by Jaime Berry
“What about moving everything that’s really old to a sale rack at the back? And put the newest stuff up front. That way, people have to walk by the new bolts to get to the sale rack. Maybe they’ll see something they like on both,” I said. I switched to a whisper. “And the really, really old stuff, we could advertise as vintage and charge twice as much.”
“I’m impressed. You’ve earned your first bonus. Two yards of any fabric you like, on the house.” She patted me on the back. I smiled but thought, if Holly gave things away so easily, she’d run herself out of business before SmartMart did.
While we worked, a customer came in and Holly cut her two yards of pale green flannel. I noticed, when the woman paid, she took out a stack of fabric scraps and said, “For your collection.” Holly took the scraps and put them in a five-gallon bucket behind the counter.
I covered an old sign with a yard of rough linen and then used rickrack, buttons, old zippers, and fabric tape to spell out SALE. All Holly had was a bottle of age-thickened Elmer’s glue, so the corners were sloppy. But Holly was impressed again. “I swear you’ve got a natural knack for this stuff.”
“Everything I know I learned from Hope Springs’s own Arletta Paisley,” I said.
Holly froze, looking like she’d swallowed a pincushion.
“Is that so?” she asked.
“Yes, did you know her when she lived here?” I asked. I’d wanted to ask her about Arletta since the first time Nan and I walked in her store.
“I did,” Holly said, and went back to work.
I waited. Nothing.
“Did you know her well?” I asked.
“I knew her well enough. We even had a few classes together in high school. Back then, she was a brunette and her name was Arlene Peavey. She was only here for senior year and, as far as I know, hasn’t been back since.” She looked at me and sighed. “I’m sorry, honey, but my guess is that her reminiscing on air about Hope Springs is as genuine as her hair color.”
It was like she’d snatched something right out of my hands, and it took me some time for the shock to wear off. “Well, I bet there’s not a single person in showbiz with their true hair color,” I pointed out.
“Ha! I bet you’re right about that.” Holly laughed and went back to sorting her scraps.
But I couldn’t shrug off what she’d said. What was it with the people in this town? First, Abby’d never even seen the show, and now Holly had practically called Arletta a fake.
After that, I didn’t have a whole lot to say to Holly Paine. I knew from experience she was holding something back. The longer I worked, the more my anger bubbled until it reached a steady simmer. I didn’t want to hear any more of what she thought anyway. Fine by me. Who was Holly Paine to me, really? I hardly knew her.
I smoothed my skirt with both hands and got back to work. For an hour, I moved bolts of fabric, slammed them into place, huffed through my nostrils like a charging bull, and kept my mouth shut. The rosemary citrus room freshener I’d made for Holly sat in my backpack, and I decided to leave it right where it was.
The first time I had watched Queen of Neat, Nan and I had just started our nine-month stay in Bigheart, Oklahoma. It’d been another first day, but one that hurt worse than all the others because I missed having a friend. I decided then and there it wasn’t worth making another one.
I had no momma to snuggle up to and tell my problems. Nan had never been one to cuddle, and her way of dealing with problems was to move. So I curled up on the couch and turned on the TV. And there was Arletta Paisley—her rounded cheeks lifted by an easy smile, blonde, with deep blue eyes, all soft and comforting. She was almost exactly the snuggling kind of momma I’d been picturing.
The more I thought about what Holly’d said, the madder I got, until that simmer reached a rolling boil. What would Holly Paine know about hair dye with that long gray braid? I carried an armload of fabric bolts and a mouth full of unspoken sass when the front door swung open and in walked a boy with shaggy brown hair poking out from under a Texas Rangers baseball cap—the same boy that watched me not make a wish. The sight forced thoughts of Holly and Arletta Paisley right out of my mind, distracting me enough that I tripped over the pile of velvet bolts I was sorting and fell face-first into a hanging rack of upholstery-grade damask.
“Umm, Jubilee, this is my nephew, Colton Griggs. He works at the hardware store,” Holly said in my direction. I was pretty sure I’d knocked my ponytail crooked.
“Nice to meet you,” I managed. I stood, tried to straighten my hair, and smiled. Was this the same Colton who usually fished with Abby? I guessed there couldn’t be more than one in a town this small. “Abby mentioned you,” I added.
“Yeah,” he said. I couldn’t tell if his answer was a question or a statement. I would’ve thought he was a total weirdo if he hadn’t smiled. That smile erased most of my negative thoughts.
Colton handed Holly a paper bag, turned, and left without another word.
“Colton’s dad, my little brother, owns Hope Springs Hardware and Griggs’ Rigs Racing. Hardware store is two doors down. The racetrack is south of town and just shy of insanity if you ask me,” Holly said. “Thought you could use this.” She handed me the bag. Inside was a heavy-duty glue gun. “For your next project.”
I managed a weak thank-you. Maybe Holly had some wrongheaded ideas about Arletta, but if she knew when a glue gun was in order, she wasn’t all bad.
Holly tuned the radio to a country station, and we worked. I knew I needed to get back to Nan but didn’t feel like I could take a gift and run. A lively song came on, Holly shimmied, and I squeezed out a smile.
When another customer came in and gave her a bundle of scrap fabric, I couldn’t resist asking.
“Why did she give you her garbage?” I asked.
“Those are remnants, honey, not garbage. There’s a big difference. I use them in my quilts. This,” she said, and pulled out a scrap of a cotton Liberty print of lilac rose buds, “is from the dress she made her granddaughter. And these,” she continued, holding up another bundle, “are from the lap quilt she made for her mother. These are little snippets of people’s lives. I’d love to teach you to quilt. You’d be a natural.”
“Thanks,” I said. Holly’d been nothing but generous. If I expected Nan to give second chances, then I could start by doing it myself.
I’d accidentally stayed almost two hours. Before I grabbed my backpack from behind the counter, I went ahead and left the mason jar of air freshener. I noticed the newspaper draped over the edge of the wastebasket and pulled it out.
“I better get back to Nan.” I held up the paper. “Mind if I take this?”
Holly only nodded and went back to looking through her fabric scraps. “Sure. See you soon.”
As I stepped out the door, I thought I heard Momma’s warbled voice float up out of Holly’s old radio. There was no mistaking that tone—it was Momma for sure. Getting radio time was a big deal, one she hadn’t even bothered to tell me about.
With each pump of the pedals, I gritted my teeth and tried pushing Momma out of my head. I tried, but it wasn’t working. With dust and my own knees flying in my face, and Momma’s voice ringing around in my head, I pedaled so hard and fast that I was panting worse than poor Rayburn by the time I turned down our road.
Good Luck and Wishes Come True
A blush-pink Cadillac stuck out from behind Nan’s dusty car. I let my bike fall in the yard. Either something else had happened, or old Mrs. Burgess had come back from the dead to curse Nan for tearing down her curtains. I ran up our drive and only relaxed when I saw A-Meal-to-Heal sticker on the back window.
Abby sat with Nan at the kitchen table while a lady old enough to be personal friends with Betsy Ross, sewer of the first US flag, hobbled around the kitchen. Nan didn’t look pleased, and I guessed I didn’t either. Abby gave me an apologetic look and shrugged. With only fifteen minutes and counting until Arletta Paisley’s new show, I didn’t have time for chitc
hat.
The lady turned to me and said, “Well, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Leaving your poor grandmother while you hang around that Holly Paine learning goodness knows what.” She turned her head to Nan and said in a loud whisper, “That woman reads nothing but trash.”
I plastered on a smile pretty as a string of pearls. “Hello, nice to meet you. I’m Jubilee, and you are?” Relocation Rule Number 5: Nothing takes the air out of a tense situation like extreme politeness and a big smile.
But this lady wasn’t fooled. She put one hand on the hip of her polyester slacks and took a few steps forward. “I’m Esther Gibbons. Everyone in this town calls me Miss Esther. I believe you’ve already met my pond?” She motioned to Abby. “Abby’s a good girl, so at least you’ve got that going for you.”
“Miss Esther, I really appreciate the casseroles you brought over.” Nan paused. “And the company. Of course. But really, I’m fine, and I gave Jubilee permission to leave. Like I told you, she’s working at the Fabric Barn. We feel it’s important to get involved in the community right away.” She winked at me behind Miss Esther’s back. I saw it, but so did Abby. “I really don’t know what I’d do if it weren’t for all the kindness you folks have shown me and Jubilee. ‘Kindness is the language the deaf can hear and the blind can see.’ Mark—”
“Yes, yes, I know. Mark Twain,” Miss Esther interrupted. “A real smart aleck, if you ask me. I was the school librarian for almost forty years. Mrs. Burgess was a good woman and my best friend. I consider it my personal responsibility to make sure the people staying in this house are treated well.” She turned to me. “Listen here. I’m coming back tomorrow afternoon, and I want a full report on who’s coming by and if there’s anyone else who can help out. Nan Johnson, you’re going to be on the mend for a few weeks.” With that, she hobbled to the door, but before leaving, she turned, pointed two fingers at her eyes, and then pointed them at me.
I smiled and slammed the door shut.
“No wonder this house was empty,” I said as soon as the door closed.
Abby laughed. “Miss Esther is okay. She does come off a bit strong sometimes.”
“‘Every man is surrounded by a neighborhood of voluntary spies.’ Jane Austen.” Nan grimaced as she stood. Abby furrowed her brow and looked at me, but I just shook my head.
“Are you all right?” I asked, even though I knew she wasn’t. Nan didn’t grimace; she smiled and then changed the topic. “Sorry I’m so late,” I added.
Other than SmartMart, Nan was my one and only thing that stayed the same. Seeing her so changed made me feel as if I stood on a fault line and any moment my whole life might crack apart. I looked over at Abby again. She began straightening up the kitchen, putting away the leftovers and piling dishes in the sink. It was like she read my mind, and I felt sorry for it because, for a split second, I’d wished she wasn’t there.
“Why don’t you go lie down?” I asked.
“All right. I think I will. I know you two are excited about your show. There are about fifteen frozen casseroles in the freezer for dinner. Turn the oven to… Doggone it, I already forgot. Probably could just stick it in the microwave.” Abby shook her head behind Nan’s back.
I followed Nan into the living room. “Everything’s going to be all right,” I whispered, more to myself than to Nan.
“Sure, it is. I’ll be better in no time,” she said. “Enjoy your show.” She switched to a whisper. “Abby’s a real find. I like her.” Then she shuffled down the hall.
I turned to Abby. “You ready?”
She shrugged. “Sure. But whatever you do, don’t put a frozen casserole in the microwave.”
“Just a minute.” I rushed to my room and grabbed my notebook plus a blank one for Abby. I also took three bunches of sticky notes, my whole bundle of sharpened pencils, a few pens, and ran back to the living room.
Abby came over and sat on the couch while I quickly organized our supplies into piles. “What’s all this for?” she asked.
I handed her the blank notebook. “For notes, of course.”
“For notes,” she repeated and nodded. “Of course.”
I flipped the TV on just as Arletta Paisley’s intro started up. They hadn’t changed a thing—same scenes from old episodes, same light country music. I took a deep breath and sank down into the cushions. Now, this was more like it; this I could count on.
Then Arletta Paisley’s grinning face filled the screen. But instead of sitting on her beat-up oak stool next to the marble countertop of her kitchen island or standing behind her weathered wood crafting table, her white walls accented with aqua and lemony yellow knickknacks, she was perched on an overstuffed leather sofa in front of a live studio audience. Behind her was the largest flat screen on the planet flashing stills from previous shows. I watched slack-jawed with shock.
“This isn’t right,” I whispered.
“What’s not right?” Abby asked. I didn’t have the time or the words to answer.
Arletta Paisley gave her extra-big smile to the camera. I relaxed a little. “Well, I’m so glad y’all could join me for a brand-new season of Queen of Neat,” she said to an eruption of clapping and hollering from the live audience. Live!
“We’re trying something a little new this season. Along with our wonderful sponsors at SmartMart, we’re traveling around to America’s small towns, glamorganizing as we go.” She paused and winked, then laughed and clapped through another burst of audience noise. “We’re hoping to get out there, get to the heart and soul of this great country, and really show how crafting can touch lives. And this is particularly special to me, because this season we’ll be filming an episode in my sweet hometown of Hope Springs, Texas.” She clutched her chest and even looked a little teary.
I dropped my pencil. Then I grabbed a pillow from the couch and screamed into it loud enough for old Mrs. Burgess to hear, rest her soul.
I looked at Abby. “Arletta Paisley is coming to Hope Springs!” I yelled.
“So I’ve heard.” She laughed and picked up her pencil. “But I’ll write it down so I don’t forget.” I bumped her on the shoulder and grinned as she jotted it in bold all caps.
The episode featured little crafts that beginners could do to “bring some light” to people in hospitals or nursing homes. Arletta invited a nurse, a doctor, and one ninety-five-year-old lady in an oxygen mask onto the stage, and they crafted and chatted behind a big white table. She described the season’s ongoing theme as “charitable crafts” because “it’s not just our own lives that get messy.” Before signing off, she mentioned that SmartMart provided all the materials for the crafts, which was met with another explosion of applause and then straight to commercial.
For the first time, I didn’t take a single note. I sat on the couch after the show, my pencil still poised over a blank page, and stared straight ahead. Arletta Paisley was coming to Hope Springs. ARLETTA PAISLEY WAS COMING TO HOPE SPRINGS!!!! I felt like I’d been wrapped in silk tulle made of good luck and wishes come true.
Abby nudged me. “You all right?”
“I’m good. Wait. I’m better than good. I’m fantastic!”
She laughed and shook her head. “I’d better go. If I’m ten minutes late, Mom will call Sheriff Whitaker.”
I walked her to the door and watched until she reached the end of our drive.
“Hey, guess what?” I yelled.
She stopped and turned around. “Umm. Is it that Arletta Paisley is coming here?”
“YES!” I howled.
Abby laughed. “Do me a favor and maybe don’t eat so many marshmallows?”
She walked backward a few steps and waved, and I waved back. I might have hopped up and down a little too.
As I shut the door and turned toward the kitchen, Nan’s cell phone caught my eye from where it rested next to my backpack on the kitchen table. I remembered the newspaper I’d slipped out of Holly’s trash. But I also remembered Momma’s voice floating out of the radio. I’d hav
e to talk to her sooner or later. But for now, I was choosing later. I took the newspaper, settled back on the couch, and found the article.
Besides, Momma never made Nan anything but worse.
SMARTMART: OPPORTUNITY OR THREAT?
Chances are, if you stop a stranger on the street in Hope Springs, they’ll have an opinion about the SmartMart Superstore on I-230 south of town. The store is on schedule to open at the end of the summer. As the opening draws near, apprehensions of small business owners rise, while others welcome the employment opportunities and shopping conveniences a SmartMart promises.
With the signing of Hope Springs’s own Arletta Paisley as the face of SmartMart, people seem to be even more divided. As well as a nationally recognizable face, Paisley brings the power of her Hearth & Home Network show, Queen of Neat. Each episode has been reformatted to promote the SmartMart brand.
A Hope Springs business owner was quoted as saying, “I can’t compete with SmartMart prices because they buy in bulk from outside the US. But people don’t care so much about buying local if SmartMart has what they want and it’s cheaper.” In contrast, another resident complained of the local employment opportunities and lack of shopping choices. “There are lots of things that are hard to find around here, including jobs. The way I see it, SmartMart solves both those problems.”
One thing is clear: If SmartMart prices can’t be beat, as the mega-chain claims, local shops are in trouble. But cheaper merchandise isn’t always better, leaving local entrepreneurs to prove that quality is queen.
Having It Wrong
I woke the next morning with a blurred image of my momma left over from some dream I couldn’t remember. Since I’d heard her singing voice, Momma’d been sneaking her way into my mind. Maybe it was that I’d let Nan think I’d called her, or maybe it was that she hadn’t called me back—or called at all in months.
When I shuffled into the hallway, I heard Nan on the phone. She saw me and switched to a whisper. “Yes, I understand. I’ll get the payment to you as soon as I can.”
