The Tantalizing Tale of Grace Minnaugh
Contents
The Tantalizing Tale of Grace Minnaugh
Copyright © 2019 Alice Kaltman. All rights reserved.
Dedication
Chapter One: Whoa, Nellie
Chapter Two: The Den Zombie
Chapter Three: Operation Immovable
Chapter Four: Westward Ho
Chapter Five: Swimming
Chapter Six: Real Swimming
Chapter Seven: Testing, Testing
Chapter Eight: Intervention
Chapter Nine: Getting Comfy
Chapter Ten: La Toya Middle
Chapter Eleven: Freaks
Chapter Twelve: Dear Mrs. Shelby,
Chapter Thirteen: Mirror, Mirror
Chapter Fourteen: Boxy Blues
Chapter Fifteen: Excuses, Excuses
Chapter Sixteen: Mother, May I?
Chapter Seventeen: “Seafaring Legends of California”
Chapter Eighteen: Operation Sally Mae
Chapter Nineteen: Yo-ho-ho?
Chapter Twenty: Worm Wars
Chapter Twenty One: Showdown at Table 12
Chapter Twenty Two: Here, Doggy Doggy
Chapter Twenty Three: Row, Row, Row Your Silly Me
Chapter Twenty Four: Uh-Oh, Heave Ho
Chapter Twenty Five: Wacked out
Chapter Twenty Six: Human Cork
Chapter Twenty Seven: Beached
Chapter Twenty Eight: A Fairy Tale
Chapter Twenty Seven: At Last
The Tantalizing Tale of Grace Minnaugh
Alice Kaltman
Fitzroy Books
Copyright © 2019 Alice Kaltman. All rights reserved.
Published by Fitzroy Books
An imprint of
Regal House Publishing, LLC
Raleigh, NC 27612
All rights reserved
https://fitzroybooks.com
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781947548978
ISBN -13 (hardcover): 9781646030477
ISBN -13 (epub): 9781646030248
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019941624
All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.
Interior and cover design by Lafayette & Greene
lafayetteandgreene.com
Cover images © by Alison Seiffer
Regal House Publishing, LLC
https://regalhousepublishing.com
The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
For Hannah, Ilya, and Naomi,
my mermaid sisters, who swam ahead of me
bravely, beautifully, fiercely.
Chapter One: Whoa, Nellie
Who in their right mind names a dog Kitty? Grace Minnaugh wondered as she trudged down the sidewalk. She already knew the answer—Mrs. Shelby, the cane-wielding old lady who lived four doors down from Grace in Floral Park, Ohio. Their neighbor had seemed old when Grace had been a toddler; now Grace was eleven and Mrs. Shelby seemed beyond ancient.
Midsummer sun streamed through the leaves of the giant oak trees lining the street, warming the back of Grace’s neck as she made her way toward Mrs. Shelby’s house. Kitty might be a fine nickname for an actual feline, or some plucky pioneer girl, Grace thought, but it is totally lame for a dog, especially a mangy old dog. But Mrs. Shelby made great decisions too. In fact, major thanks were due to Mrs. Shelby for offering Grace her first real summer job—walking Kitty four times a day for the whole summer. Grace’s dad, Walter, had promised her part-time work at his psychology research lab at Ohio State, but it was against university policy for Walter to pay Grace—she was not only his daughter but also a minor. When her dad suggested they could make it work if she was willing to work for free, Grace told him to forget it. Why would she volunteer to feed rats and clean cages? When Mrs. Shelby offered her the cash-paying, Kitty-walking job, Grace grabbed it.
The schedule sucked for a regular kid with a normal social life who wanted to enjoy an easy breezy summer routine. Four walks a day—including the super early, nearly crack-of-dawn first walk—would be a deal breaker for most, but since Grace had no social life, it suited her fine. Between Kitty walks, Grace could go home and read to her heart’s content. The summer would feel like one extended weekend.
Grace had long ago faced facts—she was a nerd. Not only that, but she was bony where other girls were curved, and freckled where other girls were smooth and peachy. She had steel-wool hair that refused to calm down, even when coated with anti-frizz oils, foams, and gels. Fashion bored Grace to tears and she couldn’t figure it out anyway—skirts that were mini, maxi, or midi; pants came in a bewildering array of high-waisted, low-riding, or wide-legged; and when it came to tops, Grace had to choose between cropped, tunic, spaghetti-strapped, V-necked, or scoop-necked…what the heck? As a result, Grace’s summer wardrobe consisted of four T-shirts in black, red, green, and blue—which she wore in rotation—two pairs of cargo shorts, and one pair of jeans, if the weather turned unseasonably chilly. As for footwear, Grace lived in her trusty Trail Blazer hiking boots, rain or shine.
If all of this wasn’t enough to cement Grace’s utter un-coolness, she was also a complete and total klutz. In gym class, she couldn’t manage to coordinate the clap with the jump while doing jumping jacks. She wobbled on her two-wheel bicycle, as if she’d barely gotten off training wheels. In short, the rising-and-falling coolness barometer of pop culture made no sense to Grace. She barely watched TV, thought video games were stupid, and had no time for social media stuff. Grace preferred to lose herself in a good book. It didn’t require advanced calculus to figure out why no one wanted to hang out with her.
Grace was quite happy to spend the summer with Kitty and earn some pocket money besides. She planned to spend most of her non-Kitty walking time eating leftover secret-stash Halloween candy while reading (or rereading) her favorite books. Besides, if she got super bored she could always play with her brother, Stuey, though she was finding it harder and harder to play make-believe games with a four-year-old. Or maybe her mother, Minerva, would let her help out in the studio. She used to let Grace do all sorts of fun chores, especially when her mom felt “a little under the weather.” While her mom lay on the studio couch and gazed dreamily out the window, Grace would slather thick layers of gesso across stretched linen canvases or double-check that the tops of the paint tubes were screwed on tight. She loved the smell of her mother’s studio—the tang of turpentine, the woodsy odor of the thick charcoal pencils, the clay-stink of wax crayons. But the studio had been closed and shuttered for months, and Grace could not remember when her mother had last picked up a brush.
Thinking about her downer mother put a damper on Grace’s own moo
d, but she was determined not to let such thoughts get in the way of what could be an awesome summer of books, bon bons, and Kitty-walking. She walked up the path through Mrs. Shelby’s front yard, passing neat rows of lavender geraniums, lavender roses, lavender impatiens, and three garden gnomes with newly painted lavender beards. Lavender beards? thought Grace. Maybe Mrs. Shelby has lost more than her ability to name and walk her own dog.
Ten dollars a day for a little dog walking, though—that was seventy big ones a week, more money than Grace had ever had in her entire life! By summer’s end she would be loaded. Even if she had to scoop a bit of poop, making that kind of cash was worth a little craziness.
Grace rang the bell. Mrs. Shelby pulled the inner curtain aside and peered out, brandishing her cane like a sword.
“Hi, Mrs. Shelby!” Grace called cheerily. “It’s me, Grace, here to take Kitty out. Remember?”
It took Mrs. Shelby a moment, but once she realized the identity of the girl at the door, she opened it. Mrs. Shelby was a slightly larger version of one of her garden gnomes, minus the elfish attire and full beard. Her short, curly hair was a light shade of lavender, and she had the same chubby rosy cheeks and impish grin. She was shorter than Grace, but twice as wide—all soft folds and sweetness, like a delicious piece of lavender chiffon pie.
“Oh, Gracie dear. Come in, come in. You’re just in the nick of time. Kitty was starting to get a bit anxious.” Mrs. Shelby hooked her cane over her wrist and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Here, Kitty!” she screeched.
Almost immediately, Kitty came scampering down the hallway, toenails click-clacking on the hardwood floor like the castanets of a Spanish dancer. Her stumpy legs barely supported her sausage of a body, with a stomach so bloated it skimmed the floor. One eye was coated in a white film, and her fur resembled a patchy cross between a scouring pad and a moldy toupee. The poor dog smelled like week-old lunchmeat.
There was no doubt about it—Kitty was a butt-ugly creature, but what she lacked in looks, she made up for in unbridled canine enthusiasm. She tried to leap up on Grace, but her stumpy legs and rolling belly kept her permanently earthbound.
“Better get her outside before she has an accident,” warned Mrs. Shelby. Shuffling toward a hallway table, she handed Grace a set of keys, Kitty’s leash, a supply of plastic baggies, and a pack of towelettes. “Keep the keys. It’s not so easy for me to get up and down these days, and this way you can let yourself back in when you are done.”
Grace glanced at the towelettes and cringed.
“They’re for your hands, dear,” Mrs. Shelby told her. “Just in case things get messy.”
Grace looked down at Kitty, who stared up at her with adoring, eager eyes. Please don’t mess with, on, or anywhere near me! thought Grace. She hooked Kitty’s leash to the dog’s lavender—of course!—collar and shoved the baggies and wipes into the zip pockets of her cargo shorts. After a few additional instructions from Mrs. Shelby, Grace walked out the door with her canine charge.
Walking Kitty didn’t require much brain power, but it did require a hefty dose of patience. For forty-five minutes, Kitty circled every tree in a four-block radius, until the darn creature finally squatted on the roots of a giant elm right in front of her own home. Grace, as instructed, disposed of Kitty’s zip-locked poop in Mrs. Shelby’s outside trashcan, then used her set of keys to open Mrs. Shelby’s door. She unfastened Kitty from her leash, and the dear old thing trotted off to her faux-leopard-skin-covered doggie bed under the stairs and flopped down with a satisfied wheeze.
“Oh, Grace, do you have a moment?” Mrs. Shelby called as she made her way slowly down the stairs. “I need to go to the supermarket and was planning to use my wheely-walker, which I always reserve for big excursions. Did you know that I can hang four grocery bags from my front handles and carry two more in the basket?”
Grace feigned enthusiasm. “Wow, that’s really cool, Mrs. S.”
“I know, I know,” Mrs. Shelby nodded as she finally reached the bottom step. “Would you be so kind as to grab my walker for me from the living room while I get my purse?”
Mrs. Shelby’s wheely-walker was propped against a purple plaid recliner, next to the fireplace. As Grace went to retrieve it, she noticed a sizable fishbowl perched on the mantel.
Uh-oh, fish, thought Grace, instinctively holding her breath. Grace’s mom had numerous allergies, and chief among them was a hypersensitive reaction to fish tanks. Well, not to the tanks or the fish necessarily, Grace acknowledged, but the algae. Her mom and dad had warned her that allergies were sometimes common to families and that it would be best for Grace to stay away from aquariums as well—just in case she, too, developed the sensitivity. Grace might be even more allergic than her mom, but she didn’t really know. She had never been examined or tested by an allergy doctor, or anything sensible like that, because Minerva avoided all doctors. Maybe she was allergic to medical staff as well as algae. The only time Grace or Stuey went to doctors was for “well visits” or vaccinations. When either of them got sick, their mom treated them at home with potions and lotions from the health food store. Luckily, neither kid had ever gotten too ill, at least not yet.
But in spite of the danger, or perhaps because of it, the idea of getting close to a real live fish was too intriguing. Just a quick peek, Grace decided. If she broke out in a rash or had trouble breathing, she would backtrack immediately. Grace approached the bowl cautiously. The fish was bloated and kind of gross. It was orange in color with a metallic green sheen that glittered and gleamed around its belly and across its fins. At first, Grace thought the fish might be dead, as it floated unmoving near the surface. Even the mermaid figurine perched on the “coral reef” at the bottom of the bowl seemed more alive than the fish.
But as Grace approached, her nose almost touching the curve of the fishbowl, the fish suddenly jerked to life—its fin swishing from side to side, its gills fluttering like geisha fans. The fish pressed one bulbous and filmy eye right up against the glass and stared back at Grace with a steely and constant gaze.
“I see you’ve met Nellie,” Mrs. Shelby said as she hobbled into the living room. “She’s my prize Betta splendens.”
Startled by Nellie’s unwavering fish-stare, Grace backed away from the bowl. She seized the wheely-walker and rolled it toward Mrs. Shelby. “Here you go, Mrs. S. Believe it or not, I’ve never seen a real fish before.”
Mrs. Shelby looked shocked. “Never seen a fish, child? How odd! Your family never eats fish?”
“Sorry. I mean a live fish.”
“Oh. Well, in that case, I’m glad you’re getting the chance to finally meet one. Fish are lovely.”
Mrs. Shelby shuffled over to the fishbowl, where Nellie had resumed her death-like float. The old woman tapped the glass with one arthritic finger. “Oh, Nellieeeee! Wake ah-up,” she cooed. Nellie continued to laze lethargically near the surface, utterly unresponsive to Mrs. Shelby’s coaxing. “Maybe you should try, Grace,” Mrs. Shelby sighed.
“Me?” Grace stuttered.
Mrs. Shelby nodded. “Why not? She seemed peppy with you a moment ago.”
“Well, okay,” Grace said, reluctantly. “Hey, fishy fishy.” At the sound of Grace’s voice, Nellie perked up, made another long circle around the tank, then stopped to again glare at Grace through the glass.
“My, my,” Mrs. Shelby exclaimed. “Will you look at that? Perhaps you’d like to feed her? The food is right there next to her bowl. Just a few little shakes should do it.”
Grace opened the canister of fish food and sprinkled a pinch in the bowl. Most of the sawdust-like pellets floated on the surface; a few flakes dropped to the gravel and dusted the head of the porcelain mermaid. Nellie gazed at Grace and shook her fins excitedly but didn’t seem interested in the food.
Suit yourself, Nellie, Grace thought. You’re kinda fat anyhow. Maybe you should do a few more laps around
the tank to get in shape.
Suddenly, Nellie careened around the bowl like a speedboat.
Grace was sure that she must have accidentally sprinkled the wrong food in Nellie’s bowl. The fish was behaving as if she’d gobbled a bunch of chocolate and was on a hyperactive tear. Grace checked the side of the fish food canister—the label read Dried Brine and Flake Food for Bettas. No cocoa, no caffeine, no sugar. Sounded like the right stuff, but Grace was still convinced she had done something dreadful. Come on, Nellie, gimme a break. Please stop freaking out, she silently urged the fish.
The fish’s maniacal circling came to a sudden halt.
“Oh my,” cried Mrs. Shelby, her mouth hanging open in amazement. Grace counted five gold caps on the old lady’s teeth.
“I’m really, really sorry, Mrs. S.,” Grace whispered. “I don’t know why she is doing that.”
Mrs. Shelby shook her head slowly, her gaze fixed wonderingly on the now-quiet fish. “No, it’s a good thing, Grace, a very good thing. It’s just that I haven’t seen Nellie so active since her Betta friend Sadie died three months ago.” She turned to Grace with a smile. “In fact, if you don’t mind, would you stick around for a bit while I shop? It seems you are a wonderful influence on old Nellie. Of course, I’ll pay you, say, another five dollars for fish-watching?”
“Cool,” Grace said with a smile of her own. “I can do that.” She looked back at Nellie, who had finally started to peck at the shrimp flakes that floated above her orange head. There is something spooky going on here, Grace thought warily. But something spooky-cool, not spooky-scary, almost as if the fish could read her mind….
“Okay, then. I’ll see you ladies in an hour or so,” Mrs. Shelby said as she settled into her wheely-walker and rolled out the front door.