When he returned, Marianne had designed, created, printed and hung mini-posters of his furniture sale at the high school tomorrow and the following day. He looked at her, eyebrows up.
“Hey, my customers have good taste. They'd want to know about the chance to buy hand-crafted custom wooden furniture.”
* * *
Saturday morning, Emma slept in and awoke in her little apartment in Myrtle Beach proper, inland from the coast about six miles. She’d been in her own place a few years now, and loved the independence. However, she couldn't get over a niggling guilty feeling for no longer living at home with her parents. Of course, it was normal for a woman her age to live on her own, but in light of her family situation, it would be helpful to her parents to combine her income with theirs and pay the bills all together.
She sighed. That’s why she still put aside a little cash every month and either gave it to her mom to help out, or just bought groceries for them and dropped them off. It was part of her reality.
She hopped out of bed and arranged the bedding neatly, then moved to her galley kitchen to make cereal and coffee. While waiting for the brew, she opened her door, picked up the newspaper delivered there and opened it, absorbed in the print while she walked back to her couch. She flipped through the sections, then to the community calendar. An ad caught her eye – the annual Craft Fair at Myrtle Beach High School.
She’d been there before and it was generally well attended by artisans of all kinds and shoppers wanting to get a jump on holiday shopping. She liked to buy a new tree ornament or two every year, and an addition to her Santa or snowman collections. Handmade was better than mass-produced.
She scanned the ad for participants: knit and crocheted goods, cut wood decorations, jewelry, basket weaving, custom wood furniture.
She wondered if Jeremy Harrison would be there. He hadn’t mentioned it, but it seemed like a good market for him. If he were, she could get some shots of him interacting with customers. It would be good for the article.
Right?
She smiled and headed for the shower.
* * *
Jeremy arrived at the high school ninety minutes before the show opened. He’d loaded everything he could on his truck, but he’d have to make at least one, maybe two more trips to the Inn and back. He left the merchandise in the truck and wandered into the front door. Not many people had shown up yet. He made his way to the check-in desk and gave his name to a harried-looking woman.
She ran her finger down a list of names on a clipboard, made a notation and handed him a big 12 printed on a square card. “Here you go. You’re in the cafeteria in front of the vending machines. Pretty good spot. Everyone will pass through there at one point.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I have several trips to make. Could I unload what I have now and leave? Are the items secure?”
She nodded. “The only folks in and out of here now are other artisans. Doors don’t open to the public until nine. Do you need help carrying stuff in?” She motioned and several teenage boys leaning against the wall looked over.
He chuckled. “That’d be real nice. Thank you.”
“Boys! Here’s your chance to work. Look alive, now.”
Jeremy headed over to the three boys. “Look at it this way. Lifting heavy furniture builds biceps, and girls love buff muscles.” The boys grinned at each other and rolled their eyes.
They made quick work of unloading two dressers, two bookshelves and a coffee table, and carrying them to the booth. Jeremy convinced one of the boys to drive back to the Inn with him by promising a donation for the marching band, which was benefiting from the craft fair. With the kid’s help, he loaded the remaining pieces into the truck and was about to head back to the fair when Marianne called to him.
“Jeremy. Wait!” She jogged to him, clutching a big book. He watched her curiously.
“Whatcha got there, sis?”
She panted as she finished the last few steps. “I made this for you to display at the show.”
It was a photo album with a rich brown leather cover. He opened it and saw that it held plastic-covered pages containing 8x10 photos of his furniture, the ones he’d taken last night. It was striking, full of class.
He moved his eyes to meet hers. He was debating what to say when a sting hit his eyes. “Sis. This is unbelievable.”
“You like it?” she said with an enthusiastic smile. “I think it’ll look real nice at your booth. Just set it on one of the pieces. Or prop it open so people can see what’s in there.”
He took a step closer and pulled her into a hug. “Marianne, what would I do without you?” he murmured into her ear.
She squeezed him. “Anything I can do to help, you know that.”
He pulled back and flipped through the book. It really was impressive. “When did you do this?” He was stunned.
“It didn’t take long. I uploaded the images you took to the drug store website, and the prints were developed in less than an hour. I picked them up and bought the album while I was there. Slipped them in and … done. Easy peasy.”
Jeremy flipped the book closed. “Thank you, sis. How much do I owe you?” He knew she wouldn’t take any money but he wasn’t about to take her generosity for granted.
As expected, she punched him on the shoulder, dismissing his question. “Go on back. I’ll stop by later this afternoon to check out your booth and do some shopping for the Inn.”
She waved to the teenage helper as Jeremy hopped up into the truck. They were back to the fair about forty minutes after they’d left.
The doors opened and masses of people came in. The organizer was right – he was in a very central location that drew traffic. He sold four or five of his smaller pieces before noon. He talked and talked till he was hoarse, describing his custom furniture, his process, his prices. At least a dozen customers took flyers and business cards with them and promised to call for a quote. The leather-bound photo album was a hit. He couldn’t count how many times he looked up and saw someone flipping through it. Several customers left their phone numbers with a request for Jeremy to follow up with them next week.
At one point he was gulping from his bottle of water during a break in the action and he caught a glimpse of a woman in the distance who looked a lot like Emma Slotky, the reporter. He swallowed and took a closer look. She was gone. He moved and took a few steps but either it hadn’t been her, or she had moved on.
“Excuse me, do you make the furniture?” a voice interrupted him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, put his bottle down and went back to work.
Around two o’clock, Jeremy had just wrapped up a sale when he heard a female voice, “Smile!” He looked up and saw Emma with a camera to her eye. He held a hand up to block his face.
“I thought I saw you earlier.”
“Really?” She looked somewhat pleased with that statement. “You’re the most awful photography subject in the world. Move your hand so I can get a decent shot.”
He reluctantly dropped his hand. “I hate having my picture taken.”
“Why?”
He shrugged.
She snapped a few shots of him despite his refusal to pose, turned the camera around and looked in the small viewfinder. She said with a delighted tone, “Well, look at that; you’re very photogenic! The camera loves you, baby.” She turned the screen towards him but he rolled his eyes.
“Why are you taking my picture?”
“For the article. It dawned on me that I don’t have any of you, just your furniture. This is a great setting to take shots of you surrounded by adoring fans.”
He scoffed. “Yeah, right. Adoring fans.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you’re laughing about. You’ve had more traffic than any other booth. Do you know how long I’ve had to wait to get a chance to talk to you? In fact, I have several shots of you talking to customers, with a long line waiting.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, man. You
mop up at these fairs? How many of these have you done?”
“I’ve done a few.”
“If I were you I’d find a bunch more and sign up.”
He had to admit it had been a successful day, and there were still four more hours left today, and a whole day tomorrow. Emma put her camera down and started scanning the remaining furniture pieces. “Your work is lovely, and it’s very reasonably priced. You could probably raise your prices and still sell them.”
“Something to consider for later, but for now, I want to keep my prices low. My business expenses are low so I can pass that savings on to my customers.”
She nodded. She studied his face for a long moment which caused his skin to go warm. She pointed at a bag sitting on a table. “Are you hungry?”
He was, but he said, “No, I’m fine.”
She chuckled. “I bought a couple hamburgers. I’m hungry, but I don’t think I could eat both of them. Will you share one with me?”
He sighed. “You bought me lunch?”
“No. I bought myself some lunch and I have more than I need.” She turned her back and pulled two wrapped burgers out of the bag, then unwrapped one and turned to him again. After a second’s hesitation, she took a big bite. The delicious scent of the beef wafted to him.
“Mmmm,” she moaned.
Without another thought, he grabbed the second hamburger, unwrapped it and took a bite. She choked out a laugh with her mouth full. Struggling to get control, she quickly chewed, swallowed, then punched him on the arm.
“Sorry,” he mumbled while eating. “This thing is good.”
They finished their hamburgers before more customers came. When he got busy again, Emma picked up her camera, took a few shots and slid away into the crowd with a wave. All he could think as she walked away was how he liked the way her hair bounced, then he forced his attention back to his customer.
Chapter Five
The sanding machine sputtered to a stop, and Jeremy ran one hand along the freshly worked surface. Soft and smooth. Perfect. It had been over a week since the fair and the orders kept coming in. Lots of orders. Lucrative orders. Maybe the fair was his big break? He worked day and night now, but he was in his element, at his happiest when he was creating, alone and in the zone.
A long, rolling growl emerged from his stomach. So long that it was impossible to ignore, it literally shook his mid-section with its urgency. He put down the sanding machine. He chuckled and headed across the yard to the backdoor of his house. Inside the kitchen, he glanced at the clock. Two in the afternoon. He'd worked till one am last night, slept about 5 hours, then got up and continued this morning. He'd forgotten to eat. Again.
He made a quick sandwich, grabbed a half-empty bag of chips and sat at the table. He devoured the sandwich and stepped back to the counter to make another one. Needing something to read while he ate, he strode through the bungalow, opened the front door and reached into the mailbox hanging next to the door. He grabbed a small handful of mail and returned. A big manila envelope cradled the smaller envelopes. He pulled it out. The return address said “Seminal Magazine.”
He ripped it open and pulled out three copies of the magazine, along with a handwritten note from Emma.
“Jeremy, your comp copies. Feel free to use them for advertising your business. If you need ideas, let me know, I have a few. It was nice working with you and I wish you the best in your … everything. Emma.”
He considered the note for a moment, then set it aside. He flipped the first magazine open, paging through. It wasn't a particularly impressive magazine compared to the ones he saw on the rack in the grocery store, but it was a local business that had been serving the Myrtle community for decades. His flipping slowed when he encountered the feature article — his. The article spanned five pages or so, but the huge picture on the first page was him. Not a posed shot, he was standing in his booth at the craft fair talking to a customer. He hated pictures, but even more so since his release from prison. There was just something about putting himself out there, publicizing his image and his story that was completely opposite of what he'd learned inside.
Lie low under the radar, don't bring attention to yourself — that was how he'd survived. Never stand out. The price could be fierce if you did.
He put the mag down for a second to calm his racing breath. He wanted to read the dang article, and no way could he with his hands shaking like this.
A minute later, he picked it up again and read. Although the article featured three ex-cons, it began with him:
“Light white ash, perfect for a nursery ensemble. Aromatic cedar, formed into chests to store your linens — lay your head against the sheets and breathe in the smell while you drift off to sleep. Formal cherry wood, reminiscent of Victorian living rooms.
“Have you ever wanted to pick and choose your furniture, made to your specifications? To fill a particular nook or corner, or furnish an entire room? But the price stopped you. You're not made of money, after all.
“Now, you can. Pick and choose to your heart's desire: a new wood craftsman is in town, and he's making gorgeous wood furniture, all of which will hold its cherished place in your family's future generations. And … the prices are reasonable. In fact, they're a downright steal.”
Jeremy flinched. Heat flooded his face and he blinked rapidly.
“Jeremy Harrison is no stranger to stealing. In fact, he just finished a decade of imprisonment due to some stealing he's done in the past. But he's done with that now. He's served his time and now just wants a chance to earn a living doing what he loves — a craft he learned while imprisoned.”
Jeremy let out a roar, threw the magazine on the floor and stomped out the door.
* * *
In a few days, it was time for his monthly check-in with Neil. As he made his way over to Georgetown, his cell phone rang. He had no intention of answering it (a state law was being debated in the Senate as to whether or not it would become illegal to talk on the phone while driving, and he wasn't about to push his luck) but he pulled it out of his shirt pocket to see who it was. The reporter … again. She'd left two messages in as many days to find out if he'd gotten the magazines and what he thought of them. He wondered if she truly cared, or if she was trying to rub it in. What had her intentions been? To help him or destroy him?
He cursed under his breath and jabbed the phone in his pocket. When he'd discovered her past connection to him, he should've called Neil right then and put his foot down. Find another ground breaking role model. Not him. His instincts had been on prickly alert and he'd ignored them. Now, he had to deal with the bashing she'd inflicted on him in the article.
His best bet now was to put the article behind him. Hope the small circulation worked in his favor, and no one read it. He certainly hadn't shared his comp copies with his family. Let it slip into oblivion.
He ducked his head and ran up the stairs to the waiting room, gave his name and sat down.
“You again.”
The words came from his left and he rotated his head in that direction. The face looked familiar and he remembered why. He’d served time with him in Columbia, but he’d also run into him last month, right here in this very spot.
“Oh, hey man. How are you doin’?”
“Not good at all.” The man was stick-thin, even skinnier than he remembered him. He had an itchiness to him, his eyes wide, like any little sound would startle him. He maneuvered around the outstretched legs of the few men sitting between his seat and Jeremy’s, squatting down in front of him. He lowered his voice and Jeremy had to strain to hear him.
“This ain’t goin’ well at all. I was in prison for eight years and couldn’t wait to get released. Now I’ve been out a few months and they’re out to get me. I swear they want to send me back there, I swear they do.”
Don’t get involved, don’t get involved. “When you say ‘they,’ who do you mean, exactly?”
“My probation officer. I’m here today on a disciplinary call. T
hey claim I broke into a gas station but it wasn’t me, I swear it wasn’t. They don’t want people like me outside, they want to send me back.”
“Wait. Were you arrested? For a break-in?”
“Yeah, but they let me go. They got nothin’ on me. I didn’t do it, man!”
“But why were you a suspect?”
“They’re treating us like babies. Can’t do anything, they start to get suspicious.”
This conversation was getting too far into territory Jeremy had no interest in finding himself. He didn’t owe this guy anything, and obviously this ex-con was not adjusting well to life on the outside. Best to shut down connections with him ASAP. “Sorry, man. The best you can do is the best you can do. Keep trying. It’s not easy but it’s worth it.”
He planted a look on Jeremy, a combination of irritation and detest. “What are you, an inspirational speaker? What the hell. I got real problems, man. Can’t find a job. When I got one, I got fired. They suspect me of a crime just because of who I was hanging out with. Now I’m in trouble with my officer. He’s goin’ ta be pissed today, man.” The man brought his fingers up to his mouth and nibbled on his nail beds, skittering his gaze around like a paranoid soul. “In fact, you better watch yourself, too. Remember Leroy? Leroy White from the big house?”
The name came roaring into Jeremy’s head from a long-recessed memory. Leroy, yeah, he remembered him. The decade Jeremy had spent behind bars had brought up several encounters with the big, mean low country man with a nasty streak of violence. Jeremy had just been moved from his first facility to his second, and he was going through the ritualization most men had to go through as a new inmate – establishing where he was going to fit in among the other prisoners.
The meanest and the strongest were in charge. The weakest and the most scared were their servants. Jeremy made sure he was somewhere in the middle, and several times over the course of his imprisonment, he’d had to prove that he wasn’t someone to mess with.
Pawleys Island Paradise boxset, Books 1 - 3 Page 31
