by Gail Oust
After digging into his pants pockets, CJ fished out a set of car keys and placed it on the counter in front of me. “Thought I’d stop by and drop off Lindsey’s car keys. Tell her I had Reba Mae’s boy rotate the tires and change the oil.”
“Sure thing,” I said, taking the keys and tossing them into a drawer. Lindsey’s red Mustang convertible had been a bone of contention when CJ presented it to her on her sixteenth birthday. A consolation prize of sorts for having divorced parents.
CJ returned his attention to Reba Mae and flashed his chemically whitened choppers. “I hear your boy is doin’ a fine job of keepin’ Cloune Motors in business.”
“Caleb has a God-given talent tinkerin’ with motors.” When it came to her twins, Reba Mae couldn’t keep her pride from showing.
“Heard Diane Cloune is huntin’ for a buyer for the place. She’s lookin’ at real estate in Atlanta. Got her eye on a place in Buckhead and needs the cash.”
“That so?” Reba Mae replied, her tone noncommittal. “And accordin’ to the grapevine, I heard talk you’re thinkin’ of hirin’ yourself a personal trainer. Any truth to the rumor?”
At Reba Mae’s question, CJ’s expression turned stormy.
“Reba Mae just found out she landed a role in Steel Magnolias,” I interjected before the thundercloud burst.
“Steel Magnolias?” CJ scratched his head. “Piper, isn’t that the chick flick you dragged me to years ago? For the life of me, I don’t know why women like to cry in movies till their mascara runs. Gimme a good shoot-’em-up and car chase any ol’ day.”
“Son, are you certain I can’t interest you in a bit of the bubbly?” Melly asked, as gracious as a hostess at a soiree.
I took the offer of champagne as my cue to hop down from the stool. “I’ll get another cup.”
CJ flicked his wrist to glance at the gold Rolex I’d once given him for an anniversary gift. In exchange, I received a dozen roses. I swear they were the same sorry-looking bunch I’d seen in the produce aisle at the Piggly Wiggly. “Don’t bother,” he said. “I’m meetin’ a client in fifteen minutes. Seems this guy slipped on a bar of soap and wants to sue the manufacturer for pain and sufferin’. I told ’im he’s got a good case. Things that slippery oughta carry a warnin’ label.”
Ain’t that the truth? I wished CJ had come with a warning label. Something along the lines: BEWARE OF SLIPPERY SMOOTH-TALKERS OOZING SOUTHERN CHARM. I brought myself up short, thinking of the lovely daughter and smart, good-looking son our marriage had produced. CJ and I’d had plenty of good times, lots of good memories until he decided he needed his “space.” Needed to “find” himself. Fortunately for me, I’d moved on.
CJ rocked back on his polished loafers. “So, just to be clear, all this celebratin’s just ’cause Reba Mae’s gonna try her hand at actin’?”
Melly, Reba Mae, and I exchanged conspiratorial looks. I traced the rim of my teacup with a fingertip. Melly sighed. “You might as well hear it, son, straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”
CJ’s forehead creased in another frown. “Out with it, Momma,” he demanded. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and invested in some fool get-rich-quick scheme and now you need me to bail you out. I don’t want to hear that you used your last twenty bucks for a bottle of cheap champagne to drown your sorrows.”
Melly climbed down from her stool and went around the counter to confront him. “I did no such thing.”
CJ aimed a finger in her direction. “If you’re tryin’ to get up the nerve to ask if you can come live with Amber and me, you might want to consider one of those senior citizen homes. The kind that cater to folks your age. We got plenty of room, but between my work schedule and what with Amber busy with weddin’ plans, neither of us are home much. You’d be lonesome and spend all your time mopin’.”
Fisting her hands on her hips, Melly looked her son dead in the eye. “Chandler Jameson Prescott, mind your tone. Stop treating me like some doddering old fool. For your information, I haven’t lost my last red cent to some harebrained scheme. Quite the contrary. I’m about to become quite wealthy—and I owe it all to Piper.”
“Momma, you’re startin’ to scare me. You comin’ down with old-timers’ disease?”
“It’s not old-timers’, you idiot,” Reba Mae informed him. “It’s Alzheimer’s.”
“Really, Melly, I can’t take any credit for—,” I protested.
“Nonsense,” Melly cut me off. “For the record, CJ, I’m in full possession of my faculties. Matter of fact, I might even decide to put the house on the market and buy myself a condo in some place like Hilton Head.”
“Momma, you’re not makin’ a lick of sense. I think you should go home and rest a spell.”
Melly whipped out the letter she’d received from the software firm. “Here, read this.”
CJ’s brow furrowed once more as he read the letter. “Sounds like a scam, if you ask me,” he said, handing it back. “No way a woman your age could come up with an idea to make a company hand over that much money.”
“Well, she did, and they can,” I said, summing it up.
CJ shot me a look before turning back to his mother. “Momma, don’t sign a thing without the advice of a good lawyer.”
“And who might that be?” Reba Mae inquired oh-so sweetly.
CJ ignored her. “I’m tellin’ you, Momma, it’s a trick of some sort. Folks your age should be content to take life easy. To sit in a recliner with the TV tuned to the Weather Channel, and not fool around tryin’ to design software.”
“I didn’t design. I merely modified preexisting software.”
“Melly made some changes on my point-of-sale while I was out one afternoon. And I have to admit, I was amazed at how much more efficiently it operated. I can understand your doubts, CJ, but—”
“It’s a scam,” he repeated obstinately.
“CJ Prescott, that’s quite enough!” Melly’s patience was wearing thin. “I researched Trustychipdesign.com long before ever submitting my idea. I assure you Chip Balboa and Rusty Tulley are highly respected in their field and very successful businessmen. If they think my … modifications … are valuable, then who am I to quibble?”
“Hmph!” CJ snorted. “Well, I’m going to check them out myself. In the meantime, Momma, don’t sign any contracts until I look them over. Take advantage of your son’s free legal expertise.”
“When are this Chip and Rusty expected?” I asked.
“Gracious.” Melly looked flustered. “I’m afraid I was in so much of a hurry to share my good news that I didn’t pay attention to minor details. I confess I might’ve been temporarily blinded by the dollar signs.”
“There’s no time like the present. Give it up, hon. Let me take a gander.” Reba Mae stuck out her hand, and Melly gave her the letter.
Spice It Up! grew so still that the only sound to be heard was Casey snoring softly in the storeroom at the rear of the store. Although we’d quickly skimmed Melly’s letter earlier, none of us paid much attention to the closing paragraph.
“Well?” I asked impatiently. “When are they coming?”
CJ edged closer. For all his skepticism, I knew he was every bit as interested as we were. Reba Mae looked at me, her expression dazed.
“Well…,” I prompted again.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Their letter states they’re arriving tomorrow afternoon. They plan to spend several days in Brandywine Creek before headin’ to Savannah.”
Melly clapped her hand to her chest. “Goodness! Tomorrow? I’ve got a thousand and one things to do before they get here. Reba Mae, can you squeeze me in for an early morning appointment? I want to look my best when I meet Chip and Rusty.”
“I’ll check my appointment book the minute I get back to the Klassy Kut.”
“I’ll go with you.” Melly hooked her arm through Reba Mae’s and steered her toward the door. “Soon as I get home, I’m going to bake a fresh batch of gingersnaps. Nothing says welcome like homemade
cookies.”
The instant the door swung shut behind them, CJ turned to me. “Thanks to you,” he growled, “Momma’s talkin’ about tradin’ in the family home for a condo on the beach.”
I tuned him out and proceeded to stack the teacups.
“What next?” he ranted. “A villa in Tuscany? Momma’s led a sheltered life. When Daddy was alive, he treated her like a queen. She never had to lift a finger. Never had to balance a checkbook or pump her own gas.”
I stopped what I was doing and tried to reason with him. “Your mother is an intelligent, self-sufficient woman, CJ. I’m sure her talent with computers came as a shock, but chill. Relax and let her enjoy her time in the limelight.”
“Easy for you to say.” He glared at me. “The way I see it, this whole thing is gonna be nothin’ but trouble. I’m warnin’ you, Piper, quit interferin’ in Momma’s life.”
CHAPTER 3
ME, INTERFERE? I fumed as I watched CJ stalk out of my shop. How dare he accuse me of interfering in his mother’s life? I’d never dream of doing such a thing. And if the thought ever did occur to me, Melly would squash it like a June bug.
Melly Prescott had a mind of her own. And an opinion on most every subject. Times too numerous to mention, she’d made her opinion of me quite clear. Seems I never measured up to her image of the wife she’d envisioned for her precious son. Not only did he marry a Yankee, but also one who hailed from—of all places—Detroit. Then, to add insult to injury, it snowed on our wedding day. Anyone familiar with Michigan knows an early snowfall in late October isn’t impossible. Snow, however, was a foreign concept to a Southern belle born and bred in the Peach State. As God is my witness, she declared to everyone within earshot, I’ll never again step foot north of the Mason–Dixon Line. Her theatrics would have made Gone with the Wind star Vivien Leigh green with envy.
I carried the teacups to a sink at the rear of the shop, near the storeroom where I’d installed a small kitchen with the intention of hosting occasional cooking demos. My first attempt, however, had been a disaster of tsunami proportions. Maybe the time had come for me to get back on the horse that threw me. I made a mental note to ask Dr. Doug Winters, one of the best cooks in a town full of good cooks, in to show off his culinary skills. Doug wasn’t only a great cook and a terrific veterinarian but he was also a wonderful human being, too. He and I had been seen together so often, people were starting to think of us as a couple. Truth be told, even I’d begun to think of us that way. Doug was sweet, affectionate, easy to be with, and I was seriously “in like” with him. For the time being, however, we had an unspoken agreement to take things slow.
I turned on the tap and added a generous squirt of detergent. I was up to my elbows in soapy water when the front door opened. I could’ve kicked myself for not locking up behind CJ when I’d had the chance. Thinking to see a last-minute shopper, I forced a welcoming smile.
Wyatt McBride—make that Chief of Police Wyatt McBride—sauntered toward me as if he had all the time in the world and nothing better to do. He looked his usual tall, dark, and dangerous self in a starched navy blue uniform and a big, bad gun strapped to his waist. Actually, he’d look tall, dark, and dangerous regardless of what he was wearing—or wasn’t. Not that I have firsthand knowledge of the latter, because I didn’t. Blame it on women’s intuition.
“I’m surprised to find your shop still open after your usual closing time,” he said. A hint of Georgia lingered in his smooth baritone.
I rinsed suds from the cups and set them in a rack to drain. “Are you here in an official capacity, McBride? Or are you in the market for spice other than salt and pepper, your old standbys?”
“Nothing wrong with good old salt and pepper.”
“Boring.” I reached for a dish towel to dry my hands. “Food tastes better if you spice it up a bit.”
He hooked his thumbs in his belt and grinned. The dimple in his right cheek made a brief appearance. “Would you believe my visit is part of a community outreach program? Sort of a ‘make nice with the local business owners’ project of mine?”
“Nice try, but no.” I hung the towel on a hook to dry.
Something in my tone caused my faithful mutt to wake from his nap. I swear Casey slept as much as a newborn. The pup yawned broadly, then padded over to the lawman to sit at his feet. Casey’s tail swished back and forth like a metronome in a pathetic bid for attention.
McBride squatted on his haunches and scratched the sweet spot behind Casey’s ears. The small dog practically writhed in ecstasy. “How you doing, boy?”
Judging from Casey’s unabashed behavior, I concluded my pet was doing quite well indeed. I’d lecture him later on the pitfalls of being too “easy.” A more discerning animal would have held out for a doggy treat before surrendering in a undignified display of adoration.
“So how’s business?” McBride asked as he got to his feet.
“Why the sudden interest?” I swept past him, headed for the front of the shop.
McBride joined me as I started tidying up. Grabbing the champagne bottle, I debated whether to save what was left or dump the contents. McBride raised a brow. “Since when have you started drinking in the middle of the day? Experts say drinking alone is a bad habit.”
“I wasn’t drinking alone.” I dropped the bottle in the waste basket with a resounding thud. “I had company.”
He waited for me to continue.
“Plenty of company.” I huffed out a breath. “Reba Mae and Melly were here. We were celebrating.”
“Celebrating?” A corner of his mouth twitched in another smile. “I’m having a hard time picturing prim and proper Melly Prescott sipping champagne in the middle of the afternoon—and out of a teacup, no less.”
“Well, I’m fresh out of champagne flutes.” I hoisted the trash bag from the basket, tied it shut, and set it by the back door as a reminder to put it in the Dumpster later. Then I returned to the front of the shop where McBride waited. “Reba Mae won a role in a play the opera house is putting on this season.”
“Don’t tell me—Melly Prescott is also a budding thespian, and there was a part for an older woman who is never without her pearls.”
The thought of Melly onstage in her signature pearls and twinsets made me laugh. “No,” I said. “Melly isn’t destined to be an actress, but she’s about to come into a nice sum of money.”
“How’s that? She win the Georgia lottery?”
“No lottery ticket needed in Melly’s case. Seems she has a God-given knack with computers. She redesigned a software program. Some company’s convinced it’ll be their next big moneymaker.”
McBride shook his head, bemused. “Never would have guessed she’d be the type to even own a computer.”
“Goes to show, you can’t judge a book by its cover.” I opened the cash register to tally the day’s sales. “Not only is Melly a computer whiz, she can also program a DVR, converse on Facebook, has more apps on her smartphone than Lindsey, and—” I paused for dramatic effect. “—she can text with her thumbs.”
“Both thumbs, eh?” McBride said, sounding suitably impressed. “Gotta admire someone with that kind of skill set.”
I glanced up from my neat piles of fives, tens, and twenties. “You’re not the type for idle chatter, McBride. Now that we’ve exhausted the subject of drinking in the middle of the day, why not tell me what’s on your mind?”
An uncertain expression crossed his too-handsome-for-his-own-good face. “I … ah … need a favor.”
Apparently, asking favors didn’t come easily for the man, so I stopped counting cash and waited for him to continue. “Go ahead, ask away.”
He dug into his back pocket and brought out a wrinkled page torn from a glossy magazine. “Here,” he said, handing it to me. “I wanted you to look at this and give me your honest opinion.”
“Sure.” Curious, I placed it on the counter and smoothed out the wrinkles. It was a photo of a kitchen, complete with stainless steel appliances
, gleaming hardwood floors, granite countertops, and ceramic backsplash.
“So, what do you think?” He shifted from one foot to the other. “Like it?”
“What’s not to like? It’s every cook’s dream kitchen.” I returned the page. “I take it you’re planning on doing some renovating.”
He carefully tucked it into his pocket. “You mentioned awhile back that kitchens are a good place to start. My Realtor agreed. Thing is—when it comes to renovating, I don’t know the first thing about it.”
I tried to hide a smirk, though don’t think I succeeded. “If memory serves, McBride, you’ve admitted to owning a hammer. You even confessed you are that rare breed of man who occasionally reads directions.”
“Are you suggesting I buy more tools? Do the job myself?”
“Heavens no!” I exclaimed, horrified by the notion. “From the little I’ve seen, you don’t have a domestic bone in your body. Since you seem to want my opinion, I suggest you hire a good contractor.”
Relief washed across his features. “Any recommendations?”
I went back to sorting bills. “Well, Reba Mae’s son Clay works for various contractors in the area. He might be a good one to talk to. Might even be able to do some of the work himself. Pick up a little extra cash on the side.”
“Sounds perfect.” He smiled again, showing off that danged dimple. “I’ll swing by and have a chat with him.”
I followed him as he turned to leave. This time I intended to turn the OPEN sign to CLOSED. I could use a power nap before Lindsey returned from cheerleading practice. The champagne I’d consumed was making me drowsy.
McBride stopped in the doorway. “I’m considering your advice to knock out the back wall and have a deck built. I might even do something wild and crazy such as invest in a gas grill and retire my George Foreman.”
“Now you’re talking.” I stifled a yawn as he walked away.
The midafternoon drinking must have slowed my reflexes because before I could twist the lock, Thompson Gray’s face appeared on the opposite side of the glass door.
“Thompson,” I said, stepping back and allowing him entry. “I was just about to close up shop.”
