by Annie Knox
Ingrid opened the tiny box and pulled out a slim metal item about the size of a cigarette lighter. “What’s this?” she mused, turning the object this way and that.
“It’s an MP3 player,” Lucy said. “I’ll show you how to use it later. But it has music on it. A lot of Johnny Mathis, of course, but Bobby Vinton, Sinatra, Tom Jones . . . all sorts of music Xander and I thought you and Harvey might like.”
Xander ran the record store behind my shop, the Spin Doctor. He and Lucy had been dancing around each other like a couple of lovesick calves for months, each totally infatuated with the other, each way too cool to admit it. Even saying his name had raised a blush in my sister’s cheeks.
“That’s very thoughtful, Lucy.” Ingrid still stared at the player with suspicion. I’m sure she was trying to figure out how something so small could hold more than a single song.
Taffy pulled a giant package from beneath the table. It was wrapped in cellophane and tied with a huge red bow (which was quickly added to the paper plate). The basket contained a delicate blue willow china teapot and two matching cups and saucers. The china was surrounded by small boxes and bags of various teas.
“Some are traditional black and green blends, but others have herbs for various illnesses. There are teas for indigestion, headache, and even one that’s supposed to crank up your libido.”
For the first time in forever I saw Ingrid Whitfield blush. “Well, uh, thank you, dear. I’m sure . . . Did you know my mother had a set of blue willow china. I loved it so much, but my sister got it when Mother died. I’m happy to own some of my own now.”
Dru shyly pushed her package across the table. It was much larger but wrapped in the same red paper Lucy had used and topped by a trio of the silver bows. Ingrid went through her ritual of carefully preserving the wrappings as she opened the box, and once again, I added the bows to my collection.
Dru’s gift was much more straightforward. Two purple-and-white-striped scarves. Dru shrugged. “I’ve been learning to crochet, but I haven’t learned much beyond rectangles. I thought you and Harvey could keep your matching Vikings scarves here for when you come up to visit in the winter. Because I really hope you’ll come visit during the winter.”
Ingrid cleared her throat. “They’re gorgeous, Dru. I’d like to place an order for your first tea cozy,” she teased.
“We’re up,” Rena said, glancing at Jolly, who pulled another small package from her pocket.
The wrapping was all Rena: paper from the Sunday comics and brightly colored rubber bands holding it together. Even so, Ingrid’s Depression-era instincts had her gently sliding the rubber bands so they wouldn’t muss the paper and then pressing the paper flat so it could be used again.
With great care, Ingrid lifted a long chain and pendant from the box. It glinted as it twisted in her hand. She gasped. “It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Jolly said. Jolly was a jeweler who made exquisite pieces inspired by nature. Her usual materials were hammered silver and polished agate, but I could tell the pendant wasn’t silver.
“I wanted it to remind you of home,” Jolly said.
“Black Hills gold,” Ingrid breathed.
Jolly chuckled. “Not exactly. Unless it’s made in the Black Hills, it isn’t Black Hills gold. But I have been playing around with the technique of combining different gold alloys to create colored gold.”
Ingrid handed the necklace around the table. The pendant was a mellow gold, covered with sprigs of green leaves and pale pink roses. The pendant was large enough for a woman of Ingrid’s stature to wear, but the delicate coloring gave it a fairylike lightness.
“It’s a locket,” Rena said when the pendant had made its way back to Ingrid.
She gasped again, as she found and opened the tiny lock on the side of the pendant. When it opened, she teared up. “It’s us,” she said. “However did you pull this off?”
Rena grinned and winked. “Like we said, we’ve been planning this for a while. The locket was Jolly’s idea, but the pictures were mine. I went to the high school library and found the yearbook from the last year you and Harvey were both enrolled there. Digital cameras are amazing these days. It didn’t take me long to duplicate the pictures, touch them up again, and—boom—cut them to fit the locket.”
Ingrid passed me the locket and I gazed down on a very young Ingrid and Harvey. Ingrid’s strong features were balanced by the rolls of blond hair that framed her face and the pert little netted hat perched on top. Harvey’s short hair was slicked back by pomade that made it shine. Both of them were smiling like they hadn’t a care in the world . . . like the end of World War II had cleared a pathway to a perfect future.
I fought back a lump in my throat. I was determined not to cry, even though my emotions were right at the surface.
“Here,” I announced. “It’s tradition.” I displayed the paper plate with the red and silver bows decorating its back. I’d stapled a strand of ribbon on either side. With Ingrid’s hesitant permission, I placed the plate on her head and tied the ribbons under her chin to make a hat.
“This is tradition?” Ingrid asked.
I laughed. “Yes. Maybe not an old tradition, but still.”
“This is ridiculous, is what this is,” she pouted.
“Oh, hush. At least I didn’t keep track of the ribbons you broke.”
“Why would you do that?” she asked.
“Because, according to tradition, you have a baby for every broken ribbon.”
Ingrid threw back her head and howled. “I assure you, there’s no danger of babies in our future.”
I took my seat and an awkward silence fell over the group.
Rena kicked me under the table. “Your turn,” she said. “Give her your gift.”
“Right. Well, my present isn’t so sentimental. And you may not even want it.”
“Stop hedging,” Dru said. “Just give the woman your gift.”
I pulled the envelope from the back pocket of my jeans. It was a little rumpled, so I smoothed it on the table before handing it to Ingrid. There was no glitter, colored paper, or ribbons . . . just Ingrid’s name written across the front.
She opened the envelope and pulled out a single folded sheet of paper. As it shook loose, a check fell to the table.
“A check? For twenty thousand dollars?”
“Just read the letter,” I said, my voice tight with nerves.
I had expected she would read the letter silently, but instead she read it aloud.
Dear Ingrid,
In many respects, you nursed me back to life after Casey left me. You kept a roof over my head and food in my mouth by allowing me to work at the Gift Haus, even though I know you never really needed the help. More importantly, you gave me a sense of purpose by encouraging me to develop my pet couture skills. And you gave me a shot at a life by allowing me to continue living and working at 801 Maple even after you left.
When we made this arrangement—that you would move to Boca and let me use this space for cheap—you made it sound like I was doing you a favor. But I know better. You were supporting me just like you always have. I know if it weren’t for me, you would have sold the building and used the money to travel and live more comfortably with Harvey.
So let me buy you out, let me free up this asset for you. Consider this check a down payment on a contract for deed. That way I can take over all the bills here and still continue sending you payments to make your life better.
Never fear. You will always have a home here. Just not so many bills.
All my love, Izzy
When she was finished reading, she let the letter fall to the table. I couldn’t read her expression to save my life.
“I mean, if you don’t want to sell, then that’s okay. I can just start paying you more rent or something. I just . . . You’ve helped me so much, and I thin
k it’s time I carried my own weight. You’ve given me the strength to do that, Ingrid.”
She stood up and pulled me from my chair, throwing her arms around me in a crushing embrace. I felt the delicate drop of a tear on my shoulder, and that turned on my own waterworks. But I didn’t know what we were crying about yet.
“I am so proud of you, Izzy McHale. I didn’t give you anything but the gift of time. Even when you were reeling from that stupid boy’s betrayal, I could sense the strength in you. You just needed to trust in yourself.”
I squeezed her tight and let the tears fall.
I don’t know how long we would have stood there if Rena hadn’t broken us apart with a gagging noise.
“Blech. You two sound like a Celine Dion song.”
I caught Jolly gently slapping the back of Rena’s head and the two of them exchanged secret smiles.
“So?” Dru asked. “Are you going to sell the building to Izzy?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Ingrid replied, wiping the moisture from her eyes and sinking back down to her chair. She tipped her head back to look me in the eyes. “You could have stayed on as a tenant for as long as you wanted, but you’re right that I’m even happier without having to worry about taxes and utilities and maintenance.” She paused and glanced away for a moment. “It will be strange to be a guest in my own home. Which won’t be my own anymore.”
“But there will always be a place for you here, both in this house and in my heart.”
* * *
After the schmaltzy bit, our little hen party dissolved into gossip and laughter. I wanted to stay in that warm circle of joy all day, but at some point, I had to open up Trendy Tails. And before that, I had two dogs that needed some serious relief. I left Dru and Lucy tidying things up, let Ingrid go crawl back in bed with Harvey, and Rena accompanied me while I walked the dogs.
Packer was none too thrilled to share his morning walk with Daisy. Daisy lunged and tugged at her leash, sniffing the ground as she made her instinctive way down the sidewalk toward Dakota Park, where everyone—including Daniel Colona—took their dogs for morning exercise, but the usually irrepressible Packer hung back and sulked.
Rena skipped at my side, devouring a third caramel roll. I topped Rena by more than six inches, so she had to rely on her abundance of energy to keep up with my stride.
“Here,” I said, “you take Daisy and I’ll take Packer. At this rate, we’ll never make it back to open up the store in time.”
Rena took Daisy’s leash and wrapped it twice around her hand. She was five foot nothing, and if Daisy caught sight of a squirrel, she could lead Rena on a merry chase.
“I can’t believe the police are letting us open today.”
“I’m a little surprised, too. I thought Jack would put up a fuss. But I told him we couldn’t afford to lose the business, and he rolled over just like that.”
“Hmmm,” Rena hummed. I glanced at my friend and watched her lips slide up in a sly smile. With her hair—currently bright pink—ruffled atop her head and the carnival of colors and bangles she wore, she looked like an imp.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Rena said, but that smile said something else entirely.
I shrugged. “I suppose he might be getting some pressure from his mother. She’s pretty gung ho about her Pearl marrying Romeo Tucker next weekend. I don’t think she’ll stand for a delay, murder or no murder.”
“Yeah,” Rena said. “I’m sure that’s it.”
Daisy tugged Rena away and into the park and made her way unerringly to a tree near an out-of-the-way park bench. Rena let her have her head and followed. We exchanged a sad glance as Daisy sniffed her way around the bench, where Daniel must have sat while Daisy played, then lay down on the ground with a tired whimper.
While Daisy had found her spot in the park, Packer had other things in mind. Now that he had me to himself, he danced around my legs and scampered his way toward a clutch of young mothers and their children.
Dakota Park covered a broad swath of green space, land that a timber baron had bequeathed to the town. One corner of the park was covered in vast slides, forts, swings, and other adventures for little kids, another corner was fenced off as a play area for larger dogs, and the band shell in the middle provided a focal point for picnickers coming in to enjoy fireworks and cookouts and even the annual Halloween Howl. There were also little nooks and crannies, quiet spaces occupied by one or two benches, where residents could sit with a book, hold a quiet conversation, or—occasionally—make out in peace.
Packer was great with kids, so I let his leash out and plopped down on a bench next to Ama Olmstead, who was watching her young son, Jordan, playing cars with another toddler.
Everyone in town loved Ama Olmstead. She was Merryville’s darling. Tiny, pretty, blond, blue-eyed, and sweeter than a Christmas stollen, she looked like an old-fashioned china doll. She managed to greet everyone with a welcoming smile and a personal word. “How are your bunions, Martha?” “Did you get your green beans canned, Greta?” “How’s your son down in the Cities, Roy?” It’s why she was so good at her job.
Other than the editor, all of the Merryville Gazette employees were part-time. David Lusztig covered government business, the school board, and city council and such; Joyce Lambert covered the police beat; Amber Nash covered funerals and potlucks; and Ama Olmstead covered everything else. That meant writing stories on everything from town gatherings to tourist events to high school sports, and Ama handled it all with grace and good humor. I knew she was ambitious, eager to move up the journalistic food chain, but she was making the best of what she had.
“Morning, Izzy,” she said, an unusual note of sorrow in her tone. Of course, she’d been on the scene when Daniel had died, and I imagined we’d all been affected. Heaven knows I wasn’t feeling myself that morning. And Ama had seemed particularly shaken up by the sight of Daniel, making little choking sounds as she snapped pictures of the scene.
“Good morning, Ama. Hope you don’t mind if Packer keeps Jordan company.” My scrappy pooch had wormed his way into the boys’ game and was vigorously licking a plastic yellow dump truck while Jordan giggled in glee.
A ghost of a smile drifted across her lips. “Don’t worry. I’m not one of those sanitizer-crazy moms who won’t let her kid get a little dog spit on him now and then.”
I uttered a surprised laugh. Ama and I weren’t close, and I’d forgotten how funny she could be. Unlike her husband, Steve, Ama wasn’t a native of Merryville. She was a Wisconsinite, practically from Chicago, which in Merryville terms meant she was practically from New York City. She blended right in with the Merryville crowd, but every now and then the big-city edge made an appearance, either by way of a particularly edgy article of clothing—such as the chic Black Watch infinity scarf she wore with her black peacoat—or through her wry wit.
“You must be exhausted,” Ama continued, her eyes never leaving her son.
“Yeah, it was quite a night.”
“Quite a night.”
“Did you know Daniel?” I asked.
She shot me a look of surprise. “Me?”
“Well, you were both reporters. I thought maybe he might have visited with you at some point during his stay here.”
She turned her attention back to Jordan and Packer. “He was a reporter?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I thought you knew.”
“No.”
“Too bad. I’d sorta hoped he’d given you some hint about what he was doing here.”
A lopsided smile graced her face. “I’m just a small-town reporter,” she said. “I’ve been to a few journalism conferences in Minneapolis, but the reporters from the big cities don’t necessarily view me as their colleague. I never even met Daniel Colona.”
I knew a little something about people looking down on you. I’d heard from some of my friends from
college, men and women who’d gone on to work with some of the big design houses in New York or opened up their own boutiques, dressing wealthy women in Minneapolis and Chicago. They tried to act interested and enthusiastic about my pet boutique, but I could always tell they were faking it. Their undertones ranged from horror to hilarity. The fact that I was happy as a clam didn’t seem to make much difference.
“Do you have any idea what he was doing here, though? I mean, what’s going on in Merryville that could have been of interest to a reporter from another city?”
“Jordan, let Elliot have his Thomas back,” she called. She shifted on the park bench. “I guess I’m not much of a journalist. I can’t imagine what he was doing here.”
Her tone was light, almost flip, but with a brittle edge to it.
“Huh. No idea at all?”
She shifted again. “Who knows?” This time, there was no mistaking the annoyance in her voice. “Maybe he just wanted to see how countryfolk live.”
I watched Packer roll over on his back so Jordan and his friend Elliot could take turns rubbing his belly. While Elliot gave Packer his full attention, Jordan grabbed a handful of grass and toddled toward his mother.
“Ma!” He handed her the grass like a trophy.
“Thank you, sweets,” Ama said. She set the grass on her knee and reached into the tote bag at her side for a baby wipe, which she used to wipe her son’s ruddy face, cleaning it of mud and a drippy nose. He pulled back and squinted his chocolate-drop eyes. “Hush,” Ama said softly, giving her son’s face one final swipe before ruffling his hair and letting him go.
She glanced up at me with a smile, her son’s presence completely dispelling her momentary annoyance. “I’m not one of ‘those’ moms, but I do have standards.”
I laughed. “He’s adorable. Growing fast. What is he, two?”
“Thanks,” she said, but she looked uncomfortable. “Yes, he’ll be three in June. Party planning is already under way.
“You don’t have kids, do you?” she asked.
