by Jaime Berry
“Thanks, and nice to meet you,” Abby said.
He nodded and turned to leave. “Keep cool. It’s going be another scorcher!” he hollered over his shoulder as he went back in the house.
“Family friend, huh? Two questions,” Abby said. “Does he always dress like that and does he fish?”
I laughed. “Yes, and I haven’t asked him.” I tried to carry on as if family friends came dressed straight from the Grand Ole Opry stage every day. With my full attention on the box of supplies, I lifted a can of spray paint.
“Abby, these are great, but they’re all shades of brown. Except this one called Avocado,” I said. “So, a greenish brown.” I was joking—sort of.
“Yep, those are the colors of the sign Dad made for the One Stop. He never throws anything away,” she answered. She used the heel of her sneaker to kick at a mound of dried grass in our yard, our avocado-colored yard. “But if you want different colors, that’s fine.”
“Let’s definitely fix it up together.” I didn’t want to hurt Abby’s feelings. “We could use the brown. The brown is fine. And Avocado is great. Arletta would call it an earthy tone.” She quit kicking dirt and smiled.
“Hardware store opened at nine. Want to go?” she asked. “It’s your bike. You should get to pick whatever colors you want.”
I figured there was only one hardware store—Hope Springs Hardware, where Holly’s nephew Colton worked.
We got permission to ride into town, along with some spending money from Nan. As we were about to leave, Wynn motioned me over and held out more money. “You’ll need more than one can. And be sure to get some primer, sandpaper to use on the frame before you spray it, and some kind of sealant or lacquer if you want it to really shine. If you guys could stand to wait a few minutes, Nan and I could go with? I need some supplies for the cabinets. Plus, I know a little about bikes.”
I shook my head and took the folded-up bills. “Not enough room in your truck,” I answered, ignoring the fact that we could take Nan’s car.
“Thanks,” I yelled as Abby and I ran out the door. Wynn could use those fancy boots to make a mad dash all the way back to Dallas. I suspected he was only here as Momma’s spy. Besides, with him holed up in my craft room, I had no choice but to craft at the kitchen table like an amateur again.
Hope Springs Hardware was covered with signs advertising a “Sizzling Summer Sale” and free tickets to Griggs’ Rigs Racing with any purchase. Abby swung the door open. Bells chimed and, from the back, someone yelled, “Colton! Customers!”
There he was, stacking box fans in a square of sunlight wearing faded jeans, a short-sleeved white T-shirt, and the same Texas Rangers cap.
“Hey, Colton. We need some spray paint,” Abby said.
“And some sandpaper,” I added.
“What grit?” he asked without looking away from his boxes.
“What what?”
Colton smiled. “Different sandpaper for different jobs,” he explained.
“We’re fixing up that old bike of mine,” Abby said. He walked us over to a wall with stacked trays, all neatly organized, and pulled out two sheets of rough paper, handing them over to me. He pointed to a locked cabinet on the back wall full of spray paint. “Need the key.”
He walked off, and Abby grabbed my arm. “That’s weird,” she whispered. “I’ve been friends with Colton Griggs my whole life, and I have never heard him talk that much. But we mostly go fishing, and I don’t like a lot of chitchat.”
Colton returned with the keys. “Need primer?” He handed me a can and looked straight at me. “You’ll need this too, if you want it to shine.” His eyes were brown, not dirt brown, but bronze—penny brown. I nodded. He handed me two cans of spray lacquer.
“Takes a week to set, but it’ll look like a mirror.” Then, I swear, he winked. Or maybe it was a blink, and I was just focused on one eye.
We picked out three colors: aqua, pale yellow, and a bright green. As Abby stowed our supplies in her backpack, I noticed Holly’s car in front of the Fabric Barn. It’d be nice to stop by and say hi. Plus, I knew the perfect oilcloth print for the bike seat. Abby and I started off walking and ended up racing down the sidewalk before busting into the store in a fit of giggles.
Rayburn didn’t bark at the commotion, and Holly wasn’t in her normal spot. She paced in front of the phone. I hustled to aisle three, slipped out the roll of green oilcloth printed with lemon slices, and walked up to the cutting counter. Holly hadn’t noticed us at all, so I cleared my throat.
“Oh, Jubilee. You working today?” she asked.
“No. Just need half a yard of this,” I said.
“Well, go ahead. I’ll start you a tab.” After I made the cut, I folded the fabric, and Holly waved us out without another word.
“Wonder what’s with her today?”
“Rayburn’s at the vet. They’re not sure what’s wrong with him this time. Could be anything. Last year, he ate a whole box of buttons, Holly’s house key, and a block of cheddar cheese. You never smelled anything so awful,” Abby said. “When your mom’s the mayor, you hear everything.”
I was thinking about Holly and Rayburn, and wondering if there was some kind of craft that would make a gassy, hungry dog feel better, when I was hit by an idea so big that my ears almost shot off.
“Abby, that’s it! Your mom’s the mayor,” I said.
“Yeah, I know.” She narrowed her eyes.
“Maybe she could get us tickets to the Arletta Paisley show,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be great? To be right there in the audience.”
“I don’t know,” Abby said. “Mom’s not too high on Arletta and the SmartMart opening.” That was all she said. She was quiet the whole bike ride back, not even glancing my way the entire trip. The closer we got to the rental house, the surer I was I’d done something wrong. I’d broken a top rule. Relocation Rule Number 7: Don’t take or ask for anything big. But it wasn’t breaking the rule that I was worried about. When I’d asked about the tickets, disappointment had flickered across Abby’s face.
We hopped off our bikes and walked them up the drive. “It’s too bad about Rayburn. I know some easy dog treats I could whip up and drop off tomorrow,” I said. She smiled at me. I’d been so long without a true friend, or any friend, I’d forgotten how to act like one. Maybe taking didn’t have anything to do with it at all. Maybe the problem was Nan and I never gave much of anything back. The Relocation Rules we’d come up with only seemed to work if we thought about no one but ourselves.
“Rayburn was a present from Holly’s husband. He passed a few years ago,” she said. “Holly used to win quilting contests and have classes that drew quilters from all over the state. But after Mr. Paine died, she quit doing all that.” Abby and I hopped off our bikes and walked them through the front yard.
I dropped my bike as soon as I saw Wynn. He came out with a collapsed cardboard box and a lawn chair. The shocking part was what he was wearing—athletic shorts, flip-flops, and a faded Brent Chisholm concert T-shirt. His legs were as pale as a plucked chicken.
“What?” he asked, unfolding the lawn chair and taking a seat. “Spray paint requires adult supervision. Put this box down so you don’t paint the lawn.” He tossed the box at me and looked around at our sorry yard. “On second thought, it might look better with a little bit of color. You know, Jubilee, we should seed this yard. Soil’s blowing away because there’s nothing holding it down.”
Abby and I dumped our supplies on the ground.
“Hmm. Probably should start with a base coat,” I said, ignoring Wynn.
“Hang on.” He hopped up from the chair. “Let me take some stuff off. If you’re working with just the frame, it’ll be easier.” He headed to the shed and came back with a rusty toolbox. The bike lay disassembled in less than ten minutes.
“How’d you do that?” I asked.
“My uncle owned a repair shop. I can fix about anything, from toasters to cars. But when I was a kid, I ran my own side b
usiness fixing up bikes. Now, you’re right about a base coat. That’s what the primer is for.”
“I know that,” I said and snatched the can of primer.
“First, you need to sand it,” Wynn added.
I glared. Wynn backed away with his hands up, and I bit down a smile.
After we sanded, sprayed on the white primer coat, and let it dry, the morning had passed without us noticing. Wynn made peanut butter sandwiches dripping with jelly. Then, with sticky fingers washed, Abby and I started out with the lighter aqua color, and before long Wynn was hunched over the frame, helping. We laughed and talked, and Wynn ran back and forth for refreshments in between Nan hollering suggestions and inspiring quotes from the porch. Wynn had a laugh that sounded like a horse neigh, and it made us giggle even harder.
Finally, Nan called it quits. “That’s it. You all need a break and I need some company.” Wynn grabbed a kitchen chair from inside for her to sit in, helping her hobble down the steps, then ran back into the kitchen and brought out two shallow baking dishes and a box of sodas. Nan looked at the deconstructed bike and then back and forth between Abby and me. “Jubilee, I think this is some of your best work. Louisa May Alcott said, ‘It takes two flints to make a fire.’ It’s going to be a beautiful bike.”
“Might have taken three flints in this case.” Abby nodded toward Wynn, who was crouched over the baking pan.
He poured a few Cokes into the pan, then soaked the chain and the handlebars. Abby and I stared with our mouths open. “Phosphoric acid in Coke removes rust,” he explained. He raised the piece that held the chain and looked like a big gear. “This is your crankset. We can soak it too. It’ll look like new, and if it doesn’t, we can order you a replacement.”
“Well, I never knew Coke was good for anything but drinking,” Nan said, and Wynn handed out all the extra sodas, not leaving one for himself.
“I’ll let these soak for a while. We got time, anyways. Takes about a week for the lacquer to set. When it does, we can put it all back together.”
“Thanks, Wynn,” I said.
“One last thing,” he said, and then took off at a trot toward the shed. He came back with a small wicker basket. “Saw this when I was looking for tools. What do you think about putting it at the base of the handlebars?”
“It’s going to be perfect,” I said. Then I gave Abby the biggest hug I’d ever given anything that wasn’t a stuffed animal.
“You’re welcome. Easy on my casting arm,” she teased.
I let go, and we both laughed.
I turned to Wynn. “It wouldn’t have turned out so well if you hadn’t helped.”
“Well, it feels good to make something with the people I care about.” He gave me a crooked smile. We all stood back and admired our work as the sun set behind us. Wynn put his arm around Nan for extra support, and she let him. I didn’t think Arletta Paisley herself could have glamorganized that bike any better.
The frame was a clear ocean aqua, with the crank arms for the pedals and the handlebars painted pale yellow. Wynn had the idea to paint only the kickstand and the seat post bright green. It killed me a little that those bits of green were my favorite parts, what Arletta Paisley would have called the “perfect pop.” And the lacquer made every piece glimmer like still water on a sunny day.
Nan was right; it was going to be a beautiful bike. And Wynn was right too. There was something different about sharing the feeling of making something, a feeling I normally kept for myself.
Never to Suffer
Since the lacquer would take a full week to dry, each day stretched longer than forever. Days and days with no bike meant relying on Wynn for rides—an inconvenience I hadn’t considered and, according to Wynn, exactly what he was there for.
He liked to listen to the radio, loud and with the windows down. But he didn’t just listen. He knew every country song ever created by heart and belted them all in a shrill wail the whole way to wherever we went. The singing only stopped when he paused to spit out the window, and he didn’t care a bit how red I turned. Even though he was like a long-distance uncle to me, I’d never spent this much time with him. And sometimes, particularly when in his truck, I missed the distance.
When Wynn dropped me off at the Fabric Barn, I could still hear his howling. If Rayburn had been there, he might have joined in.
After two days, Rayburn finally came home from the vet. Wynn and I baked him a jar full of healthy dog treats. When I gave them to Holly, her eyes filled, she took my hand, and said, “Hiring you might have been the single smartest thing I’ve done in a long while.” And then she kissed me on both cheeks.
For a minute, those kisses of Holly’s shocked me stiff. I could count on one hand the people I allowed close to me. The longer we stayed in Hope Springs, the closer I got to needing another hand. And as much as I wanted to find our perfect place, I still wasn’t positive this was it. Nan sure wasn’t convinced. Getting too familiar meant getting hurt when we left. And we always left.
Arletta always said, “More often than not, the gift doesn’t matter as much as the act of giving.” I’d never stuck around long enough to see what Arletta meant until I gave Abby that paper fish. Which might mean I’d have to revise my firmly followed Relocation Rule Number 12: Give good gifts rather than goodbyes. It seemed like a lot of the rules Nan and I’d been living by could use a closer look, and I found myself hoping long and hard that a goodbye wouldn’t happen anytime soon.
As I worked moving bolts of fabric from the back, I uncovered a dozen old sewing machines hidden by a stack of boxes. I walked up front with an armload of cotton prints.
“What’s with all the machines in the back?” I asked.
“I used to teach classes before this place got so cluttered. Attendance dipped lower as I got messier. Just never started it up again.” She stroked Rayburn and whispered into his flappy ear. “But who knows? Now that I’ve got some help…” Holly gave him another treat and lost her train of thought while scratching his head.
The sewing machines gave me an idea. “Holly, would you mind if I use one of those? Wynn’s been helping out so much, especially with the cooking, I thought I might make him an apron.”
“Sure. Whatever you need.” She didn’t take her eyes off Rayburn.
Once, I saw Arletta Paisley make a chef’s apron on a show geared toward summer picnics and grilling. I’d just opened up Arletta Paisley’s website on Holly’s clunky old computer when I heard, “Oh, no you don’t.” Holly reached around me to close the window. “Let’s make it together. I’ll teach you how to modify a pattern.”
As much as I trusted her, I suspected the offer had more to do with her dislike of Arletta than helping me. “Arletta cares about Hope Springs, Holly. She changed her whole show to help small towns.”
“Jubilee, I appreciate your loyalty to her, but I bet every town she’s stopping in is about to have or already has a SmartMart. It’s a way for her to get rich and SmartMart to get richer, without having to look bad doing it.” She motioned to the aisles. “I know it’s a mess, but here in this store, I help folks create using what they’ve learned from real people. I taught what I learned from my mother and grandmother, not from a TV show or the computer.”
“Well, some people don’t have that.” My voice was louder than I’d intended. I cleared my throat. “I mean, some people don’t have family members with any crafting skills. So they have to teach themselves.”
Holly sighed. “You’re right, sweet girl. Of course, you’re right about that.” She studied the aisles again. “Times have changed, and you’ve half convinced me there’s room for both ways.”
The first time I’d gone to SmartMart, I’d been shopping for supplies for my very first Arletta Paisley project—embroidered handkerchiefs. The quote from that episode floated back to me now—“Hard times make the good times special”—a quote she’d hand-stitched on one cloth. I liked the idea that a little pain made life more interesting; I especially liked that Arletta f
elt the same way.
I crossed my arms. “Haven’t you ever shopped at a SmartMart?”
“Before I noticed how many businesses were closing, I did. I’ll only go now if I can’t get what I need here in Hope Springs. Funny how many times it turns out I didn’t really need it after all.”
Holly riffled through the shelf of patterns, leaving me alone to think. Maybe she was saying that a true crafter made do, and part of the joy of crafting was creating without step-by-step directions and a kit. I’d have asked her more but was thrown off when she held up a pattern for a bib apron with a ruffled hem. “Here, with a few alterations, this’ll do. We’ll put a big pocket on the chest, adjust the waist, and leave the ruffle off.”
I raised my eyebrows doubtfully.
“Come on, I’ll help,” she said. “Besides, patterns are a little like life. We take what we’ve got and make it suit our needs. We run the show.”
Holly could alter, cut a pattern, and sew like she was doing nothing harder than threading a needle. I picked out a fabric that looked like a black-and-white Holstein cow and a red bandanna print for the pocket and straps. With Holly’s help, I finished the apron in about an hour.
I could hardly wait to give Wynn his gift. I wrapped it up in green tissue paper, tied a bright blue grosgrain ribbon in a bow around it, and slid it into a Fabric Barn bag. Had I ever given Wynn some sort of appreciation over the years? Not even a scrap. An apron was the least I could do.
After work, Wynn howled along with Carrie Underwood, and I sat in his truck with the baggie on my lap, unable to work up the nerve to give it to him. When we walked in, Nan was at our small kitchen table with Miss Esther, deep in conversation.
“After that, I did what I had to do to get by. Raised all three kids without a dime from their father,” Miss Esther said.
Nan nodded. “Some heartaches never quite heal, do they?” she said quietly. This was not a quote or a Relocation Rule or anything else I’d ever heard her say before. Then she did something even more surprising. She patted Miss Esther’s hand.
