I squinted, thinking. I’d been wanting to re-cover the shelves in a different paper; now would be the perfect time, before the new stock arrived. “Tell her to come in now, dressed for grunge work. We’ll spiffy the place up while we’re waiting for the check. I’m going shopping for paper to line the shelves.”
I grabbed the new credit card that my credit company had FedExed me, and headed for Home Depot.
As I poked through the sale bins, not seeing anything I liked, a familiar voice caught me by surprise. It was Eunice Addison, Walter Mitchell’s mother and the donor of all the expensive china I’d soon be getting. I had to be nice to her, even though she set my teeth on edge every time we met. “Emerald, what are you doing here today? What a cute dress—a little short, but cute. It sets off your figure so much better than some of those baggy dresses I’ve seen you wear.”
Baggy? I didn’t wear baggy dresses. And short was a relative term. My sundress grazed the top of my knees; it wasn’t like I was wearing a minidress. I pressed my lips together and smiled.
“I’m sorry about how long it’s going to take to get you the china,” she said, then lowered her voice. “We heard about the break-in. Shameful, just shameful. All your pretty china. The Ladies’ Auxiliary Society discussed the situation the other night, and we wondered if you might be able to plan a tea for us next Thursday? We number fourteen, and we’d love to hold our meeting in your shop if you could provide a light luncheon for us. Nothing fancy, of course, I realize that you’ve lost a lot of wares.”
My jaw dropped. She was actually doing me another favor. “I think we can accommodate your meeting,” I stammered. “I’ll reserve the tearoom from one until four. Will that be long enough?”
She bobbed her blue-curled head and adjusted her Chanel suit. At least a size too small, the jacket clung to her at an odd angle, but I supposed with the kind of money she had, none of her society friends were going to mention it. “Perfect. Whatever it costs, just have an invoice waiting for me. We’ll see you next Thursday, at one P.M., my dear. And good luck with your shopping!”
She wended her way through the aisles toward the front of the store. I scribbled a note in my portable Day-Timer about the tea. “Frilly sandwiches. Watercress. Lemon cake. Petit fours.” People never failed to amaze me—and sometimes, it was via a pleasant surprise. Now, back to my hunt. In the last bin of shelf liners, I saw what I wanted: a pale ivory lace pattern dappled with tiny viridian ribbons and plum chiffon flowers. Perfect for the Chintz ’n China.
I carried the last seven rolls to the counter, along with several of plain ivory and lavender in case we needed extra. I handed my card to the cashier, and she rang up my purchases. As she swiped my plastic, a beep-beep rang out. Oh great. Now what? “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this isn’t going through. It says your account has been closed.”
What? Closed? Ridiculous! “That’s not possible. This is a new card; they changed my account number, and it should be open and active. Try again, please.” I held my breath as she tried again, but once more the beeping signaled a rejection. After the third try, I handed her my personal credit card, and she rang them up on that, but she insisted on cutting up the shop card thanks to some damn fool message from the authentication bureau or wherever they ran the credit card numbers through. I stomped back to my store, thrust the contact paper into Lana’s arms, and put through the call to the credit card company.
“I’m so sorry,” the customer rep said after checking out my account information. “It looks like our operator entered the wrong code and closed your business account after ordering the new card. We’ll be happy to reopen it and FedEx you another new card. You’ll receive it within three business days.”
I sputtered until they gave me an account number to use until I got the new card. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re very sorry.” Dropping the receiver into the cradle, I leaned back in my chair. Yet another lovely mishap in my week-from-hell marathon.
At least the call to Larry, my sandwich wizard extraordinaire, went okay. “Hey babe, I need a special order next Thursday, a week from today.”
“Whaddaya want, hot stuff?” Larry always flirted with me, but I didn’t mind. I knew he was joking, and he knew he was joking. It was just his way of being friendly.
“Oh God, I have fourteen society matrons coming in expecting something in the range of a high tea. Better give me an assortment of finger sandwiches… cucumber, watercress, tomato, maybe roast beef—the fancy, frilly stuff. I also need cakes and scones. These women are Anglophiles. Petit fours would be great if you have them. For soup, can you give me a light chicken consommé and a shrimp bisque? I can’t serve wine here, but maybe you can come up with a trifle? And a veggie-dip platter? That should fill them up.” And it would take a hefty bite out of my budget, too. Eunice would be receiving her invoice, all right.
He whistled. “Pricey, but sounds great. Okay. Can do. What time do you want them delivered?”
“Make it noon, since we have to set up by one.” I thanked him and signed off, wandering out of my office into the main store. Lana was making headway with the shelf paper. “That’s nice, very nice. A good change,” I said. “Subtle but pretty.” I looked around for something to do, but they had everything under control. I started back toward my office when the phone rang. Cinnamon motioned me over.
“Emerald? It’s Lincoln Elementary.”
Kip’s school? Oh God, now what? I grabbed the phone. “Hello? What’s wrong?”
Vonda, the school nurse, answered. “I don’t want you to worry, but I’m at the hospital with your son.”
“Hospital!” I yelled so loud I’m sure I broke her eardrum.
“Please don’t be upset. Kip sliced his thumb open. The cut needs stitches, but it isn’t serious.”
“Isn’t serious? If he needs stitches, it’s serious!” Why did everyone insist on telling me not to worry when I had every reason to panic? “What happened? How?”
“A freak accident. It was Kip’s turn to feed the class hamster, and when he finished and headed back to his seat, he tripped over a backpack that had fallen off one of the kid’s chairs. He landed on the craft table and sliced his thumb on the paper cutter. We had your permission slip, so I brought him right to the hospital.”
I inhaled deeply and let my breath out in a slow stream. “How many stitches are we talking about?”
“Not many. Fifteen.”
“That’s the whole side of his thumb! I’ll be there as soon as I can. Let me speak to the ER nurse.”
Vonda put the nurse on.
“Mrs. O’Brien, don’t worry. Your son will be fine. The doctor is getting ready to stitch the injury now. Children get hurt like this every day.”
“Don’t tell me not to worry.” I lost it and started yelling into the phone. “I have two children; I know what trouble they can get into. If the cut needs fifteen stitches, it’s not a minor cut!” I stopped short. Why was I wasting my time on the phone? “You’re sure he’s going to be okay?”
She patiently explained once again that Kip was going to be fine, and I forced myself to calm down. She wasn’t an idiot, and this wasn’t her fault. She was just following procedure. I stammered out a brief apology and said I’d be there in ten minutes. As I hung up, a wave of dizziness swept over me, and I grabbed the counter. Cinnamon raced around to help me to a chair and brought me some water. After a moment, my sense of equilibrium returned.
“I’m okay,” I said. “Just stress. This past week has been hell.” I sipped the water and asked her to get me an ibuprofen, then told her that I was taking the rest of the day off, along with Friday and Saturday. Since we had no new inventory as of yet, I’d be back on Monday, and she and Lana were to run the shop as usual, finish repapering the shelves, and make the deposits every night. If there was an emergency, she had my cell number, and I authorized her to do whatever she felt best should I be out of contact.
Cinnamon reassured me everything would be fine, an
d I gave her a quick hug and took off for the hospital. I drove carefully. So many things had happened that I wasn’t about to chance anything more.
Chapter 8
VONDA AND THE ER nurse were telling the truth. Kip was going to be fine, and the cut would heal, though he’d probably have a scar. I, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck. By the time I got there, the doctor was bandaging the cut, but not before I managed to get a peek at the line of sutures holding the edges of the wound together.
“What on earth were you doing, honey? What happened?”
Kip told me the whole story again, embellishing it as only a nine-year-old can who has the full attention of an adult. He ducked his head, pain still etched on his face. “I got dizzy and tripped, I guess. I didn’t see the backpack.”
Vonda chimed in. “Mrs. Weaver feels terrible. She keeps the paper cutter closed, but somehow, today it was open, and when Kip reached out to catch himself, his hand went sliding along the edge. It was a freak accident.”
Freak accident. There had been a lot of freak accidents lately. I thanked Vonda and then gave the ER nurse Roy’s insurance information. The court ensured he still paid the premiums for the kids. I gathered Kip up, and we headed out to the parking lot, where I made sure he was comfortably settled in the back of the Cherokee. On the way home, we stopped at QFC to pick up the ingredients for fettuccine Alfredo, one of his favorite dishes. I added a peach pie to the basket, greens for a salad, paper towels, and children’s aspirin.
As we pulled into the driveway, he touched my arm. “Mom, I know I’m clumsy, but I’m not blind. Mrs. Weaver closed the paper cutter when we were done with our art projects, and that was right before I went over to feed Skippy.” His eyes were round, and he looked confused.
“You’re sure about that?” One more log to throw on the fire.
He nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure. I saw her check it. She never forgets. I just… I dunno, I’m kinda scared. There was a lot of blood.”
I ruffled his hair and gave him a kiss on the forehead. “I know, sweetie. Our heads and hands always bleed more than other parts of our bodies, so it does seem scarier. Come on, let’s get the groceries inside and make dinner.” Kip started to grab one of the bags, but I stopped him, handing him the package with the paper towels in it. “Here, you can carry this one-handed, it’s light enough.”
Miranda was sitting at the table, her nose in a book and a glass of milk in her hand. She looked up when we came through. “Mom, you’re home early!”
“Kip had an accident at school, and we ended up at the hospital.” I handed her a bag and she set it on the counter. As I shrugged out of my jacket, she started unloading the groceries. Kip flopped in a chair and leaned back, pale and drawn.
I foraged through the pantry shelves. There! The bottle of tonic I’d made last year. A mixture of herbs, spices, and liquid vitamins, it tasted like plant food but strengthened the blood. Kip grimaced when he saw it but didn’t argue; this was a battle he knew he couldn’t win.
“One tablespoon,” I told him. “Then you can have an Oreo.”
He grumbled under his breath but accepted the dark green liquid, wincing as he slurped it down. I handed him a cookie. Randa blanched when I popped a spoonful in her mouth, too. She grabbed a cookie and bit into the dark chocolate, wincing. “Mom, did we ever tell you how rancid that stuff tastes?”
“Many times, and do you think that’s going to make me change my mind? This is good stuff, guys; it’ll build up your blood—”
“Curl our hair—”
“Give us the strength of Hercules—”
I glared at them, then cracked a smile and laughed. “I know, I know… but seriously, it’s good for you, so don’t complain, okay?”
Randa clutched her hands to her chest and melodramatically swooned to the floor. “We understand, Mother Dear. You give it to us because you love us.”
“Smart-ass,” I said, grabbing her hand and pulling her to her feet.
In an all-too-rare gesture now that she was a teenager, she threw her arms around my shoulders and gave me a quick peck on the cheek before turning to Kip. “Lemme see your hand.” She examined the bandage. “What happened?” He told her the story and, for once she was sympathetic, even going so far as to pour him a glass of milk.
I glanced at her, a gentle smile playing on my lips. “Thanks, Randa. That was sweet of you.”
She shrugged. “No biggie.”
As I filled the stockpot with water for the noodles, there was a knock on the kitchen door. Oliver slinked in, wearing blue jeans and a work shirt. His hair was thick with dust. He eyed the bustle in the kitchen. “Sorry to interrupt your dinner preparations, but I wondered if you might know anybody who has a pickup? I’ve got a lot of old boards and stuff to haul to the dump.”
I jotted down the name and number of the guy I called when I needed an all-around handyman. “David’s done some hauling for me before; he’s reasonable.”
Oliver pocketed the paper and sat down near Kip. “Hey bud, what’s with the bandages?” Kip proceeded to go through his story again, and I could tell he was getting tired. Oliver snorted. “Fell on a paper cutter? That takes talent. They call you Missy Graceful at school now?”
Kip blushed and stared at the floor. Thoroughly pissed at Oliver’s callous tone of voice, I wiped my hands on a dish towel, then guided Kip into the hallway. “You look tired. Why don’t you go lie down until dinner? I’ll call you when it’s ready.” I smoothed back his hair and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead. Kip flashed me a grateful smile and took off for his bedroom.
I returned to the kitchen and leaned across the table, staring directly into Oliver’s face. “Listen to me; I don’t care if you’re Ida’s nephew or the Pope. Don’t ever embarrass one of my kids again. Ida won’t put up with that behavior when she gets back, so you’d better knock it off. Got it?”
A subtle shift in energy drifted through the kitchen, as if the temperature had just plunged. Oliver hung his head. “I’m really sorry, Emerald. I didn’t mean to offend your son,” he said. “I’m sorry; please tell Kip that I meant no harm. I’d better be going.” Before I could say a word, he vanished out the door.
Miranda gave me a long look. “Mom, Kip said Oliver was in jail.”
I rinsed my hands and went back to preparing dinner. “He spent three years in prison. It wasn’t a violent crime; I’d never let a dangerous criminal in the house, so don’t worry about that.”
She squinted, thinking. “I don’t really like him. He doesn’t act very much like Ida,” she said, glancing nervously at the back door.
I reached over and locked the dead bolt. “Is there something wrong that you’re not telling me, Randa?”
After a pause, she shook her head. “Nah… just a funny feeling, I guess. Want me to make the salad?”
Salad, she could handle, especially when the greens were precut and washed. I made certain to thank her. Randa was considerably more helpful than she’d been a year ago. While she pulled out the greens and tomatoes, I set about grating cheese for sauce. While waiting for the water to boil, I checked for phone messages. Joe had called.
“Em, this is Joe. I’ve got to work this weekend after all, so guess Friday night is a complete rain check for both of us. Miss you. Say hi to the kids. Call me at work if there’s any trouble.” Click.
I stared at the pile of parmesan on the cutting board. Joe was busy, and yet he went out of his way to ask how we were, to let me know I could call him any time I was in trouble. Tears pricked the back of my eyelids. Damn it. Why hadn’t Andrew phoned me since that first call? Was he so caught up by all the starlets down there that he’d forgotten about me? He knew how upset I was. Didn’t he even care? Or was he just tired of my “whining,” as he called it? Well, if that’s the way he wanted it—
“Mom? Mom?” Miranda poked me in the side and, startled, I dropped the bag of fettuccine noodles. They spilled all over the counter. “Jeez, you o
kay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I was just daydreaming.” I gathered up the noodles and slid them into the boiling water.
“Looked more like you were having a daymare to me,” she muttered, raising her brow. She went back to chopping tomatoes and slicing the cucumbers.
I had to get hold of myself. With a long, slow breath, I grated the last of the cheese. Finished with the salad, Miranda set the table while I stirred the noodles and whisked the Alfredo sauce, trying to push the dark thoughts out of my mind long enough to focus on what I was doing. They lingered, though, nagging whispers that wouldn’t shut up. When dinner was ready, I called Kip from upstairs.
Within minutes, he groggily stumbled into the room, rubbing his eyes. He stuffed his face with a dinner roll before he even slid into his chair. Miranda and I took our places, and we silently dug into our dinner. Nobody seemed to feel like talking. Not a problem, I thought. It wouldn’t hurt us to eat in a companionable silence.
After dinner, we checked out the camping gear and rolled sleeping bags. The kids packed their backpacks, while I hit the cupboards, filling a box with enough food to last us a week. Tomorrow, I’d fill the ice chest, then swing by and pick the kids up right after school.
“Can I run over to Lori’s?” Miranda asked.
I glanced out the window. Jimbo was out there somewhere, and my name was on the top of his list. That made the kids potential targets. “I don’t want you walking or taking your bike, but I’ll drive you there in a few minutes. Call her to make sure it’s okay if you come over.”
Delighted at the prospect of a free ride, she put in a call to Lori and received an invitation to stay the night, so I sent her upstairs to pack up her pajamas and her toothbrush. We drove the ten blocks to Lori’s house. Lori’s parents, a bland, relatively nice couple, seemed thoroughly blasé to anything but their dual careers as lawyers. They promised to drive the girls to school in the morning.
Kip and I stopped at the station house on the way home. While Bobby, a friend of Joe’s, let Kip clamber around in the driver’s seat of the fire engine, Joe and I sat outside on a bench in front of the station. I told him about Norma Roberts.