Читать книгу A Memory Away - Melinda Curtis - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

“HOW CAN I tell you this, Eunice?”

Eunice Fletcher braced herself because Agnes Villanova—town councilwoman, president of Harmony Valley’s widows club, manager of the boutique the women in town ran and general town cog—was often the bearer of bad news.

“Who died?” Eunice clutched the yellow cotton pieces of a baby quilt she’d been cutting when Agnes stopped by her house. “Mildred? It was Mildred who died, wasn’t it?” Another town councilwoman.

“Mildred is fine. It’s—”

“It’s Rose.” The third councilwoman. It’d been years since a spot on the council had opened up. “I knew the poor dear was on her last legs mentally.”

“Rose is fine. Sharper than ever.” Agnes ran a hand through her pixie-cut gray hair, and pressed her lips together as if trying to stop herself from saying more.

“Quit beating around the bush and tell me who died. I’m very busy here.” Stitching quilt pieces together at the window that faced the old Reedley place. The two-bedroom bungalow next door was being rented by one of those winery employees. A tall fellow named Duffy, who rose early, made eggs for breakfast with a sprinkle of cheese and liked cream in his coffee.

“It’s you, Eunice. I came to talk about you.”

The yellow blocks fell to Eunice’s lap. “I’m not dying.”

Agnes sighed. “It’s about you.”

Eunice stacked the blocks on top of each other, smoothing out the creases with her liver-spotted fingers. “You need to work on your delivery, Agnes. I thought someone had died again.” Mae Gardner had recently passed. Eunice hadn’t even realized Mae was sick. “What about me?”

“It’s your baby quilts.”

“Are they selling? I’m making them as fast as I can.” She’d make them faster if Duffy was home more often. Sewing gave her an excuse to sit by the window.

“Maybe you should slow down.” Agnes pulled the pink sunflower quilt Eunice had made from her tote and unfolded it. “We can’t sell a baby quilt with Frankenstein stitches.”

Eunice squinted at where Agnes pointed to the fabric. “Frankenstein stitches,” she harrumphed. “Have you seen the way my corners meet? They’re perfect. And my stitches are wonderful.” Her grandmother had taught her how to sew by hand, back before they made fancy machines.

“You can’t see your stitches, can you?”

Eunice didn’t want to admit she couldn’t. The comment about Frankenstein hurt.

A truck pulled into the driveway next door. Agnes turned, blocking Eunice’s view.

“Is that Duffy?” Eunice craned her neck. “His license plate has two eights at the end.”

Agnes gave Eunice a chastising look over her shoulder. “How can you see across the yard and not see the stitches on your quilt? Have you tried reading glasses?”

Eunice suppressed a gasp. “No one in my family has ever needed glasses.” The Fletcher women were beauties, every one.

“You can deny needing glasses all you want—”

“And I will.”

“But until your stitches improve, I need you to make something else for the shop.” Mae’s Pretty Things was a boutique that carried handmade gifts for the tourists, the ones everyone was sure would start showing up soon. Or as soon as there was wine to sell.

Eunice narrowed her eyes. “What other things?”

“That’s why I’m here. To see what other things you can make that aren’t sewn together.”

If that wasn’t the most infuriating statement. “I don’t make other things. I sew.” Over the years, she and Mae had stitched together everything from pot holders to placemats.

“Eunice, you taught kindergarten and youth Bible study. You have to be crafty to have worked with kids all those years.”

And she had been. “We colored. We finger-painted. We glued things.” Not fine art by any means, but it qualified as crafty.

Agnes frowned. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” Eunice looked at the sunflower quilt block she’d meticulously pieced together. The corners were square. The angles perfect. She’d never worn glasses in her life. “You want something else? I can color you a picture with crayons. Or create turkey portraits made from painted handprints. Or glue Popsicle picture frames decorated with colored glitter.”

“You need glasses.” Agnes’s words were as short as she was.

“I’m not going to hide my eyes behind a pair of homely frames.” Her mother would spin in her grave at the thought.

“Don’t be vain, Eunice.”

Too late. “My cousin Kim had a great body. My sister Julia had beautiful red hair. Kim gained weight. Julia went gray. But I still have my peepers.” Eunice had violet eyes like Elizabeth Taylor. And Eunice was still alive. “My eyes are my best feature. Everyone says so.” She’d made a good living modeling with those peepers. She wasn’t about to cover them up.

“And yet you can’t see.” There was sarcasm in her friend’s words. And impatience. And exasperation. “I’m not asking you to wear glasses all the time. Just when you’re sewing. I’d rather have one of your quilts to sell than an arts-and-crafts picture frame.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” Agnes carefully folded the baby quilt and set it in Eunice’s lap. “I’ll make an appointment for you with my eye doctor in Cloverdale. In the meantime, you can borrow my reading glasses and see if that helps.” She dug in her tote and handed Eunice a pair of black rectangular frames.

Eunice accepted them with a two-finger hold, as if they were slimy creatures who might sting. “They’re—”

“Hideous. Yes, I know. But they work. Put them on and see for yourself.”

Reluctantly, Eunice did as Agnes asked, but not before looking up to see if Thelma across the street was sitting at her front window. Thankfully, she wasn’t. Glasses on, Eunice glanced down at the pink baby quilt. The stitches were monstrous. “Blast.”

“Exactly.”

* * *

DUFFY PREPARED HIS coffee by the small light over the stove. He hadn’t slept well. Thoughts of Greg’s baby and Jessica had him counting alarm-clock clicks.

He was thickheaded tired. But it was a workday. He’d rely on his morning ritual to get him going. Drag himself out of bed, check; grind fresh coffee beans, check; make a pot of coffee, check; and stand there waiting for it to brew. The standing and waiting was a waste of time, but he liked not doing anything. He liked the quiet. He liked—

Snap.

Duffy startled. The two-bedroom Craftsman house was ninety years old and prone to the creaks and groans of an older property in California. But this wasn’t a creak or a groan, and it had come from outside.

His entire body tensed as he strained to identify the sound over the hiss of the coffeemaker.

Thunk.

Duffy’s gaze cut to the kitchen window. There was movement. A blur of movement. And eyes. Bloodshot, beady eyes.

Later, Duffy couldn’t recall if he’d released a primal yell or an unintelligible curse, but the kitchen reverberated with sound.

A face pressed to the bottom of the glass. Pale, wrinkled, with grayish-purple-tinged hair in pink curlers. It was his neighbor Eunice. No doubt on her tiptoes considering the house sat on a raised foundation.

Duffy charged toward the front door, grabbing a sweatshirt he’d left on the living room couch.

It was still dark outside. The sky above Parish Hill was tinged orange. Streetlights flickered off as an older woman in a white flowered housecoat and fuzzy pink slippers ran across his driveway.

“Eunice!”

She froze at the hedges marking the property boundary. Shoulders hunched, rollers trembling.

Duffy reminded himself that he was new to a town full of curious old folk. He reminded himself that Eunice was more than a bit of an odd duck. She’d brought him a brussels sprouts, chocolate and bacon casserole as a housewarming gift, and practically done inventory on his belongings. He reminded himself to be patient as he tried to modulate his tone, tried to ignore a voice in his head pointing out he slept in the buff in the hot summer months. “Can I help you with something, Eunice?”

“I was...” She turned around slowly. Her gaze dropped to the Hawaiian boxers his mother had given him last year and then flew back up to his face. “I was just looking for my cat.”

“You don’t have a cat.” There was a man in town who rescued cats. He’d been by a couple of times already to see if Duffy was interested in adopting one, and he’d been vocal in his disappointment that Eunice wasn’t a cat lover.

“I...uh...heard a cat.”

“Eunice.” Over the past few days, he’d been badgered about his past (met with dead silence), his love life (met with deadlier silence) and had his small sack of groceries inspected (met with near-dead patience). And now this.

His toes were frozen. The cold nipped at his restraint. It must be barely forty degrees. It wasn’t good for either one of them to be out here half-dressed. “I’m not an interesting man. I make coffee in the morning. I go to work. I come home at night and make dinner. You know all that.” He’d caught her looking out her window at him a few times.

She tried to laugh. It sounded as fake as he suspected it to be. “You think that I...” Ha-ha-ha. “It was the cat.” That was her story and she was sticking to it.

“Whatever.” He wasn’t winning this battle. “Be careful looking for whatever it is you’re looking for. If you fall in my yard while I’m in the shower...”

Her cheeks reddened, then she mumbled something he didn’t catch and hurried into her dark house.

He’d checked out several homes before deciding on this one. Duffy was only renting with the option to buy the place. It’d suck to move again so soon, but he didn’t relish living next door to Peeping Eunice.

* * *

LATER IN THE DAY, Duffy was managing a crew who were caning the vineyards across the road from the Mionetti sheep ranch. The Mionettis, an elderly couple born and raised in the valley, had sold the property they hadn’t been using to the winery. Now it seemed as if they were selling tickets to watch Duffy and the other workers.

Cars crowded the Mionettis’ long driveway. Several older residents clustered about. They squinted. They pointed. Eunice waved. Mr. Mionetti dragged out folding lawn chairs. Mrs. Mionetti brought out coffee and what looked like baked goods.

“Get used to it,” Ryan, the assistant winemaker, who was recently out of graduate school, came up to explain. He held a pair of long loppers which he used to clip thicker vines. “We’re entertainment.”

“All we’re doing is cutting the vines back and tying the remaining canes to the trellis system,” Duffy grumbled. There had to be close to twenty people loitering on the Mionettis’ lawn. It was another cold day. The sky was a crisp blue and the air bit at exposed skin. Surely at their ages, they shouldn’t be outdoors.

Ryan shrugged his gangly shoulders. “Nothing much goes on in this town, so anything that does happen is watch-worthy. I’m told I’ll understand it when I’m seventy. But for now, the combination of you and activity in the vineyards? It’s like the Superbowl.”

“More like Mardi Gras.” Duffy turned his back on the spectators and snipped off a vine with his battery-powered pruning sheers. There were eleven men in the vineyard—some cutting, some tying, some throwing cuttings into bins. Usually that meant lots of talking or music being played, but today the audience seemed to have thrown the workers off.

A vehicle backfired.

Rutgar pulled into the vineyard’s dirt driveway in his beat-up green truck, blocking Duffy’s car in. Rutgar lumbered out, a pair of binoculars in hand. He propped his elbows on the hood, and surveyed Duffy and his crew. He was close enough, he could have whispered a question as to how it was going and Duffy would have heard him.

The old man’s arrogance. The town’s fandom. Eunice’s peeping.

Duffy felt his anger rising. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He took a step toward Rutgar, only to be held back by Ryan.

“It’s not worth it,” the younger man said. “You want less attention, you hope someone more interesting comes to town. Or you make close friends with someone who lives here.”

From what Duffy had heard, until the winery began selling wine, the chance of anyone new coming to town was slim. “What do you mean, ‘make close friends’?”

“Pick someone in town. Tell them a few things about yourself. They’ll become the conduit for town gossip and you get left alone.”

Eunice in her pink curlers came to mind. Duffy suppressed a shudder. He’d rather recruit someone to move to town. “Hey, you don’t live in Harmony Valley, do you?”

“I live in Cloverdale.” The younger man’s gaze slid away. “With my parents. Student loans, dude. They’re killer.” And then his trademark smile returned. “My moving here wouldn’t make any difference. I have three fairy godmothers—Agnes, Mildred and Rose.”

With effort, Duffy turned away from Rutgar and his binoculars. “Don’t they feed you lunch?”

“Yep.” Ryan gave a peace sign to the crowd. Appreciative shouts and laughter drifted back on a breeze. “And they do my laundry—which my mother refuses to do anymore.”

Hello, mama’s boy.

Duffy clipped a vine. “You’re quite the chick magnet.”

“I’ll get there. I’d like to be debt-free first.”

Having only recently had his financial burdens lifted, Duffy admired Ryan for that.

“Did you have fun in Vegas last weekend?” Ryan asked.

“Yep.” It had been great to decide Friday afternoon to go somewhere on the spur of the moment. Another few weeks and he’d make another trip somewhere. Anywhere. “I can’t wait to get away again.” Duffy loved the lack of pressing family and financial obligations, embraced the idea of leaving just because he could.

What about Jessica’s baby?

Duffy swept the thought aside. Jessica’s baby wasn’t his responsibility or any of his business.

He, on the other hand, was still at the center of these Harmony Valley residents’ business. Increasingly so, much to his annoyance.

He couldn’t wait for someone new to move to town.