“Greer,” I said under my breath.
“Did you just growl at me?” Tina took a swig of her ever-present energy drink and looked at me over her bright purple rhinestone-studded reading glasses.
“No.” I laughed at her offended look. “I missed a phone call from Greer and…” I glanced back at my phone. “…from someone else I don’t know.” The other number was a different area code and not one I recognized. It wasn’t my Mama Dearest’s number nor the right area code to be any of my extended family.
“Oh, how is Greer?” Tina rolled her eyes and tucked a strand of perfectly highlighted blond hair behind one ear. I have no idea how the errant strand had escaped because her whole head of hair had been hair sprayed within an inch of its life.
“Doing well.” I glanced back at my phone. “She probably just needs something from the attic or shed.”
I was fond of Greer, who had rented me her well-kept Victorian at a great price when I moved to St. Ignatius. The darling eighty-something had decided a move to The Good Life, the town’s senior living center, was in order and made me a great deal on the rent. The only caveat had been she wanted to leave some things behind until she decided what to do with them. However, with increasing frequency, Greer had been calling with various things she wanted me to look for in the many boxes and trunks.
“It’s ridiculous she expects you, a renter, to do that.” Tina shook her head. “Most people would simply sell their house and be done with it.”
It could be as a real estate agent Tina had more than a passing interest.
“I think it’s hard for her to let go and face no longer having her home to go back to.” Whatever the reason, Greer wasn’t ready to sell her house and I wasn’t yet in any position to buy, but I hoped by the time she decided to put it on the market, I’d be able to swing the mortgage.
“Hmmpf.” Tina leaned back in her seat, removed her purple glasses, and eyed me. “You know, Sugar, I have a Plum Passion eye shadow that would be stunning with your dark hair and gray eyes. Just stunning.” She fumbled in her bag and I hoped she wasn’t going to apply Plum Passion right then and there. “Not that you need help. Those classic cheekbones, that porcelain skin, and the contrast of your gorgeous dark chocolate hair. Still, it doesn’t hurt to ice the cake, you know.” She gave me a wink and handed me a business card.
“Thanks, hon.” I took the embossed card though I was pretty sure I had one already. “We’ll talk later.” I would call my cheekbones angular, my skin type, pale and guaranteed to sunburn, and though I liked chocolate, I thought plain old dark brown better described my hair color. I wondered if Tina’s real estate ads reflected her penchant for colorful descriptions.
Picking Greer’s number from the recent calls, I started to step away and hit redial. Clearly Tina didn’t think much of my arrangement with my landlady. It was a good thing Greer wasn’t counting on her for help. I’d heard Greer had a son who lived in Minneapolis, which was not much of a jaunt, but he’d not been to see her in a long while. Not in all the time since I’d known her anyway.
“Let’s get back to the business at hand,” Harriet clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention.
I dropped my phone in my bag. I’d have to call Greer back after the meeting and then I could also check to see if the other caller had left a message.
By the time order was restored and we’d taken care of all the other details, it was more than an hour later than what I’d planned. I thanked everyone, gathered my papers, shut down my laptop, and headed for the door.
I assured everyone who stopped me, and most did, that I would talk to Elsie and Bertie and we’d come up with a solution. I spotted Jimmie LeBlanc headed my way and I have to admit I ducked out as quickly as I could before he could corner me about his history tome.
“One crisis at a time,” I muttered to myself as I piled my things into the back of Big Blue, my dark blue Jeep. The Jeep had been my last big purchase before I left corporate land and I knew I probably should downsize my vehicle like I’d downsized other things in my life but I liked the car and if Sugar and Spice Publishing could make a go of it, I might not have to. I slid behind the wheel and headed back to the office.
Now “the office” sounds way larger and much fancier than the little room in the back of the storefront on the town square that was the whole of Sugar and Spice Cookbook Publishing.
It had been a café once upon a time, but sat empty for long enough that the building owner was willing to offer the space at a discount. A big discount. Though small, it allowed Dixie a kitchen area for beta-testing and me both a small office and a sizable workspace for shuffling recipes and looking at layouts. The low overhead was key because this was our very first and only paying project. We’d fixed up the reception area without spending a lot thanks to chairs Dixie had unearthed from her family’s second barn aka storage unit. Bright red gingham curtains dressed the front windows and I’d decorated the walls of the outer office with some vintage cooking utensils I’d collected from a series of estate sales.
The business would grow. I knew it would. I had a meeting later in the week with a quilting guild the next county over, and one the following week with a breakfast club in town. But before all that, I had to get two iron-willed ladies to meet in the middle on scone recipes.
I could do it. I had to. If I couldn’t negotiate a truce, the St. Ignatius Founders’ Day Cookbook was down for the count.
Chapter Three
Dixie could not stop laughing.
“Dixie Spicer, I don’t think it’s funny at all and you wouldn’t either if you’d been there.” I attempted a glare but the rosy-cheeked redhead is an awfully difficult person to be mad at.
“Well, thank goodness I wasn’t because I would’ve thought it was hilarious, which would have irritated the living daylights out of my aunt.” She guffawed again as she thought about the scone stand-off.
Oh, one thing I forgot to mention earlier, Bertie Sparks aka Contender Two, who ran the Jefferson Street Bed & Breakfast, is Dixie’s aunt. The B & B was well-known across the midwest as a high-quality establishment, and Bertie worked hard to keep it going. I could understand why she had gotten so upset when Elsie Farmer had dissed it.
“I’ve got to fix this and fix it fast.” I plopped down at the desk and flipped through my notes.
“Good luck with that.” Dixie pulled her deep red hair into a ponytail as she talked. “Those two have been rivals as long as I can remember and they’re both about as pig-headed as they come. Last fall, we had…” She paused for effect. “Walnutgate.”
“What?” I looked up from my papers.
“There was this contest at church to see who could sell the most fancy walnuts during the Ladies’ Missions annual food pantry fundraiser. Elsie and Bertie were neck and neck, and then Elsie got a humongous order from out of town and left Aunt Bertie in the dust. Bertie claimed Elsie bought them herself to inflate her sales, but she couldn’t ever prove anything.”
“You might have mentioned that little tidbit of knowledge before I stepped smack dab in the middle of the Game of Scones. Now the committee is in an uproar over Elsie’s threat of her family pulling all their support for the Founders’ Day celebration. And if we don’t get this cookbook to the printer in the next six weeks our one and only paying gig is kaput.”
“Not to mention, we both have bills to pay.” Dixie suddenly turned serious. “I can’t ask my brother to bail me out again and my mom will just start bugging me to sell my house and move in with her.”
Dixie’s family had been very supportive when she’d lost her husband in a farm accident a year ago, but she wanted to stand on her own two feet. When she’d contacted me with the idea of starting a community cookbook publishing business, the timing had been perfect because I’d just found out I was about to be unemployed.
She’d put her husband’s life insurance settlement into th
e business and I’d invested my severance payment. We had to make this work. Our independence depended on it. Dixie didn’t want to have to move in with her mother and I wanted to stay as far away as possible from mine.
Not that I don’t love my mama. Of course, I do, but I had tired of not only my mother, but her well-meaning but beyond bossy sisters trying to run my life. So, when I got a job offer that took me out of their reach, I’d jumped at it.
I have to tell you there were times lately when it felt a little like I’d moved halfway across the country only to find myself in the same situation. Not that the aunts followed me to Iowa. Oh no, they were still in Searcy, Georgia sipping their sweet tea and telling anyone who would listen that Sugar would come to her senses soon and move back home. And marry that nice Danny Kindell who was such a good catch.
Not happening. And, frankly, Danny wasn’t such a good catch. Unless, you had a penchant for philandering idiots.
My father had been from Iowa and though his kin was all gone it felt like I had some unexplored roots here. It was an added bonus that the opportunity to go into business with Dixie had also included a chance to leave the city life behind. I loved my newly adopted hometown and its “everyone-knows-your-name” atmosphere. Though lately it seemed everyone not only knew my name, they also knew my business. And at least half the town had a grandson, nephew, cousin, or friend they were interested in fixing me up with. Also, not happening.
But I did like living in St. Ignatius and if I wanted to stay here, and I did, I needed to get our project back on track.
“Okay, Dixie help me out. You’ve lived here all your life.” I pulled out a notebook. “What am I going to do to get Elsie Farmer and your Aunt Bertie to stand down?
“Elsie Farmer is never going to stand down, so your best bet is my aunt. She’s poured her heart and soul into her business, that B & B is everything to her. Maybe we could feature one of the Jefferson Street B & B signature dishes. That might win her over.”
“Do you think the Farmer family will really pull their support for the Founders’ Day if Elsie doesn’t get her way?” I asked. I’d been in town long enough to understand just how much power a prominent local family can wield.
“I don’t think Kenny will let it go that far.” Dixie straightened her apron. “But come to think of it, her hubs did cave when she wanted Joey Waters fired. Claimed he backed into her Cadillac. Truth is he probably did, but it had nothing to do with his work.”
Dixie and I strategized a bit and by the time I left the shop to head home, I felt much better about my chances with the two competitive cooks. After all, this wasn’t about winning blue ribbons at the county fair. It was about simply having the best mix of recipes for the St. Ignatius Founders’ Day Cookbook. We all wanted the same thing, a quality cookbook that would sell lots of copies and benefit the town. I just needed to remind them we were all on the same team.
I turned Big Blue toward the tree-lined older part of town, looking forward with a sense of calm to a quiet evening with my couch, my cat, and a good book.
I adored my little rental home. A well-kept white house on a big lot with a maple tree that would turn crimson in the fall, and a big yard edged in lilac bushes, it was a welcome sanctuary after the day I’d had. The house was a Queen Anne Victorian that had been updated. Greer said she had redone the kitchen and bathrooms, but tried to keep the feel of the house. In my mind, she’d succeeded. I loved the gingerbread on the front, the high ceilings, the oak woodwork, and the claw-foot tub.
It had been a heck of a day and all I could think of was how much I enjoyed the calm of being home.
Hold that thought, because the calm didn’t last long.
As I parked and grabbed my things from the car, I noticed my next-door neighbor outside. I thought about making a run for it. Mrs. Pickett invariably had a complaint, and all my attempts at being friendly were met with indifference.
I lifted the tote bag I’d loaded with paperwork and slung it over my shoulder. Moving away from the car, I noted she’d moved closer to our shared fence line.
Oh, no. This did not bode well.
“Hello, Mrs. Pickett.” I called. I knew her first name was Jean but she’d never given me permission to use it, and I’d been raised that you waited until invited to call someone, who was your senior, by their first name.
“Ms. Calloway.” She nodded in my general direction. “Come here.” She crooked a finger.
Now what.
I approached the fence and she pointed at the grassy area. “Do you see that?”
I peered over the fence. “See what?”
She sighed and pointed again. “Those leaves.”
“Yes,” I answered. The stiff wind from a couple of nights ago had blown some of the leaves from the tree rooted in Greer’s side yard from the branches.
“Your leaves have fallen in my yard.” She punctuated the “your” and the “my” with a jab of her spindly finger.
“But—” I started to explain that I didn’t think a neighbor was supposed to chase after all the leaves that fell from their trees, but she’d already turned and walked away.
“Even though you’re a renter, you’ll need to take care of that,” she commented over her shoulder.
Well, for crying in a bucket! She couldn’t possibly think it was my responsibility to rake leaves that had fallen on her side of the fence. And she’d said “renter” with such derision that it sounded like I should have a scarlet R on my chest.
Last week it had been that she didn’t like me putting my trash out the night before it was collected. The week before that it had been something else, I couldn’t remember what. I think it boiled down to the woman just didn’t like me. I wasn’t sure why, but there it was. Probably she and Greer had lived next to each other for a long time and she didn’t like the change.
Greer. Oh, gosh. I suddenly remembered I’d forgotten to call Greer back.
Unlocking the door and entering the foyer, I dropped my bags on the gleaming hardwood floor and grabbed my cell phone from my purse.
I hit re-dial and Greer picked up right away.
“Well, there you are, Sugar,” she said, without a greeting. “I thought maybe you were out of town or something.”
“No, just busy with this cookbook.” I kicked off my shoes and continued down the hallway to the kitchen.
“You got my Garbage Cookie recipe, didn’t you?” I could picture her whipping up batches of cookies at the very counter where I stood. Her snow-white hair, her narrow, stooped shoulders, her quick smile. A small stepstool still stood propped at the end of the cabinets because the top cabinets had been out of her reach.
“Yes, I did.” I tried not to get choked up over the picture in my head. I hadn’t known my own grandmother, but if I were picking one out, I’d pick one just like Greer. She insisted she wasn’t sentimental about the house, but why else would she want to continue to store things. And why was she unwilling to sell the property.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” she began, which was how it always started. “It’s not a rush or anything, but when you get time there’s a frog figure I need from that box in the attic that’s labeled ‘Knick-Knacks.’”
I remembered the box. Mostly because it was actually marked ‘Nic-Naks’ which drove me crazy every time I saw it. My fingers itched to get a marker and fix the spelling. I guess once an editor always an editor. But the boxes weren’t mine to mess with and so I resisted.
“It’s no problem at all.” I opened the refrigerator door and peered inside realizing I probably should have stopped at the grocery store on the way home. Ernest, the handsome six-toed tabby who’d appeared on the front step the day after I moved in, padded in to stand beside me. Together we stared at the empty shelves. I’d asked around the neighborhood and put up signs, but no one claimed him. So, I’d decided to keep him.
“He’s a l
ittle green froggie figurine about yea tall.” I was sure Greer was holding her hands up to show me. “I was telling Nellie Kaufmann today at cards about him. She saw a similar frog on that antiques show on the TV and she thinks he might be a collectible.”
“I’ll look this evening.” I told her. “And if I can find froggie, I’ll bring him by tomorrow.”
“That’s great. You’re so sweet to keep bringing my things to me.”
“Truly, it’s no trouble.” It seemed like the least I could do for the sweet thing. I hoped when I was eighty someone would do the same for me.
“Well, I won’t keep you. They’re having pot roast in the dining room tonight and I’ve been looking forward to it all day.” And she was gone without further ado.
Ernest and I eyed the interior of my fridge. Nothing resembling pot roast in there, but I didn’t want to go back out to the grocery store. Lazy, I know.
“It looks like something out of a can for both of us.” I patted his head. “I know you’re hoping for tuna sandwiches.”
Right now, I was all about fixing something quick and easy, changing into my favorite t-shirt and yoga pants, and escaping into the pages of one of the books I’d picked up at the library.
Later, I’d make the trek to the attic, ignore the misspelled writing on the boxes, and search for Greer’s frog figurine.
And tomorrow, I’d clear my head, strap on my diplomacy, and do battle with the two scone contenders.
Chapter Four
The next morning I was up early and raring to go, and I had decided to start with Elsie Farmer.
She was, after all, the one I needed to convince the most. I would simply tell her we were planning to include her scone recipe and then I’d hope she was okay with there being two recipes in the book. If not, my next stop would have to be to chat with Dixie’s Aunt Bertie and find a way to convince her the inclusion of her Corny Casserole would be a much better representation of the Jefferson Street B & B instead of a silly scone recipe.
Game of Scones Page 2
