Merlot with Muskrats

Marjorie makes heads turn, followed by entire bodies. She’s just that kind of lady who instantly becomes the center of attention, wherever she goes. She runs her own bakery, and she’s good at it. Her doughnuts and other pastries are always topping “Best of the Twin Cities” lists.

I was lucky enough to have asked her out on a night when she didn’t have to be at the bakery the next morning. If you know anything about running a bakery, you know there’s a huge difference between banker’s hours and baker’s hours.

I should know because I’m a banker. What can I say? I have a knack with numbers and notes with numbers on them. Making money is easy for me, and I do what I can to help others make money.

I bought a lake front property because I loved the monumental oak tree that dominated it. I built a substantial house there, one that blended in with the oak. It looked kind of like the oak tree had given birth to a surrounding structure, albeit with windows. I also bought a boat, a dock, and a boat lift. The last touch was adding a deck that surrounded the trunk of the oak and extending the deck all the way down to the dock on the lake. While it was expensive as all get out, the overall effect made everything worth it, to me anyway.

I had set up a fancy table on the end of the dock, next to my boat, complete with tablecloth, dinnerware, and a bottle of wine. I had picked up an expensive bottle of wine from our local wine shop, hoping that it was also the best. I wanted everything to be perfect for this evening. I had even prepared a lasagna and picked up a coconut cream pie from Marjorie’s bakery for dessert.

I heard her car pull up to my house a split second before I heard a crash, like dishes breaking, from the dock, followed by a whoosh and a colossal splash.

As she got out of her car, I stumbled out of my house with my face pinched as I strained my ears to discern exactly what had happened by the lakeshore.

“I’m sorry,” were the first words out of my mouth as I approached her.

Marjorie’s doe-like eyes gazed at me expectantly. I looked at her and was amazed at how much prettier she looked as opposed to how she looked when I first asked her on a date. Maybe it was make-up, or maybe it was related to the short skirt and floral blouse she wore. More than likely, the lack of flour on her overall person may have contributed a bit, but I’m not sure.

“I had an elaborate dinner planned on the dock by the lake behind house,” I explained as I feared the worst. “But I think the table settings just got destroyed, and also my dock, and maybe my boat.”

Her eyes widened, “What happened?”

“Let’s go see,” I offered my hand.

She shrugged and took it, following me around the side of the house to the lake side.

“Dinner isn’t destroyed,” I explained as we hustled around the house. “I mean, we can still eat it on the deck or in the house. I picked up what I hope is a nice bottle of wine and a coconut-cream pie from your bakery. I hope you like coconut.”

“It’s actually my favorite!” she beamed at me. “Although I have to ask? Did you order it for today?”

“Yeah,” I noticed that she had slowed her pace a little. “Was the coconut not as good today?”

“It will give me a chance to check out the skills of a new baker I just hired. If you see where the pie has the initial L in the meringue, that’s his work.”

“So it’s not one of yours?”

“I can’t do everything,” she held her hands up in an apologetic gesture. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

She then flipped her hair in a way that made it look like she had practiced it for hours at some point in her life, and it worked exactly the way it was supposed to. I found myself contemplating china patterns, but only for an instant. I found my eyes not wanting to leave hers. I felt the tension of static electricity building between us.

“Whatever you’re cooking smells amazing!” she exclaimed, breaking the tension.

“Lasagna,” I paused, shaking my head a bit to clear it. “My sister’s recipe, made in a deep dish pan. If you like it, I can feed us both for a week. If not, I’ll have food for the next two weeks.”

Her eyebrows raised up and her lips pursed. I couldn’t help but smile, which turned immediately to a scowl as we rounded the corner and I saw what happened.

Muskrats were scurrying over the remains of my dock, broken in the middle and at both ends. The table cloth flapped in the low hanging branches of the oak tree that cradled the shoreline, and broken bits of plates scattered in the grass along with a sporadic spray of silverware. Amazingly, both wine glasses and the wine bottle were still intact on the grass by the shoreline. My best guess is that the dock collapsed near the shore and the weight of it catapulted the table, and the table settings, skyward. When the dock came back down it split. At least that theory matched what I had heard happen.

I also noticed my table gently floating away from where my dock used to be, upside down, missing a leg it seemed.

“Muskrats,” I sneered quietly as my breathing began to bellow. “Please give me a moment.”

She held my hand as she plucked a wine glass off the grass. She then let go of my hand as she plucked the other one and the wine bottle.

“You’re lucky these didn’t break,” she pointed out to me in an effort to calm me down. “They look like antiques.”

“They’re my grandmother’s,” I stammered, my breathing becoming more erratic. “Lead crystal. Great for glass harmonicas, too. There’s something I need to do...now. Feel free to help if you like.”

I dashed inside while she placed the glasses and the bottle on the steps of the backyard deck. The breeze created a sail with out of the oak tree leaves and branches and they buckled, slightly. I noticed that less of the dock was above the water than when we had first come to the backyard.

I came back out brandishing a couple of baseball bats. She noticed me trying to remain calm, and failing.

“This is my neighbor’s, the PETA freak’s, FAULT!” I shouted toward my neighbor’s house. I noticed the lights coming on in her house next door.

“All I wanted to do was trap a few muskrats, because I feared...I had a feeling they were burrowing under my shoreline and loosening the pilings to the dock and the deck. As you can see, on the parts of the dock that are sticking out of the water? Those are supposed to be at least four feet under the base of the pond.

“But NO! My PETA freak neighbor said muskrats are cute. And she fed them...on my PROPERTY! She would lay food out for them and for all I know she’s even treating herself for tularemia because she let herself get bitten by them when she tried to PET them. I ask you,” I paused, eyeing up Marjorie as I offered her a baseball bat. “Would you try to pet a wild rodent?”

“Umm,” was all Marjorie could spew as she reluctantly took the chipped Louisville Slugger.

“Where’s your boat? I thought you said you had a boat?” she asked, trying to change the subject and, again, calm me down.

“Oh, THAT,” I shouted at my neighbor, noticing her shutting the curtains facing my property before directing Marjorie’s attention out to the water. “See that little flag sticking up out of the water with a fish on it?”

Marjorie looked and did spot a small flag about twenty feet from shore.

“Do you see it?” I again asked. “My BOAT is attached to that flag, which was tied to the dock with the same sturdy pilings, which aren’t so sturdy now because my NEIGHBOR’S vermin have been tunneling underneath them so they now have nothing holding them in the ground!

“And now, the deck flipped over and is supported by what looks like my…boat.”

I stomped both feet in the grass and screamed a string of obscenities to the other neighbors around the entire lake.

I tossed my bat in the grass, took a couple of deep breaths, and turned to Marjorie.

“So yes, I have a boat. It’s just currently doing its best impression of a submarine.”

At that moment, the colossal oak tree fell over, collapsing most of its creaking mass directly over the area where the boat used to be in a staggering splash. With that, its now exposed root system took up a good portion of my bedroom, living room, kitchen, and the ceiling above those rooms.

“I guess muskrats also chew around tree roots. Who knew?” I started to cackle.

Marjorie let the bat drop as she whimpered, “Oh, your boat. Your house.”

I took a few deep breaths, and I held the last one for about ten seconds before letting it out.

“Ever play whack-a-mole at the state fair?” I asked, not directly addressing Marjorie.

“Sure,” she chirped.

“Want to play it for real?” I pointed at the bat she was holding. “With that, and muskrats?”

She looked over at me, then at the diminishing dock, offering a couple of sympathy bubbles as it continued to submerge, then at the crumbled house, then back over at me.

“You said you bought a nice bottle of wine?” she asked.

“I did. Merlot. I asked the liquor store what he would drink on a perfect first date and he brought out that one.”

She pulled a corkscrew out of her key chain.

“For emergencies,” she explained, glancing down slightly as she scurried up to grab the wine bottle and glasses.

“I would say that this occasion is a wine emergency,” she said, eyes cast downward as she wrestled with the cork.

The cork popped out and she poured us both a glass, with the setting sunlight catching the wine as it hit the glass, saturating the deep burgundy color with an infusion of gold speckles.

To my surprise, she downed her glass in one gulp, then poured herself another for savoring. She gave it a deep sniff and smiled before setting the glass down.

She picked up the bat, came over to me, and kissed me on the cheek.

“A girl could use a drink before she clubs muskrats,” she cooed, smacking the bat into her palm.