Читать книгу Mornings On Main - Jodi Thomas - Страница 10

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Connor Larady looked up from the copy machine he’d been trying to murder for an hour. “Morning,” he said as he set down his latest weapon of destruction, a screwdriver. “May I help you, miss?”

The woman clamoring through his office door was tall and slim enough to be a model. With hair in a ponytail and little makeup, she could have still been in her teens, but the wisdom in her big, rainy-day-colored eyes marked her as a good ten years older.

He shoved his tools aside, walked over to the front desk and tried to find a scrap of paper to write on. No one ever came into a newspaper office without either wanting something written, or rewritten.

You’d think a writer would have a pen and pad handy. Only he wasn’t much of a writer, and this wasn’t much of an office. The Laurel Springs Daily had been whittled down to little more than a weekly flyer and a spotty blog of what was happening in town when he got around to it, but he kept up the office his father and grandfather had both run.

Considering himself a good judge of people, Connor had a premonition he’d be filling out a free obit form or a lost dog report, also free.

There were some days he’d thought of combining the two columns in the weekly paper. The header could read LEFT TOWN FOR PARTS UNKNOWN. The byline could be Those Recently Departed or Run Over.

The woman moved one small step closer. Connor had no idea if she was just shy or half-afraid of him. Maybe his grandmother and daughter were right: he was starting to look like the mug shots on the Dallas nightly news. Hair too long, this was the third day he’d worn the same old wrinkled shirt, and he hadn’t bothered to remove the raincoat his gram said only a vampire would wear.

He’d tried to tell them both that he didn’t have time to commit a crime. He was too busy running the town and keeping up with them. His grandmother had taken to wandering off alone, and his daughter was worse. She preferred wandering off with any pimpled-faced, oversexed boy who had a driver’s license. Between the two of them, his curly brown hair would be gray before he turned forty. That is, if it decided to stay around at all.

Connor shoved his worries aside and waited for the attractive stranger to say something. Anything. Or run back out the door. He didn’t much care which. He had more than enough to deal with this morning, and he didn’t want to hear a complaint. Everyone thought if you were the mayor, you loved listening in detail of what was wrong in town.

Maybe this stranger just wanted to talk, or ask directions?

Conversation wasn’t his strong point. Plus, she was just the kind of woman who made him nervous—pretty, and near his age. With his luck, any second she’d decide there was more to him than people could see and would start trying to remake him into marriage material.

Maybe he should wear a sign. TO ALL WOMEN: I AM MADE OF MUD. NO MATTER WHAT YOU MOLD ME INTO, WHEN IT RAINS, I’M BACK TO MUD. Save us both some time and move on to another project.

Raising her head, she studied him a moment, then said, without smiling, “I’m here about the job.”

“What job?” He hadn’t had a secretary for two years. That had been a disaster. He could go slowly bankrupt by himself without a helper continually suggesting they buy supplies or turn up the heater, or paint the place.

The attractive woman before him tilted her head, and he noticed her eyes weren’t quite blue or gray, but they were looking directly at him. “The help-wanted sign posted?”

She’d said the words slowly as if he might need time to absorb them. “I can write copy, proofread fairly fast, and I’m willing to try any type of reporting.”

He lifted an eyebrow, thinking maybe he should recite his resume to her if that was how she wanted to introduce herself. One degree in English, one in history, a master’s in anthropology. None of which had ever earned him a dime. Come to think of it, maybe he was slow? No one had bothered to tell him that he was wasting his time in school.

This stranger in town pointed at the faded note in the window and his brain clicked on. “Oh, that job’s not here at the paper. It’s across the street at the quilt shop.” He pointed out the window to A Stitch in Time, the shop directly across Main.

“It’s been so long since I put it there, I forgot about the sign.”

“Sorry to have bothered you.” She turned, obviously not a woman to waste time.

“Wait.” He hadn’t had a single bite for the job at the quilt shop in weeks. Everyone in town knew what it was and no one wanted it. But this outsider just might be dumb enough to take it. “It’s only a short-term job. Three or four months at the most, but it pays fifteen dollars an hour if you have the right skills.”

“What skills?”

She wasn’t running at the thought of working in a quilt shop. That was a good sign. “My grandmother has owned the town’s quilt shop for over fifty years. She’s closing down, but what we need done has to be accomplished carefully. Every quilt in the place has to be cataloged for the county museum. She holds the history of this town in there.”

Connor had no idea how to say what he needed to say, but he had to be honest. “Gram’s slipping a little. Beginning to forget things. Over the years she’s collected and made quilts that mean a great deal to the people of Laurel Springs. They’ll have to be treated with care. The history of each one logged and photographed.”

“Museum-quality preservation. I understand. I worked at the Southwest Collection on the Texas Tech campus while I was in college. My salary will be twenty an hour for that detailed kind of work.”

She stood her ground and he had no doubt she knew what to do. Which was more than he knew about the process. The county curator had been excited about the collection but offered no time or advice.

Now Connor was sure he was the one afraid of her. “All right. I’ll walk you over and let you meet my grandmother. If you last an hour, you’re on the payroll. She’ll be the boss. Some days you’ll be working at her pace.”

Nodding, she passed through the front door he held open. When they started across the street, she hesitated. “Aren’t you going to lock your office door?”

“What, and hamper anyone trying to steal my copier? No way.”

The woman was giving him that look again. She’d obviously decided he was missing critical brain cells.

“I’m Jillian James.” She held out her hand, palm up as if to say, your turn next.

“Connor Larady.” He grinned. “I’m the town mayor.”

She didn’t look impressed. She’d probably heard he’d run unopposed.

Without another word, they stepped inside the quilt shop. He didn’t miss her slight gasp as she looked up at the size of the place. It widened out from the small storefront windows in a pie-slice shape, with two stories opening to an antique tin ceiling. Massive fans turned slowly, so far above he couldn’t feel the air move.

Every inch of the twenty-foot-high walls was covered in colorful quilts; a collage of fabric rainbows.

Deep shelves lined the wall behind the wide front counter. Folded quilts were stacked five deep for a dozen rows.

“This may take longer than three months,” she whispered.

“I’ll help,” he offered. “But I should tell you, Gram is in charge here. This is her world, so whatever she wants goes. I don’t want the cataloging to cause her any stress.”

“I understand.”

“I’m not sure you do.” He looked at her closely, wondering how much to tell a stranger. “We’re working against a ticking clock and it’s in Gram’s head. The cataloging, the inventory, may not always be her priority. You may have to gently guide her back to the task.”

Her intelligent eyes looked straight at him, and he guessed she was one of those rare people who listened, really listened.

“I can put in overtime and will work Saturdays, but I can’t promise you I’ll stay in town more than three months. If you think I can complete the job by then, I’ll give it my best shot.”

“I understand,” he said, even though he didn’t. Why couldn’t she stay longer? Who moves to a town for three months? Someone just killing time, he reasoned.

A mix of conversation and laughter came from the back of the shop where the ceiling lowered to eight feet, allowing room for a storage room above and a meeting room below.

Connor took the lead. Unlike the stranger, he knew exactly what he was walking into. The twice-a-week quilting bee. An old frame hung from the beams, allowing just enough room for chairs to circle the quilt being hand-stitched together. It might be a lost art in most places, but here, the women seemed to love not only the project, but the company.

The moment the ladies saw him their voices rose in greeting. All eight of them seemed to be talking to him at once. As soon as he greeted each one, he introduced Jillian James to them. “I’ve hired Jillian to help catalog my grandmother’s collection. Gram’s got a great treasure here in her shop.”

The ladies agreed with his plan, but two reminded him that it would be a long time before his gram retired.

His grandmother, Eugenia Ann Freeman Larady, slowly stood and offered her hand to Jillian. Where Connor had been told his eyes were Mississippi River brown, his gram’s had faded to the pale blue of shallow water. Every year she’d aged he’d grown more protective of her, but today he needed to take a step backward and see how she got along with a stranger brought in to work with her.

Gram winked at Jillian as if she already counted her as a friend. “Call me Gram if you like. All Connor’s friends do.”

“Gram,” Jillian said with a genuine smile.

“I’ve decided.” The willowy old dear cleared her throat before continuing. “I’ll probably be working on a quilt when the good Lord calls me home and I’ll have to say, ‘Just give me time to finish the binding, then I’ll come dancing through the Pearly Gates.’”

He’d heard her say those words a thousand times over the years. Now, most of what she said were old sayings like that. New ideas, new thoughts, were rare.

“Gram,” he said gently. “Jillian wants to help you get these quilts all in order so someday they’ll be on display in the county museum.”

His grandmother nodded as she looked around the shop, every inch of its wall space covered in quilts. Gram smiled. “I’d like that. I’ll even get out my pioneer quilts. The ones brought here in covered wagons. Some are worn. They were used, you know, but then, that’s what quilts are made for, too. Plain or fancy, they wrap us in our families’ warmth.”

“She’ll write down the details and take pictures so you can show them all off at once to your friends,” Connor pressed, hoping Gram understood.

Eugenia had lost interest in talking to him. She took Jillian’s hand and tugged her to the only empty chair around the six-foot square of material pulled so tightly on the quilting frame it could almost have served as a table. “Before we start, we have to work on this quilt. Dixie pieced it for her niece, and the wedding is in two weeks. Hand quilting takes time.”

Connor moved away as the ladies folded Jillian into the group. She glanced over at him, looking as if she hoped he’d toss her a life preserver.

He shook his head. “We’ll go over the details later,” he said, low enough for only Jillian to hear. “As of right now, you’re on the clock. I’ll return at a little after five.”

At the door he looked back, wondering if the tall woman would still be there at closing time.

Once on the street, Connor walked left toward the natural park entrance near the bridge. He dodged traffic, three cars and a pickup, then headed down a trail to the creek. A stream meandered through Laurel Springs as wild as it had been when his people settled here. The tall grass, dry now, appeared bunched in thick clumps over the uneven land. Huge old cypress trees huddled by the water, hauntingly gray in their dusty winter coats. February. The one month he’d always thought of as void of color.

Connor could breathe here by the stream. He could think. He could relax.

The rambling acres running untamed through town were more swamp than park now, but next spring the city would have the money to clean it up. They’d fight back nature to make running trails and small meadows spotted with picnic tables.

But Connor craved the wildness of this spot in winter. The cold. The loneliness of it. As he strolled near the water, the sounds of the town almost disappeared, and he could believe for a few minutes that he was totally by himself. That he was free. No responsibilities. No worries.

Duty would pull him back soon. It always did. But for a while he could allow his mind to drift, to dream. There were days in his organized, packed routine that all Connor wanted to do was run away.

Only he never would.

Some people are meant to grow where they’re planted.

Jillian’s words echoed in his thoughts. I can’t promise you I’ll be here in three months, she’d said, as if it were a possibility for everyone. Didn’t she know that the people in this town of Laurel Springs were like the residents of the mythical Brigadoon: they lived here forever, and she was simply a visitor for a day?

A story danced in his head as he walked through the dried buffalo grass of winter. The stiff stalks made a swishing sound, like a brush lightly moving over a drum. His imagination was all the escape he needed most days.

He was leaving his world, his reality, his home, if only for an hour. If only in his mind.