Jorja & Malcolm (Toffee Kisses Book 1)

by Shelley Siddall

  Both women were silent for a moment.

  “I actually thought you would let me drive it onto the ferry. I was very disappointed when you said no; I couldn’t go home with you. But then, Mom made chocolate pudding, so everything was fine.”

  “And how are you with everything now, Jorja?”

  “Oh, I’m growing up,” Jorja said, “so I’m having a few growing pains, but by and large I’m pretty good. How are you, now that you know I know?”

  “Relieved, but also a teensy bit tired. Could we carry on this conversation in the day?” Cydney asked.

  “Of course. I really just wanted to say thank you. I love you, Aunty Cydney.”

  “I love you, Jorja.”

  Jorja clicked off the phone and plugged in the charger. She fluffed up her pillow and lay her head down. “How could I have forgotten about pumpkin pie?” she thought. “Pumpkin pie Newsome,” she whispered and fell asleep.

  Try as she might, Norma Boothe could not sleep in. She was so used to getting up early and bringing the Bassett’s their coffee that she was in the kitchen grinding the beans when it occurred to her, I’m having a day off!

  Of course, she always had Tuesdays and Saturdays off; but this was special. She was going to have a day where she wasn’t running errands for someone or helping someone with something. Between her older Sister, Betty and her younger Sister Marion, she was always using her days off in the pursuit of someone else’s happiness.

  Well no more; at least not today. She was going to put on her prettiest dress and take herself out for breakfast and then walk in whatever hair salon that was open and let them work their magic on her. Norma looked at her image in the stainless steel fridge.

  “Yeah,” she thought, “they’re going to need some pretty powerful magic!”

  “Heah!” Jorja yelled over to the woman at the next table, “We’re eggs benny twins! Why don’t you come over and join me since we’ve got so much in common?”

  “What the hell,” said the frizzy haired woman in the flowered dress. She picked up her plate and joined Jorja.

  “Norma Boothe, off duty personal assistant, starting off my day of pampering.”

  “Jorja Clark, unemployed artist, starting off my day of solitude and contemplation, with a hint of hollandaise.”

  The two women shook hands, looked at one another and said at the same time, “You look familiar.”

  Norma rubbed her chin. “You’re that undercover security guard, who in fact, isn’t a security guard. I saw you the night Mr. Bassett’s artwork was stolen.”

  “That’s right! You’re their maid!”

  “Personal Assistant,” Norma said with a smirk. “One just doesn’t use the term maid anymore!”

  Jorja laughed and held up her pinky as she drank her coffee. “One must keep up appearances.” Then she added seriously, “Do you like your job?”

  “Let’s just say my initial enthusiasm has waned. I was originally hired for secretarial duties for Mr. Bassett; he works from home, but of late, I’m more of a companion to Mrs. Bassett.”

  “Is she a bear to work for, or, heaven forbid, a bore?”

  Norma signalled the waitress by holding up her coffee cup.

  “Her only interest in life is her grandchildren. Unfortunately, they live with her daughter and son-in-law in Naha, Okinawa Prefecture…in Japan. I showed her how to skype, so she does that every morning and when they hang up; she is bored to tears! So I try desperately to keep her entertained.”

  Jorja accepted another cup of coffee from the new waitress. The old waitress Bernice, otherwise known as Bernie the fence, had been picked up by the police the day before. The Sergeant phoned Jorja yesterday afternoon and begrudgingly thanked her for her part in the undercover sting that resulted in Jesse’s sudden departure from the island.

  “Yo, Jorja, you’re zoning out on me,” Norma said, snapping her fingers.

  “Oh sorry,” Jorja said, “I was just thinking about something I had surgically removed the other day.”

  “Anyhow, the most excitement we had for weeks was when you showed up! Mrs. Bassett was so miffed that she missed meeting you! I don’t suppose you’d like to go visit her?” Norma asked.

  “Could do,” Jorja said. “Do they understand that in no way was I assisting the thief? I was just on, erm, a field trip.”

  “Oh sure, the police smoothed things over. Well, I’m off to find a hair salon for a bit of pampering!”

  “Try Maureen’s on fourth,” Jorja recommended. “Nice meeting you and to quote Elle, “I have always respected red heads as members of a hair colour minority”; I think red would be awesome for you.”

  Norma put her hands on her hips and titled her head to one side. “Red?” she said. “I like it!”

  “Let me guess, your roommate is snoring too loudly again?” Malcolm asked Anthony. Malcolm had finished his oatmeal and had started his walk around the neighborhood only to find Anthony sitting in his chair, looking as sad as ever.

  “My mind is utter chaos. I can’t go back, but I don’t know how to go forward. I don’t even know what I want anymore.”

  Malcolm patted him on the shoulder. “One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star. Let’s go see a certain Mrs. Beetle.”

  Anthony looked up. “Did she say that?” he asked.

  “No. But she does have a lot to say and it can be surprisingly spot on. Let me go get my car and I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

  Mrs. Beetle was in her room painting when Malcolm and Anthony knocked on her open door. She looked back and forth at tall Malcolm and the shorter hobbling Anthony.

  “But I thought you loved Jorja!” she wailed, and then added, “Oh bollocks! I was going to fling myself dramatically over my table, but I’m painting.”

  Anthony narrowed his eyes. “You’re painting on black velvet?” he asked incredulously.

  “What of it sweetheart?” Mrs. Beetle sniffed, “My paintings sell like hotcakes!”

  Anthony scanned the paintings on her wall, and then sat down in the chair beside her.

  “Of course they do!” he said, “And it’s very cool that you paint a lot of horses. I can just imagine their soft muzzles by patting the velvet of the painting…”

  “But?” said Mrs. Beetle.

  “Oh, I don’t think a horse’s butt is very soft,” Anthony said in all seriousness.

  Mrs. Beetle put down her brush and winked at Malcolm. “He’s a regular Sherlock, this one, ain’t he?” she said. As Anthony was busy scrolling through his phone, she tapped him on the elbow. “What were you going to criticize about my painting?”

  Just then Malcolm felt a thump against his right heel. He turned and saw an elderly man in a wheelchair gearing up to ram him again.

  “Nurse, come with me and I’ll give you a nip of my heart tonic!”

  Crawford walked into his art studio. “Be still my beating heart!” he whispered. There, front and center, was his painting of his newborn daughter. Although the painting had dried over two decades earlier, he tenderly picked it up and carefully brought it down stairs.

  “You found it!” Jenny screamed.

  Five little feline heads started to bob. The mewing was so pitiful that Miss Stein returned to her children. She cast a withering glance at her human employees. “After I just got them to sleep,” she growled.

  Jenny stared at the painting. “You know what this means, Fancy-pants?” she asked.

  “That our cat is a tad too controlling in our lives?”

  “No silly, we can now display Cydney and baby Jorja in the front room with all our other treasures!” Jenny said happily.

  Crawford turned and looked at the many canvasses scattered on the walls in their front room. No room for another one. He looked at the fireplace mantle and saw the line- up of green glass telephone insulators protecting precious shells. Nope. Jorja had collected those as a toddler and made them swear to keep them forever. His eyes fell on the tea cart with its silver s
ervice. He pointed to the tea cart and raised an eyebrow to Jenny.

  “That would be a perfect place!” she said, moving the footstool made out of old cowboy boots. She propped the painting against the elegant teapot. “Now, if I just put a teacup at the corner here, it will tie in nicely.”

  “The Petit Point Royal Albert or the Old Country Roses?” Crawford hollered as he headed to the kitchen cupboards.

  Jenny put her hands on her hips and contemplated the tableau. “The tarnish on Mother’s silver ties in nicely with Cyd’s auburn hair and Jorja’s strawberry blond; but I think the Old Country Roses would clash with your style of painting.”

  “Petit Point it is,” said Crawford as he brought the teacup and saucer over and placed them on the trolley. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dangling toy parrot that doubled as a pull cord on one of their lamps. He put his arm around Jenny. “You’ve got to admit, Brain, we’re pretty posh.”

  Jorja was at one of her favorite places, the art supply store in town. It was delightfully called “The Artsy-Fartsy Shoppe”. She was presenting her dilemma to Shannon, one of the owners of the Co-op.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking; I should have waited until I bought archival quality tape, but I just went ahead and stuck regular scotch tape on the painting to stick it to the matting. I’m so impulsive at times; when I’m done a painting, I just want to frame it as fast as possible,” Jorja confessed.

  “Yeah, it actually works better with the right tape and taping the painting to a foam core backer board,” Shannon said as she assessed the damage. She turned the painting over and added, “I’m curious though, why do you want to un-frame this delightful lady?”

  “I want to fracture her face,” Jorja said.

  “Woman! That’s a bit aggressive, don’t you think?” Shannon said.

  Jorja snorted. “It’s a technique where I capture the colours with a black sharpie by drawing swirls on top of the watercolour. Here, look at this one I started last night.” She pulled out the picture of Mr. Kovesy from her portfolio and laid it on the desk. “See, I doodled fractures all over it, but stopped about an inch shy of the matte, that I couldn’t remove because, evidently, I taped that one as well with regular tape.”

  Shannon picked up the painting of Joe Kovesy and gave it to Jorja. “Go walk to the back of the shop,” she ordered.

  “Whoa, Dude, am I banished from the front desk?” Jorja asked as she started walking. She had just reached the mid-point of the aisle when Shannon called out.

  “Okay! Stop. Now hold the picture up and slowly walk towards me.”

  When Jorja reached the front desk again she whispered to Shannon, “I hate to tell you, but the tape is still stuck on.”

  “Jorja this is awesome work! From a distance, this looks like a picture of a really old man; but up close, your doodles seem to shift the image so that somehow I can see the old man and the young man at the same time. It’s rather cool, really.”

  “No kidding? Here, let me try!”

  Jorja and Shannon switched places.

  “Wow!” Jorja exclaimed. “I see both of them too!”

  By this time, other patrons of the shop were gathered around and began offering their opinions.

  “It’s like trompe l’oeil but not.”

  “You can see the young man was a joker, but the old guy is a little sadder.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “Can you paint a picture of my Grandpa for me?”

  This last question was from Shannon. “I really, really love this fracturing technique, Jorja,” she said. “As for the tape, well…”

  Jorja raised her hands. “I know,” she said, “I’m stuck with it!”

  Shannon laughed then said, “I’m serious; can you do a portrait of my Grandpa? I’ll give you $125.00 store credit. And don’t worry about the framing, I’ll do it.”

  Jorja nodded her head as she put her paintings back in her portfolio. “You’re an angel Shannon! Thanks for the encouraging comments. I’m just going to peruse the brushes; you have my card; so we can text about your Grandpa.”

  As Jorja picked up a sable angle brush, she wondered if her Dad had been up to his studio yet. Would he be angry that she found the painting? It’s not like he wouldn’t know, because she had impulsively placed it front and center on his work table. Would Dad and Mom want the painting in their home? Her eyes misted up.

  “Stupid salt spray; permeates everything,” she said.

  Mrs. Beetle was chatting up a storm with Anthony.

  “So you think I need to switch from horses to concrete?” she asked Anthony.

  “Look at these images of work sites on my phone. Broken concrete, wires sticking up; it has kind of a sad beauty to it. No longer is the concrete useful. It’s just discarded; of no use to anyone,” Anthony said softly.

  He flapped his hands like the wings of a little bird.

  “Never mind that; I think the contrast of the soft black velvet and the solid concrete would be a real game changer.”

  Mrs. Beetle took off her glasses and stretched.

  “It sounds perfectly lovely, Anthony; but the fact remains, in order to change the game, I need to know how to paint. How to really paint.”

  Anthony frowned. “Your horse heads are perfectly lovely, Mrs. Beetle!”

  “I use pre-made paint by number canvasses. I don’t really paint.”

  “Really?”

  Mrs. Beetle patted Anthony’s good knee.

  “I don’t think they even make black velvet paint by number kits anymore. My family bought out a supplier years ago. They bring the kits to me weekly to ‘keep me busy’. I even have kits for sad harlequins and matadors, but I don’t like them so I stash them under my bed.”

  Anthony mimed throwing pixie dust on Mrs. Beetle.

  “Shazam!” he shouted, “You can paint!” He leaned in close. “What will you paint Mrs. Beetle?” he asked.

  “The Cotswolds! Definitely the Cotswolds,” she said joyfully. “Mr. Beetle and I holidayed there several times. I loved those honey-coloured cottages and oh, the things we saw on our walking tours! We even went to Thornbury Castle, where Henry the eighth toured with Anne Boleyn on their honeymoon. Mind you, things didn’t work out so well for her afterwards.”

  Anthony clapped his hands. “Look, my friend Malcolm has a girlfriend who paints. You give me your matador kits, and I’ll pay Jorja to supply you with painting stuff. Deal?”

  Mrs. Beetle reached out her hand and clenched Anthony’s wrist.

  “How do you know Jorja is Malcolm’s girlfriend?” she demanded.

  Anthony tried to tug his wrist away, but Mrs. Beetle had a death grip. He let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Firstly, ow! And secondly, that’s all Malcolm talked about on the drive over here; Jorja this and Jorja that. Oh yes, he bought the house next to her parents and they had their first kiss there and they’re going on their first date tomorrow. I could’ve died from boredom, but I was already bored out of my tree as it was.”

  Mrs. Beetle released her death grip and wheeled herself furiously out of her room. She yelled over her shoulder, “Come with me! We’re going to get some of Joe’s heart tonic and have us a celebration!”

  Joe Kovesy was surprised when Mrs. Beetle came rolling into his room.

  “The boy and I are having a serious talk. No place for women. Now get out, Beetle, or do I have to throw you out?”

  “Ooh, I’m quaking in my boots,” Mrs. Beetle said, as she rolled further into the room. “Crikey Malcolm, when you decide to make your move, you don’t mess around!”

  Jorja’s phone rang. “Hello my sweetheart!” she said to Malcolm.

  “Hello my sweetheart! Can I spill the beans to Mrs. Beetle?”

  “Which bean spilling event are you referring to Malcolm? Kissing sweethearts, the sting operation or our first date tomorrow?” Jorja asked.

  Malcolm exhaled loudly. “Our first date tomorrow? Drats, I forgot all about it.”

/>   Jorja did her best imitation of Humphrey Bogart. “I’m not buying it, sweetheart!”

  “Tell her to come over for a drink!” Mrs. Beetle yelled while Joe rolled his eyes.

  “Is that Mrs. Beetle?” Jorja asked.

  Malcolm laughed. “We’re in Joe Kovesy’s room; do you know Joe?”

  “Oh sure; he always offers me a nip…well, a nip and a cuddle. Oddly enough, I’ve never taken him up on either!”

  “Speaking of offers,” Malcolm said, “We had a nice chat earlier and he offered to go beat up my cousin.”

  “Sweet!”

  “Also Jorja, I’ll be by at 0700 tomorrow morning, and you need to be wearing your swimsuit.”

  Jorja shrieked. “An early morning swim; I love it! Go ahead and spill the beans, although it sounds like she’s figured everything out already. Ta ta for now!”

  Malcolm closed his old flip phone and turned to the group.

  “My sweetheart and I are going on our first date tomorrow!” he said.

  Several things happened at once. Anthony groaned loudly; Joe punched Malcolm in the arm, and Mrs. Beetle pressed the call button.

  Malcolm had been going through Joe’s collection of music. He found an old George Jones CD, loaded it into the boom box and pressed play.

  Joe began singing along loudly to the music.

  When the Care Aid came in the room, Mrs. Beetle outlined her requirements.

  “We’ll need a large pitcher of ice, luv, and four glasses. Some sodas and send that recreation guy over; he’ll need to go shopping for Joe as we’ll be depleting his supply of Wiser’s.”

  ***

  Jenny answered her phone.

  “Mom!” Jorja said with urgency, “The blue one or the green one?”

  “Blue, definitely blue, “Jenny answered, then listened while Jorja dictated some instructions. Suddenly a soft double beep indicated the end of the call. She turned to Miss Stein.

  “Just be glad that none of your children have opposable thumbs,” she said.

  Miss Stein licked Conrad’s ear.

  Jenny reached over and patted Miss Stein’s head. “Don’t worry girl,” Jenny said, “even a mitten kitten will never learn how to use an iPhone.”