by Terri Thayer
“I heard about that.”
April sighed again. “Have you noticed this valley shuts down in the winter? No one moves in or out. Everyone’s in a holding pattern until spring. It’s driving me nuts.”
“Well, it’s kind of tough with forty inches of snow on the ground,” Deana said. “I like the slower pace. We take this time to reflect on life and other matters. Like end-of-year cleaning.” Deana smiled at her. “Besides, you’re the one who thought you missed it. Winter.”
It was true. Living in San Francisco, April had often bored her California friends with fabulous winter wonderland scenarios. She’d called Deana once a week for a weather update, and during big weather events, she’d be online following the local TV coverage.
“In those fantasies, I had plenty of thermal underwear.”
“I heard you and Mitch went cross-country on Saturday.” Deana lifted her fingers into air quotes.
“No, we went cross-country skiing, no quotes necessary,” April corrected.
“The story I got was that you two were out for about an hour before you gave up and spent the rest of the day in front of the fire at the club.”
April looked up from the pile of files she’d been sorting. “Damn this small town. Who told you that?”
Deana grinned. “Not saying. Just know eyes are everywhere and on you.”
“Why me?”
“Hey, you’re the girl who’s got three fathers and one mother, who just moved here from California. You’re interesting.”
Deana shoved a full box marked with her neat block handwriting onto a metal shelf. The number of files, the dates, the years.
She didn’t need April here. She was just throwing her some work to keep her busy and help her pay her grocery bills. Plus, Deana knew that April would go crazy without something to focus on besides the cold weather.
April unfolded herself from the cross-legged position she’d taken on the floor. She dragged a box closer. A noise from inside the wall startled her and she knocked the box over, spilling files onto the floor.
Deana opened a small metal door that was cut into the wall opposite. The noise got louder. Deana caught April’s eye. “Dumbwaiter. From the kitchen. My father’s father had it installed so he wouldn’t have to stop working. My grandmother sent food down to him. Mark wants company when he eats so he just sends messages.” She plucked a piece of paper off a plate and read it, laughing.
“Come and get it,” she read.
April grabbed a handful of files to put back into the box until after lunch. A familiar name on the tab caught her eye: Rosen, Mary Lou. She opened the file, blocking Deana’s view with her body.
Inside was an order for cremation. A copy of the death certificate for a Joseph Bartholomew Hunsinger.
An invoice for the funeral expenses marked “Paid.” Made out to Mary Lou Rosen.
April stood, her voice squeaking as she spoke. She couldn’t hide her excitement. “I knew it. I knew I recognized that style. That’s Mary Lou’s box.”
Deana’s fingers froze holding the note in midair.
April asked, “Why are there cremains belonging to Mary Lou in your basement?”
CHAPTER 2
“April, dang it.”
Deana’s version of cussing. “I told you to leave it alone. Mark says the panini are ready for lunch.”
April crossed her arms over her chest, casting a loaded glance at the file. “I don’t want panini.”
Someone’s stomach growled.
April covered her belly and said, “Well, I mean, of course I do want lunch, but I want to know why Mary Lou paid for this cremation.”
Deana ignored her question and started up the stairs. Built into the side of a hill, the funeral home had many levels, most of them secret from the public space. This part of the basement was accessible only by these stairs that led straight into the kitchen. As they climbed, April could smell basil and tomato and toasted bread. Her stomach did a flip-flop at the promise of food. Cleaning out basements was hungry work.
Deana was already at the sink and offered April a pump of soap. She squirted some into both their palms and they washed up, elbow to elbow.
“I’ll find out; you know I will,” April said.
Deana dried her hands, remaining mute. Mark, burly and handsome, had dished the sandwiches on plates. He and April exchanged cheek kisses.
Mark was the public face of Hudock Family Funeral Home. He met with the families, sold the services, and talked money with grace and compassion. He left the scientific stuff to Deana. It was a system that worked well for them.
He pulled out a chair for his wife and one for April. She sat down. “Thanks, Mark.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “You’re doing my job. I’d much rather be up here cooking than cleaning out files in the basement.”
Deana said chirpily, every note a false one, “I don’t know what I was thinking, getting him that panini maker for Christmas. I’ve gained ten pounds from all the carbs.”
She avoided April’s eyes. April watched her as she cut her sandwich with a knife and a fork.
April picked hers up with two hands and dug in. She took a big bite and chewed slowly, letting the hot meat and cheese warm up her innards. Mary Lou had paid for a cremation and boxed it up in a fancy container but left it in Deana’s basement. It didn’t make sense.
April waited for Mark to finish his first sandwich. He ate quickly, smacking his lips when he was finished. Deana offered him a napkin, which he took with a smile.
April saw her opportunity. “Mark, what do you know about Mary Lou’s family?”
“I know she has one,” he said.
Deana frowned over a mouthful of salami and cheese. Her eyes widened. She shook her head. Her husband stood up and smiled at her. She didn’t need to tell Mark not to talk. He was well versed in the discretion it took to be a funeral director in a small town.
April persisted. “There are cremains down there . . .”
Mark screwed up his face as though he was thinking hard. “Cremains, huh? Was that the guy who was abducted by aliens? What a mess that was. You try making a face look presentable to the family after it’s been peeled off by tiny little creatures. Not easy. Cremation was the only answer.”
April smirked at him. “Funny.” She sometimes thought of Mark as the brother she never had. He liked to tease her.
“Or was he the poor fellow that peed on the exposed wire in the last ice storm? We had no choice on that one. Talk about fried . . .”
Deana swallowed hard. “Mark, please. This is not exactly a conversation I want to have over lunch.”
April frowned. “I know you two have had far more graphic conversations over all kinds of meals. I just want you to take me seriously. I’m not looking for gossip.”
Mark put a piece of bread on the grill and opened a package of cheese. He dangled the yellow mass. “Come on, Dee. It’s April.”
“Yeah, only me,” April said. “I’m practically an employee now.”
Deana said, “Enough.” She didn’t have to say more. The moral high ground was hers. Mark turned back to his sandwich making. April took another big bite.
“Mary Lou doesn’t like to talk about what happened to her brother. I’m trying to respect that,” Deana said.
April slowed her chewing, trying not to react to the slip Deana had made. A brother. It was Mary Lou’s brother in the box.
April considered what she knew about Mary Lou Rosen. She’d only met her when she’d moved back to Aldenville last June. She couldn’t remember Mary Lou ever mentioning a brother. He would have been dead for several months by then, based on the invoice. To be fair, most of their discussion lately had centered around Mary Lou becoming a grandmother for the first time. Kit’s twins were just about six months old.
Her curiosity was really piqued now. Deana didn’t seem to notice that she’d misspoke. April would like to know more. But if Mary Lou wasn’t ready to talk about it, she’d have to respect that.
Lunch was finished quickly. Twenty minutes later, they all went back to work.
Deana left her alone in the basement for the afternoon. April left around four, wrapping her granny-square scarf around her neck three times. Charlotte Campbell had made it, and April, while grateful for Charlotte’s efforts, had thought she’d never wear it. But the colder the weather got, the less ugly the hideous orange color seemed. The scarf was delightfully warm and soft.
Still, her chin felt brittle from the cold, and she sat on her hands in the car, waiting for it to warm up enough to drive.
Mark waved to her cheerily from behind his snowblower as he drove past her. He was clearing the parking lot. Most of it was down to the bare asphalt, but it was rimmed by the piles made by the plow. Those had to be disposed of.
Winter weather had been a lot more fun when she was a kid, although Mark seemed to be enjoying himself.
A huge pile of snow slid off the roof of the funeral home and banged down next to where she’d been walking just a moment before. April jumped, but Mark just grinned. She rolled down her window to hear him.
“Guess I’ve got to get up on the roof and take care of some of that,” he said with glee.
“No one should be that happy about snow,” she yelled at him. He laughed.
April turned her car around so she didn’t have to back out their long driveway. She let three cars pass before she felt comfortable pulling out. Her tires hit a patch of ice and spun before releasing her into the road.
April stopped at Rocky’s office on the way home. Rocky had rented a space in the small business park across from the grocery store. She was trying to make a go of the Stamping Sisters business that she’d bought from Trish Taylor. The former owner had met with an untimely death a few months earlier. Rocky was recruiting new people to sell the line.
It was awkward working for Rocky. April was dating her brother, Mitch Winchester. April still had to find the delicate balance needed to work for one Winchester and date another.
Rocky had asked for this meeting. Rocky considered April her employee, despite the fact that April had sold her line of California Dreamin’ stamps to Trish with a deal that cut April a percentage of royalties. Not exactly a partner, but not an hourly worker, either. A subtle distinction that Rocky chose to ignore.
Maybe the California Dreamin’ stamps were ready. April pulled open the door. Rocky was seated on a stool in front of the bar-high kitchen table that served as her desk. She was a woman who understood how to grab power in any way.
She had a Spanish-English dictionary in front of her.
“How do you say ‘celebrate’ in español?” she asked when April let herself in. “I’m thinking I need to do a line of Spanish word stamps.”
“I don’t know. I took French in high school.”
“There’s no market for French stamps,” Rocky said as if April had just suggested there was.
April rolled her eyes and settled across from Rocky, laying down her portfolio but leaving it closed. “You should ask Vanesa for help. She’d be glad to give you a hand.”
Vanesa Villarreal was the eldest daughter of the family that had moved into Mitch’s first Winchester Homes for Hope, Mitch’s pet project. A custom furniture maker by trade, he’d started building homes for the less fortunate.
“Especially if you can pay her. I know she needs an after-school job.”
Rocky leaned on her open palm. “I need an after-school job. This business is all outlay and no payback so far.”
Rocky had no idea what it meant to need money. Not really. She always had the Winchester fortunes, for backup. Or she could go to her brother, Mitch, for a loan as she had before. He was already a part owner of Stamping Sisters.
April had no fallback. Her mother worked in the country club kitchen and paid her expenses but had little left over. Her marriage to Clive Pierce, aging pop star, made her financial life more secure, but April would never ask him for money. Her father and Vince’s historical home restoration business, Retro Reproductions, had had a few financial setbacks in the last couple of years, and with Vince’s parents’ losing all their money last year, Ed and Vince were more concerned than ever about finances.
She’d been paying her bills and had paid off all the obligations she’d left behind in California. At least the finality of her divorce from Ken meant she was no longer responsible for any debts he piled up now.
But just when she was starting to feel more comfortable, work had dried up. The snow and the ice meant the restoration of Mirabella had halted. Mirabella, the mansion owned by Mitch’s aunt Barbara, was the biggest job Retro Reproductions had. April had been working at the house as part of the Retro Reproductions team, stamping the walls with her historically accurate designs, since June. January 1, Ed and Vince had escaped to the time-share in Florida they’d bought years ago, spending their days at jai alai and the dog track. Her pleas to restart the jobs fell on deaf ears. Deaf and tanned ears.
“I’ve been looking at your home décor drawings,” Rocky said, laying aside her sketchbook and clearing a space on the table for April to open her portfolio. April felt her spirits lift. This was what she was truly interested in.
She could see her designs stamped on walls all over the country.
“This is my favorite,” she said, pointing to a William Morris chrysanthemum.
“Too complicated,” Rocky said. “How am I supposed to manufacture that? It would take six separate stamps. The price point would be too high. We’ve got to keep these simple.”
April sighed. Making simple stamps was not her strong suit. Interesting did not translate well to a few lines.
“Keep it simple, stupid,” Rocky said. At April’s quick look, she said, “You know. KISS. Keep it simple. Not that you’re stupid. I know you can do this. Just bear in mind the amount of cutting we’d need to do to make the stamp. Then reproduce it.”
“But I like complicated,” April said.
“I know,” Rocky said. “But complicated means costly to manufacture. Expensive means fewer people can afford it. That’s why you’re lucky to have me to remind you.”
April closed the book. She rubbed the front of her portfolio, the smooth leather soothing her spiky feelings.
“We can’t make these stamps now anyhow,” Rocky said, her mouth in a straight line.
“But you said—”
“I said once we start making some money, we could expand into home dec stamps. We’re not there yet. I need more of the cute kind of rubber stamps. People like those.”
“But there’s twenty lines in that catalog.” She indicated the Stamping Sisters catalog. Her California Dreamin’ stamps were just one of many.
The business model for Stamping Sisters was the same as that for Tupperware. The sellers were all independent contractors who made money in two ways: by selling the stamps themselves at parties held in private homes or by recruiting others to become salespeople. Rocky was revamping the business she’d bought from Trish, but the basic premise remained the same. The more people selling the products, the more money everyone made. And since April was to receive royalties on the stamps she designed, the same went for her. It was in her best interest to help Rocky sell stamps. But she’d never been a good salesperson.
“The public is always demanding new stuff. We have to keep up. I need you to design four more lines of coordinating sets by the next catalog, which I will send to the printer next month.”
April hadn’t signed on for this. She’d designed a line of seven stamps that she’d sold to Trish. Trish had promised to pay her royalties. End of story.
“Are you going to pay me for my time?” April said.
“We’re all going to have to make sacrifices. I don’t make money until your stamps sell. The more stamps you’ve got out there, the more money you can make. Make sense?”
April buried her face in her hands. Yes, it made sense, but is that what she wanted to be? A designer of stamps for the Stamping Sisters line? W
as that her career path?
She did stamping on walls for historical renovations. Her wall stamps were unique to the project, based on historical architectural research. Rocky had promised a line of wall stamps in the catalog. Eventually. She had to earn the right to get there. She lifted her head, leaned on one palm.
“All right,” April said. She wanted that home dec line more than anything. She’d have to pay the piper in the meantime. Rocky being the piper.
“Okay. So how about a new line of stamps from you?” Rocky’s tone was reproachful. April felt like a first-grader being scolded by her teacher for not turning in her homework. Homework she hadn’t known was due.
She said, “What do you mean?”
“How about a winter wonderland line? I’ve decided to sell the Stamping Sisters at the Ice Festival.”
The Ice Festival hadn’t been such a big deal when she was growing up. From what Mitch had told her, twelve years ago, after a few extra cold winters, the borough council had created a January event to break up the doldrums caused by too much snow, not enough sun, and way too much time indoors with family members. It had grown to a special all-day event. The money raised went to fund recreation programs.
“I thought they told you no selling allowed.”
“That’s why you and I are going to the council meeting. Tonight.”
April’s shoulders started to creep up. Her neck tensed. She sighed, flexing her fingers. It was easy to get tied up in knots around Rocky and her healthy disrespect for authority.
“Okaaay,” April began.
Rocky looked out the window as a Turkey Hill truck drove by, on its way to fill up the gas tanks at the nearby convenience store. The air brakes squealed as it slowed on the hill. The sound hurt April’s ears, and she worried that the driver wouldn’t be able to stop. Where the sun hadn’t reached it, the road was still icy in spots. The truck shuddered to a stop.
“So I want you to develop a new line of stamps for the event,” Rocky said. “We’ll roll out the line there.”
“That’s next weekend,” April said. “I need more time than that.”
