt trip quite like you do, you sneaky old bastard,” Harry said, pulling the cord to prime the motor, which caught with a roar and a sudden gust of grey smoke, then idled under Harry’s expert hands to a relatively quiet hum. “All right then – let’s go take a closer look at your new facilities … they looked damn good, when I came down-river.”

“Excellent,” Lew beamed. “Even with the delay in beginning … I have been told that construction of the stables is ahead of schedule, and the boathouse is nearly on time.”

“Well, promising a generous completion bonus for every day ahead of the contracted schedule does have results,” Harry snorted. “Again – you are one sneaky old bastard.”

“A bonus – like a sentence of being shot at dawn the following morning – concentrates the mind of man most wonderfully,” Lew observed, and Harry chuckled.

“They’ve finished the dock, so we can put in, and walk around a bit. You’ve got a lot riding on this, haven’t you?”

“Not as much as I had on the Castle Mountain project,” Lew replied. “At least with this, my old, there is an established resort of much beauty and appeal – it is if I am overseeing the quiet nip and tuck, and the work of a brilliant new stylist for an aging beauty of the silver screen. The aging beauty has appeal; I merely oversee renewing it.”

The little boat chugged around a bend in the river, past a sweep of water-burnished gravel, where a couple of feather-leaved cypress trees dipped knobby knees into the shallows, where tiny fish hatchlings and tadpoles squirmed and darted in the sun-warmed and stone-bottomed pool, in water that reflected the golden of the sandstone where currents never vexed or chilled. Lew could see them plain, from the boat at idle in the deeper water; such a marvelous sight – and how marvelous to share, like the twilight spectacle of fireflies later in the spring, darting among the deep grass and the taller shrubs like animated sparks of lightening.

Now, Harry steered his little cockleshell around the farther bend, to within sight of the muddy slope where the fresh new wood of a dock ran out into the water, and the bones of a new structure sprang from the steep slope above.

“A note,” Lew spoke into his cellphone. “Ensure that the wood of the dock and boathouse are suitably aged, before and after final painting. Consider duck-egg green as the final color for the boat house.” He observed Harry shaking his head in mock-despair. “Details, mon vieux – the devil resides among them. Now, shall we alight and consider this aspect on my new project? We hope to open formally at the time of spring break – to appeal to the younger set, of course.”

“The younger set want to go carouse and screw at the beach,” Harry grunted, cynically. “Can’t blame them much for that – it’s all that I wanted when I was eighteen and dumb and full of …”

“Perhaps,” Lew shook his head. “But I remain convinced there are those of our children who are not so enchanted by such. A romantic age … they yearn for the ideal, for perfect romantic love, and yet the world conspires to make them feel ashamed for admitting such. The 19th century has certain charms, mon vieux. Even the bare suggestion of the old verities – proprieties, politesse, of the old way of conduct between men and woman – these may yet suffice to influence. We … you and I – we have lived long and seen much. This place – this blessed parcel called Luna City – has seen even more. We should remember, my old friend, and bend every effort into recalling those memories and more to the young. They have nothing, aside from silly, trivial, and passing matters – the modern scourge of social media, whatever silly prank they are encouraged to by their equally silly friends, a trivial romantic fling, forgotten by the next morning. We should take the time to show them what endures; otherwise, what are we?”

“A shadow, a rag, fretting himself from day to day…” Harry angled in the boat towards the new-built and solid dock. He tied up the boat with the absentminded skill of a lifetime of expertise, and he and his passenger stepped ashore. Lew looked around with the visionary gaze of one seeing the final product in this scrambled miscellany of half-reassembled structure, of muddy and churned-up earth, and of the construction vehicles parked haphazardly close by.

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