Читать книгу A Thread of Truth - Marie Bostwick - Страница 11

Garrett lives in the one-bedroom apartment above the shop that I occupied before I moved into my rented cape, but I’m the one who opens the shop every morning. I arrive at eight-thirty, a good hour before the other employees.

Garrett is our night owl, working on the computer into the wee hours to process the Internet orders, manage the database, or update our website with our newest classes, fabric shipments, and specials. That’s one of the reasons our Web business is coming on so strong; our site has something new to look at almost daily, so people tend to visit frequently. It’s a big job and, according to Garrett, it’s best done at night when there aren’t so many people on the site. This means that Garrett’s workday tends to start around noon and end around midnight, but not today.

I walked across the cobblestone courtyard toward the shop, smiling at the sight of the new window display Liza arranged on her last weekend home, an eye-catching collection of gold, yellow, red, black, and green fabrics and a garden of cheerful sunflowers made from wire and papier-mâché to highlight the sunflower quilt class we were offering next month. The lights were already on inside the shop and the red front door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and the bells jingled merrily to announce my arrival. Someone had already started brewing coffee. I could smell it.

“Hello? Margot? Is that you?” I heard a sound of male laughter coming from the break room. Garrett came out holding a mug of coffee. Charlie trailed behind him, grinning and carrying a plate piled with what looked like fresh cinnamon rolls.

“’Morning, Mom.” Garrett yawned and ran a hand through his hair.

“’Morning, sweetheart. You’re up early.”

“Yeah, well, Charlie was banging on the door early. I tried to ignore him, but he just stood in the courtyard bellowing that I’d better open up because his rolls were getting stale.”

I gave Charlie a quick peck on the cheek, then grabbed one of the cinnamon rolls off the plate and took a bite. “They don’t taste stale.”

“That’s because Garrett finally listened to reason and came downstairs to open the door,” Charlie insisted in his teasing Irish brogue. “I’ve been up since dawn making these just for you. Another five minutes exposed to the cruel morning air and they’d have been ruined for sure. I’d have had to throw the whole batch away.”

“Well, that would have been a shame because they are delicious. Thanks. Why were you up since dawn baking? Was there some kind of cinnamon roll emergency?”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “It’s your big day, woman! Don’t you remember? You’ve got those movie people coming in today. They’re probably used to fancy caterers and champagne at breakfast. You’ve got to have something decent to offer them, something besides that jar of two-year-old biscottis in their individual, fresh-from-the-factory plastic wrappings you bought at the office supply store.” He made a disgusted face. As the owner of New Bern’s most elegant and popular restaurant, he was clearly concerned that the town’s culinary reputation would suffer at my hands. “One look at those things and the crew will probably pack up their cameras and go back to Hollywood.”

I laughed. “First of all, they’re from Texas, not Hollywood. Big difference. At least, I think there’s a big difference; I’ve never been to Hollywood. And second, they are television people, from the House and Home Network, not movie people, and I really don’t think it’s quite as big a deal as you’re making it, Charlie. It’s not like they’re in town to shoot the chase scene of next summer’s big block-buster. It’s just a little promotional video. It’ll be Mary Dell, a cameraman, and one of her producers—that’s all—and the whole thing shouldn’t take more than an hour. Mary Dell told me herself. But it was sweet of you to go to all this trouble, Charlie.”

“No trouble. Anything for my little starlet.”

“Last time I checked, they don’t make fifty-year-old starlets.”

He put his arm around my waist, squeezed me, and said in a stage whisper, “Well, what do they know? Want to come see my office later? I’ll show you my casting couch.” I elbowed him in the ribs.

“Ouch! Is that any way to treat the man who got up with the sun to make you breakfast?”

“Don’t you have a restaurant to run?”

“As a matter of fact”—he looked at his watch—“I do. I’ve got a meeting with my seafood wholesaler in ten minutes.”

Charlie kissed me and hurried toward the door. “You’re going to bring Mary Dell and the rest of them up to the Grill for dinner tonight, right?”

I nodded. “Around six. Thanks for the cinnamon rolls. They’re delicious. Just like you.” I batted my eyelashes.

“Oh sure. Now you want to flirt with me. Too late. I’ve got to see a man about a fish. Bye, Garrett.”

“Bye, Charlie.”

Garrett, who was looking a little more alert now, took a slurp of coffee and chuckled to himself.

“What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking about Charlie. He told me a great joke this morning.”

“Really? What was it?”

“Nothing I’m going to repeat to my mother.”

“Ah. Well, in that case, what say we get to work? Can you e-mail a supply list to everybody who signed up for that table runner class? I’ve got to shelve those new pattern books that came in last night and I’d like to get that done before Mary Dell gets here.”

A voice boomed in the doorway. “Then you should have started earlier, Baby Girl!”

“Mary Dell!” I squealed, dropped my half-eaten cinnamon roll, and ran to embrace my friend. “You’re here! It’s so good to see you! Where’s Howard? Didn’t he come with you?”

Mary Dell smiled broadly. “Howard’s got himself a little girlfriend—Jena. He met her at a Down Syndrome Association dance. Her folks invited Howard to come with them to the rodeo this weekend, so he’s staying with them. We’re going to film this so quick there wasn’t any point in him coming. He’ll be out for the broadcast, though. The rest of my crew will be here in a minute. They’re hauling in the equipment. Gosh! You look great, Evelyn!”

“You too. But I thought your flight wasn’t supposed to land for a couple of hours yet.”

“Turned out the gal who checked us in at the airport is a quilter. She recognized me and got us onto an earlier flight. First class, too. I do love bein’ a television personality,” she preened. “And so will you, honey. My camera guy is just going to love that pretty face of yours. It’ll be a relief after filming my ugly mug day after day. Every time he turns the camera on it’s a wonder the lens doesn’t crack.” She laughed and hugged me tight before I could argue with her, and I would have, too, if she’d given me the chance.

Mary Dell, with dangly silver and green crystal earrings that hung down to her shoulders, a hot-pink blouse with white cowgirl fringe, leopard-skin pumps that added an extra three inches to her five-foot-ten-inch frame, and fire-engine-red lipstick that clashed with absolutely everything she was wearing, might not be the picture of understated elegance, but she had beautiful brown eyes, thick, natural-blond hair, a slender waist, and skin so smooth you’d have thought she was closer to thirty than fifty. Mary Dell’s mother had been second-runner-up for Miss Texas of 1946. Obviously, good looks ran in the family.

“Whoo-whee!” Mary Dell cried when she finally released me from her grasp. “You are looking fine! Way better than last time I saw you when you were lying around in that bed, feeling sorry for yourself, and looking like a sick calf. But now look at you!” She stared pointedly at my chest. “If I didn’t know better I’d say those ta-tas you got under your blouse were the real deal!”

Garrett choked on his coffee.

“Really, Garrett, doesn’t your mama look good? I tell you what, there just ain’t nothing they can’t do with silicone these days. I might want to get some of those for myself. What do you think?” Mary Dell stood up tall and stuck out her ample chest.

Garrett swallowed hard, trying to catch his breath. He was grinning, but I could see the tips of his ears turn red just the same. “I think you look fine just the way you are, Mrs. Templeton.”

“Mrs. Templeton! Listen to you! You’re not a teenager back in Texas anymore, Garrett. You’re a grown man with a career. You can call me Mary Dell. Your mama says she couldn’t run this place without you.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Garrett said. “I handle the Web-related stuff, but Margot deals with all the marketing and accounting…”

“And don’t forget Liza,” I cut in and turned to Mary Dell. “Liza is Garrett’s girlfriend. She’s going to art school in New York now, but she comes up on weekends to help with our displays and to put together new fabric packs and medleys. She’s got a real eye for color. Howard would be crazy about her. Liza’s fabric medleys are some of our best-selling items.”

“She’s the niece of that other friend of yours, isn’t she?” Mary Dell asked. “The snooty one? Abigail?”

“Abigail isn’t snooty,” I corrected. “She’s particular. She comes from an old, very wealthy New England family, so she’s…well, it just takes time to get to know her, that’s all. People in New England don’t open up to strangers quite as quickly as they do in Texas, but Abigail is very kind and incredibly generous. Involved in all kinds of civic causes. She owns most of the commercial real estate in town. She rents me this place, plus Garrett’s apartment upstairs, and our new workroom…”

“And the new warehouse space up the street,” Garrett interrupted.

“And all for ten dollars a month, plus the time it takes me to teach a few quilting classes over at the women’s shelter. Something I’d have been happy to do for free anyway. So don’t you go saying anything against Abigail to me.” I shook my finger in mock indignation.

“Ten dollars a month!” Mary Dell whistled. “Well, in that case, I take back everything I said about the snooty, old…” Mary Dell stopped mid-sentence when she saw the look on my face. “Sorry! I meant to say, I take back everything I said about dear, darling Abigail. Bless her heart,” Mary Dell said, employing that old phrase that women of the South use when they want to say something catty about someone else…politely.

In spite of myself, I laughed. “Stop that. She may be an acquired taste, but Abigail has helped me and a lot of other people in this town. She can be prickly, I’ll admit, but that is changing. She’s dating her old attorney, Franklin Spaulding, and he seems to be a good influence on her. Plus, she’s very involved with the women’s shelter, not just on the board but spending time getting to know the residents. In fact, she’s the one who recommended I hire Ivy.”

“Ivy?”

“Remember? I told you about her on the phone. She and her kids are in transitional housing at the shelter. Ivy took my beginners’ class there. When I needed to hire someone, Abigail recommended Ivy. I’m glad she did. She’s a hard worker. Quiet, but cheerful and very dependable. We’ve got ourselves quite a team now.”

Putting down his coffee cup, Garrett boosted himself off the counter and walked over to me, laying his long arm over my shoulder. “Of course, she forgets to mention that none of this would work without the very able leadership of the boss here. When I started working here, I didn’t know top stitching from tap shoes, though I’m starting to, which, frankly, scares me a little. But Mom knows every square inch of this place. She knows what the trends are in fabrics and notions, chooses and teaches almost all the classes, and makes it fun for everyone who walks in the door. Half the time, I think customers come in here to talk to Mom as much as to buy quilting supplies.”

“Yeah. Yeah,” I said, brushing off his compliments. “Don’t listen to him, Mary Dell. He’s bucking for a raise. Won’t do you any good, sweetie. We’re doing better, that’s for sure. In fact, we’re on track to break even this year, but it’s way too soon to think any of us will be making more than minimum wage for a good while to come.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it, honey,” Mary Dell said. She looked out the shop window, where I could see a man and woman coming across the courtyard hauling bags, boxes, and metal poles that looked like light stands. Mary Dell walked to the front door and opened it wide.

“Get in here, y’all! Get that gear set up. Not only do we have to make a promo that will get quilters fired up about Quilt Pink, we’ve got to make one that’ll have folks running to their phones, booting up their computers, and driving halfway across the state to buy their fabrics from Miss Evelyn Dixon of Cobbled Court Quilts. Let’s get this show on the road, buckaroos! We’re burnin’ daylight!”