A Basket Full of Bargains

by Lorraine Bartlett

  Betty, the evening waitress at Del’s, said a couple was currently sitting at their favorite table, but that she’d put a reserved sign on it if they could be there within twenty minutes. “You got it. See you then.”

  Gilda hung up the phone and put away her scissors, tape, and the blow dryer she used on the shrink wrap that encased some of her baskets, and thought once more about the rather sad woman she’d spoken with earlier that day.

  Would Iris Drake be eating alone that night?

  3

  Let’s Make a Deal

  The day dawned overcast with the threat of rain—perfect retail weather. No sooner had Gilda turned the CLOSED sign on her shop door to OPEN and returned to the cash desk to assemble her next commissioned basket, when the bell above it tinkled, and in came her first customer of the day. Make that non-customer. It was Iris Drake once again, still dressed in the pink raincoat, matching scarf, and scruffy wig. “Good morning!” she called cheerfully.

  “Good?” Gilda questioned, eyeing the gray sky out the big display window before focusing on the rather large and tattered Kaufmann’s shopping bag Iris clutched in one hand in what seemed like a death grip. That department store had closed many years before, and the frayed bag was stuffed to near-bursting, and seemed to be quite heavy.

  Iris’s cheeks were pink from the cold. They’d had a heavy frost overnight, and the last of the annuals in the barrel outside Gilda’s shop door had taken a hit. She’d have to find time during the day to clear them out. Was it too late to get a chrysanthemum to replace them?

  “What have you got there?” Gilda asked.

  “Just some things I’ve collected over the past couple of years.”

  Uh-oh. Gilda had an idea where this conversation might be going.

  “Have you got a few minutes?” Iris asked.

  “Well, I was just about to—” But then Gilda saw the hopeful look in Iris’s eyes and changed tacks. “Have a cup of coffee. Would you like to join me?”

  “Thank you. I would.”

  Gilda poured two cups from the fresh pot she’d made only minutes earlier, and handed an insulated paper cup to Iris, who took a sip. “This is the best coffee I’ve had in ages.” She laughed. “Yesterday and today are the first times I’ve had coffee in a couple of years.”

  “Why’s that?” Gilda asked.

  Iris shrugged and took another sip.

  “It looks like the weather’s starting to turn,” Gilda said, not knowing what else to say.

  “It sure is. I was nearly blown away during my walk here.”

  “You don’t have a car?” Gilda asked.

  “I like the exercise,” Iris said succinctly.

  They sipped their coffee, the silence lengthening between them. This could go on forever, so Gilda decided to cut to the quick.

  “What’s in that bag you’ve got there? Treasure?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is.”

  Gilda cringed inwardly. Iris was going to try to flog her stuff and Gilda had no interest in buying junk. Okay, she stocked some low-cost items from China, like cookie cutters, but she also had standards. Nothing made of metals like lead that could hurt humans, animals, or the environment. Nothing with toxic or exorbitant packaging. And she had plenty of suppliers she dealt with on a regular basis. She did not need to buy a lot of used junk from a woman on the edge of homelessness. She would be polite but firm.

  “Would you like to see what I’ve got?” Iris asked.

  Gilda sighed, her lips pursed. “I suppose.”

  Iris lifted one of the paper-swathed items. Gilda recognized the wrapping; a cheap grade of paper used at Artisans Alley to protect the items bought by customers. By the look of it, the bundle had never been unwrapped since the day Iris had purchased it.

  With great tenderness, Iris removed the tape that secured the wrapping and pulled out a pink crepe paper rose, which she proffered for Gilda to admire. And, surprisingly … the little rose was actually quite pretty. “And you got this at Artisans Alley?”

  Iris nodded. “They had a sale. I think I paid fifty cents for it.”

  Gilda frowned. Why hadn’t she known she could find such a pretty hand-crafted item so close to home? Was there a chance she could make a deal with a local vendor instead of buying from China? She’d have to investigate.

  “What else is in that bag?”

  Iris reached into the sack and pulled out another paper-wrapped item. With loving care, she peeled back the paper that had secreted the piece. “Oh, isn’t this pretty?” she said, presenting the stained-glass sun catcher for Gilda to admire. The overhead light glinted on the beveled glass pieces in the shape of a hummingbird. “Liz Meier made that. Her work is exquisite.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Gilda admitted, holding it up to gaze through the ruby and emerald glass and admire the workmanship.

  Iris extracted the next package and unwrapped it. Three colorfully woven bookmarks tumbled onto the counter. “Gwen Hardy made these.”

  “More sale items?” Gilda asked.

  “I think they’re a loss leader. Apparently she makes them on a hand loom she takes with her wherever she goes, that way she’s never bored and she uses scraps from other projects to make them. Waste not want not.”

  Gilda nodded, watching as Iris set the bookmarks aside and picked up another wrapped bundle. She removed the paper swaddling a simple yet elegant pink paper poppy and handed it to Gilda. “Oh, that’s pretty.”

  “Isn’t it?” Iris agreed. “Sandy Compton made that. She made the rose, too. She had to leave the Alley. She couldn’t make her rent and only lasted there about two months. But I saw her at the Apple Festival back in September. She was sharing a stall with another crafter, so I know she’s still making them. Either that or is just trying to sell off her inventory.”

  Gilda examined the poppy. It was adorable, and something she might be able to incorporate into her designs. She wondered if she could find this Sandy Compton to buy more. Maybe Katie still had her contact information. She’d have to ask.

  “Do you know all these vendors personally?”

  Iris shook her head. “I’m just interested in what they all do and ask a lot of questions. I so admire their creativity. I’m the least creative person in the world.”

  That might be, but she had a good eye when it came to finding a bargain and snagging quality merchandise.

  The women spent the next half hour unwrapping all Iris’s treasures. There wasn’t one dud in the entire bag, and Gilda found herself oohing and aahing over each item.

  When they’d unwrapped the last package, Gilda eyed the woman before her.

  “This is all very nice, but … what is it you want?”

  Iris blushed. “Well, I was hoping you might like some of them.”

  “I do.”

  “And I was hoping you might be willing to make an offer on them.”

  “A package deal?” Gilda asked, warming to the idea. She could see where she might use each and every item in a future gift basket.

  “Well, if that works for you.”

  “How much were you thinking of asking?”

  Iris seemed to shrink in on herself. “How much would you give for all this?”

  Gilda frowned. There wasn’t one piece of merchandise that she’d be ashamed of including in one of her deluxe baskets, yet she shook her head. “I’m afraid anything I might offer would be an insult to you.”

  “Try me,” Iris said, sounding just a little desperate.

  Again Gilda shook her head. “Name a price.”

  Iris let out a long breath, and for a moment Gilda thought she might cry. But then Iris pursed her lips and seemed to stand a little taller. “Twenty bucks?”

  Gilda’s eyes widened. She would have thought the items on offer were worth at least five or six times more than that. “Are you sure?”

  Iris nodded, her eyes moist.

  Gilda’s heart constricted. This poor lady was willing to sell off her treasures for far less than she’
d paid for them. Was she that broke? She said she hadn’t had a decent cup of coffee in years. Did she arrive at Artisans Alley every day just to hear the sound of another human being’s voice? Just to have something to do? Just to feel like she belonged to some part of the world around her?

  A sudden rush of sympathy flushed through her, and Gilda, against her better judgment, blurted, “I’ll give you eighty for everything.”

  Iris’s eyes widened, as though in disbelief. “Eighty?”

  “Okay, ninety?” Gilda offered.

  “Well, I—“

  “Ninety five, and that’s my last offer,” Gilda said, knowing she’d be getting a bargain, even at that price.

  “I’ll—I’ll take it,” Iris said, eyes wide and just a little breathless.

  Gilda nodded. “Good. Is a check okay?”

  Iris’s smile was wide. “Sure.”

  “Just a moment. I need to get my purse. It’s in the back room.” She dipped into the nether regions of her store, grabbed the checkbook she brought with her on a daily basis—just in case—and took it into the showroom.

  Iris was rewrapping one of the items, but Gilda told her not to bother, and then made out a check, handing it to the woman.

  “Thank you, Gilda. You just helped me buy groceries for the next month.”

  A month’s worth of groceries for less than a hundred dollars? What was the poor woman eating? Countless blue boxes of cheap macaroni and cheese?

  Suddenly Gilda wished she’d offered at least another twenty dollars for the booty that littered her cash desk. But Iris seemed happy with the transaction.

  “Do you have more of the same?” Gilda asked.

  Iris nodded eagerly. “I could bring them by tomorrow.”

  Gilda let out a shame-filled breath. “Okay.”

  “Can I cash this check today?” Iris asked.

  Gilda had no doubt that upon leaving, Iris would immediately walk to the bank three blocks away, cash it—and then rush to the plaza another few blocks to the south and fill that Kaufmann’s bag full of cheap processed food.

  “Of course,” Gilda said.

  Iris positively beamed as Gilda handed over the check, feeling like ten times a creep who’d just cheated a vulnerable person, and wondered if she’d be able to sleep that night.

  “Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about her,” Conrad advised that evening as he sipped his pinot noir. The grapes it was made from were grown in the Finger Lakes area southeast of McKinlay Mill.

  “But it seems so wrong,” Gilda said. She stood at the stove, stirring the pan of bottled spaghetti sauce that simmered on the six-burner gas stove in the kitchen of their renovated Queen Ann home in one of the more historic neighborhoods close to Victoria Square.

  Conrad leaned against the kitchen island and swirled the wine in his glass. “Offering nearly five times what the woman was asking,” he admonished. “You’re not in business to take a loss when it comes to inventory.”

  He was right. But how pathetic was it for poor Iris to have to live on a pittance and be grateful for it?

  “I wonder if Iris might want a job.”

  Conrad’s expression darkened. “Gilda,” he said, his tone an admonishment.

  “You know I’ve been thinking about hiring someone. It’s so busy at Christmastime, we could both use help.”

  “You can’t save the world.”

  And was attempting to save just one minuscule part of it—one life—such a terrible aspiration?

  “I know,” she admitted, but that wasn’t going to stop her from trying. Conrad was a sensible, logical man. He had a big heart, but sometimes he just couldn’t see the smaller picture. A time and place when, to either quote Star Trek or Dickens—Gilda wasn’t quite sure who—the needs of the one outweighed the needs of the many. Iris Drake needed a break, and for better or worse, Gilda Ringwald-Stratton was going to give it to her.

  She just needed to figure out how.

  4

  The Flipped Wig

  As promised, Iris showed up at Gilda’s Gourmet Gift Basket at exactly ten o’clock the next morning, wearing the same pink coat and scarf, with the same Kaufmann’s shopping bag once again nearly bursting at the seams. She dumped everything on the long wooden counter and was about to start unwrapping the first package when the shop door opened and a young woman holding a toddler entered.

  “Hello,” Gilda called cheerfully. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes. I need a hostess gift basket for a party I’m going to this weekend.”

  “Did you have a price range in mind?”

  The young woman laughed. “Cheap.”

  Gilda frowned. Her wares weren’t extravagant, but they weren’t cheap, either. “What did you have in mind?”

  The woman set the little boy down on the old pine floor, grasping his hand. “Something seasonal—and maybe that contains a bottle of wine. I got something like that for Christmas last year and thought ‘how pretty.’”

  “Why not take a look at my pre-made baskets, and if you don’t see something you like, I can always make something to order.”

  “Thanks.” Still grasping the child by the hand, the woman turned to inspect the table of finished offerings.

  “Now, where were we?” Gilda asked Iris and returned to stand behind the sales counter.

  Iris began to unwrap the first small parcel. Inside was a tiny book, its cover made from a thick, embossed-and-gilded piece of heavy paper. The delicate, blue-tinged fibrous pages inside were blank.

  “Oh, how pretty,” Gilda said, admiring the workmanship.

  “The Alley’s paper lady, Anne Bard, had these for sale after the holidays last year. She makes all the papers herself. I don’t think it’s very useful, but it is beautiful,” Iris agreed.

  Gilda felt a yank on the hem of her dark wool skirt and looked down to see that the little boy had left his mother’s side and stood looking up at her.

  “Candy!” he demanded, giving the skirt another yank.

  “You’ll have to ask your mommy,” Gilda said, and attempted to shoo the boy away.

  “Candy, candy, candy!” the child cried louder.

  “Jackson,” his mother scolded, and hurried to remove him from the sales area. “Sorry,” she said, laughed, and picked up the boy. “Stay with Mommy,” she admonished her son, heading back for the already-assembled baskets.

  Gilda turned back to Iris. “What else have you got?”

  Iris unwrapped another bundle. This one held a small, hand-crafted ceramic black-and-white bull with horns. Gilda smiled. “When I was a kid, I had a little toy farm; a small plastic bull came with it. My father named him Elmer after the cartoon on his bottle of glue.”

  Iris laughed, then all of a sudden jerked back, looking startled, and glanced down at the floor.

  “Me see, me see!” Jackson insisted.

  Iris looked to Gilda for guidance, and the proprietress merely shrugged.

  Iris crouched down to meet the boy at eye-level, holding out the little farm animal. “It’s a cow. Can you say ‘cow?’”

  “Cow!” Jackson practically crowed.

  Technically, it wasn’t a female bovine.

  “Would you like to hold it?” Iris asked.

  “I don’t know about that,” Gilda said warily. She’d had more than one little tyke get hold of a piece of her merchandise and throw it, not only breaking the item, but something else as well.

  Iris pulled back her hand. “Well, if you think it’s best.”

  “Cow!” Jackson demanded angrily once the object of his desire was no longer in sight.

  Iris’s frown was sympathetic. “I’m sorry, little one, but—”

  And before she could say another word, the child reached out and grabbed the front of Iris’s scarf, giving it a mighty tug. Off came the scarf, and off came the bad wig.

  Iris dropped the cow and Gilda gasped as the poor woman reached up to cover her completely bald pate.

  As predicted, Jackson scooped up the ce
ramic animal and with remarkable ferocity, threw it across the aisle where it crashed into one of the pre-made baskets that contained a bottle of one of New York State’s best Cabernets. It, too, smashed, sending a cascade of the nectar of the gods flowing down the front of the display table.

  Gilda flew around the counter, nearly falling over Iris who was fumbling to retrieve her scarf and wig, while the young mom came torpedoing toward the cash desk to reclaim her child. They all did a kind of awkward dance, trying to get out of each other’s way.

  Gilda made it over to the broken bottle in record time, while red wine streamed onto the floor. The netting over the basket had at least contained the broken glass, but the basket, and most of its contents, was ruined.

  “What’s going on,” Conrad called, rushing in from his shop through the door that separated the shops.

  Iris looked up, noticing his presence as he took in the chaos before him, and howled, still trying to settle the wig on her head.

  “Jackson, Jackson, Jackson!” the young mother called solicitously, as though the little boy hadn’t been the instigator of the problem. She nearly tripped over Iris in her haste to gather up her child, who had started to scream.

  A red-faced Iris scrambled to her feet, grabbed her purse from the counter, and bolted for the door.

  “Iris!” Gilda called to no avail as the woman yanked open the door and flew out of the shop at a remarkable speed.

  “What’s the matter with her?” the young mother demanded, bouncing her still-screaming son on her hip.

  Gilda glowered at her. Hadn’t she seen poor Iris’s embarrassment? Didn’t she see the destruction her child had caused?

  “I’ll get some paper towels,” Conrad said sourly, and headed back into his shop.

  Gilda just stood there, trying mightily to hold her temper.

  “I’ll take Jackson outside until he calms down,” the woman said, and headed for the door.

  “About that basket,” Gilda said firmly.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” the woman said and gave a laugh before hightailing it out the door.