George turns back to her supper. “That’s what I thought.”
Chapter Sixteen
It’s a long night. I spend most of it arguing with myself and seeing how tangled I can get in the bedding. By six o’clock I’m punch-drunk tired, but I still can’t sleep. I throw off the covers and drag myself out of bed. My head is thick, my body aches, and my eyes feel like I removed my mascara with battery acid. I dress quietly and tiptoe to the kitchen. Hopefully a cup of tea will help.
And there’s George at the table with a hot water bottle propped between her back and the spindles of the chair.
“The kettle’s still hot,” she says.
I rummage through the cupboard for a mug. “Your back still bothering you?” I take my tea and slide onto a chair across from her.
“Mostly just stiff. Rigor mortis sets in during the night. Dress rehearsal for the real thing, most likely. One of these mornings I’m gonna wake up dead.” She allows herself a chuckle before adding, “And what’s your problem?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“I can see that. No card-carrying teenager I’ve ever known would voluntarily open an eye before ten o’clock, let alone actually get out of bed. So what was keeping you awake?”
I shrug. “My brain. It was one of those nights I couldn’t seem to switch it off.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve got too much going on in there. Best way to fix that is to get rid of some of it.”
I snort. “Right. And exactly how do I do that?”
“You deal with it.”
After breakfast, I put on my sweats and go for a run — to Alex’s cabin. I’m trying to jolt my body back to life and blow the cobwebs out of my head, but I’m also trying to follow George’s advice.
I knock.
“It’s open!” Alex hollers from somewhere inside.
I let myself in. Alex is unloading her kiln, so I make my way to the back of the cabin. When I see the new pottery, I gasp. “Alex, this is gorgeous! But it’s different than your other stuff.”
She shrugs. “I was experimenting with a new glaze. You like it?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s very earthy or rustic or — I don’t know — but it’s something. Something spectacular! You’re amazing.”
“Thanks.” She smiles. “Now all I have to do is sell it.”
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that,” I say. “Can we sit down?”
“Sure.” She gestures to the couch.
I flop down, hug a cushion, and get straight to the point. “My mom is going to buy some of your work. I don’t know how much, but she really likes your pottery and she thinks she can use it in her designs. Chances are she might become a regular customer.”
Alex’s face turns into one huge grin. “That’s great. Dani, thank you so much for sending her the pictures. This is wonderful news!”
I nod and smile. “I thought you’d be pleased.” I pause. “There’s more.”
Alex stops smiling. “What else?”
“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything until it was for sure, but last night I started having an ulcer thinking about how you might react, so I figured I better tell you now.”
“What is there for me to react to?”
“Nothing. But considering how you’ve accused me of not minding my own business a few times, I got worried that you might interpret what I’ve done as interfering in your life again — and that is so not what I’m trying to do.”
“Okay, now you’re starting to scare me. What have you done?”
“Nothing bad. Honest. I told you my mom is an interior designer.”
She nods.
“Well, because of her business, she has connections in the decorating world — wholesalers, retailers, those kinds of people. So, I sort of asked her to see if any of them would be interested in selling your work.”
I cringe, waiting for her to blow up.
“And?”
I ungrimace. “And you’re not mad?”
“Of course I’m not mad. This is a good thing. You’re trying to help me.”
“Yeah, but without your knowledge or permission.”
She laughs. “You sound disappointed. Do you want me to freak out?”
“No. I just thought —”
“Has your mom had any luck?”
“It’s too soon to tell. I only talked to her about it yesterday. But my mother isn’t a lady to waste time. I expect to hear some news one way or another in a couple of days.” I don’t mention that my mother is coming to Farrow, and Alex can talk to her herself. There’s no point getting her hopes up more than they already are.
And they are definitely up. Alex is positively glowing.
“This is fantastic!” She hugs herself. “This might be exactly what I need to keep me afloat.”
Though that is my thought too, I don’t want her getting airborne, so I say, “Don’t go counting your chickens before they’re hatched. At this point it’s just a possibility. That’s all.”
She takes a calming breath, though it doesn’t appear to help. “Maybe so,” she says, “but it’s one more possibility than I had ten minutes ago.”
Since Alex has taken my promotional efforts on her behalf so positively, I tell her about my plan to bring Arlo to Farrow. To my surprise, she thinks it’s a good idea and even volunteers to help show him around and field questions I probably don’t know the answers to.
So after I pick him up at the bus station in Merritt the next morning, I swing by Alex’s cabin.
“Nice work,” Arlo murmurs as he checks out Alex’s pottery. “I’m no expert on this sort of thing, but even I can tell this is mighty fine craftsmanship.”
“Thank you.” Alex beams. “Now if I could just figure out how to make it earn me a living.”
“I understand a lot of folks around here have that problem,” Arlo says.
“Well, there’s not really a marketplace here,” she replies. “Except for the spring bazaar, there are no outlets in Farrow at all. There used to be stores, but they’ve shut down. Shopkeepers have either moved away or taken jobs in Merritt or some other town they can commute to. The buildings are all here. It wouldn’t be hard to open them up again, but without customers there’s no point. If we craftspeople want to sell our stuff, we have to find a store somewhere else. Plus, we have to get our stuff there. Mostly places will only take a few pieces at a time, and though it’s on consignment, we still have to pay the store a big chunk of change. Between the travel and the cost of materials, it’s hard to earn any money without charging huge prices, and nobody wants to do that. That’s why the spring bazaar is so good. I sold everything I had. I wish I’d had more, because I could’ve sold that too.”
“How many of you artisans are there in Farrow?” Arlo asks.
Alex thinks a minute. “Here and over Brookmere way and thereabouts, there must be around fifty, I’d say.”
“And what sorts of things do they make?”
“Everything!” she exclaims and starts counting on her fingers. “Wood carvings, bronze castings, stone sculptures, paintings, blown glass, jewellery, quilts.”
“Leaded glass, knitting and crocheting, woodcuts, weaving,” I add when Alex pauses for air.
“Photography, etching, leatherwork, paper . . .”
We tag-team our way through a dozen more crafts before Arlo stops us.
“That’s quite a list.”
“And we’re not just talking casual crafters, either,” I point out. “I’ve seen the products these people turn out. This is high-quality merchandise. And,” I add, “compared to what they’d sell for in Vancouver, the goods are way underpriced.”
“Sounds like you craftspeople could definitely do better if you pulled together. Aside from the bazaar, has anybody every tried joining forces?” Arlo says.
Alex shrugs. “I don’t think so. Not that I know of, anyway.”
“Instead of everybody reinventing the wheel for themselves and shouldering all the costs, you could pool your r
esources. You could share shipping. You could rent a shop and take turns manning it. You could do some research about prices. You could become online vendors. I haven’t had a chance to speak with any guilds yet, but I will. I’m betting there are all kinds of ways you could make things work.”
I feel myself smiling. Maybe I was right about Arlo after all.
“Now tell me about this here Farrow rodeo. I’m gonna like sinking my teeth into that one.”
“Fergie would be the one to tell you about that,” Alex says. “The rodeo was already history by the time I started spending time in Farrow.”
“Who’s Fergie?” I say.
But before Alex can answer, Arlo cuts in. “Fergie? Not Fergie Witter, by any chance?”
Alex’s jaw drops open. “You know Fergie?”
Arlo grins. “If we’re talkin’ rodeo, I sure do. Fergie was a big name on the circuit when I started out. So this is where he settled then? Well, I’ll be go to hell.”
I guess you can take the cowboy out of the rodeo, but you can’t take the rodeo out of the cowboy. As soon as we hunt Fergie Witter down, it’s like old home week for him and Arlo. The two men hadn’t known each other well on the circuit — one was just starting in the business as the other was finishing up — but they knew the same people, and the fact that they both have rodeo in their blood bonds them as nothing else can.
Once the memories and stories are out of the way, Arlo gets down to business.
“So, what say you show me the old rodeo grounds you have here and tell me how it was back in the day?”
“You betcha,” Fergie grins, and we drive over to the community hall. “It weren’t a huge rodeo, you understand,” he says as he shows us around the corral. “But it was respectable. It drew the local cowboys as well as the ones on their way up to or down from the circuit.”
“No grandstand,” Arlo says.
“There used to be,” Fergie says. “It got tore down when the wood started to rot. It was an accident waitin’ to happen. Same with the barn.”
“What kind of a turnout did you get?” Arlo asks.
“In its glory years, the stands were full for the whole three days, so probably ten thousand people, I’d say.”
Arlo nods toward the community hall. “Did you hold a dance too?”
Fergie spits into the dirt and spreads his arms. “Dance, cookout, hayride, the whole shebang. We did it up right. I can show you. There’s a photo album in the hall. C’mon.”
We tromp back to the community hall and Fergie unlocks the door.
“What’s the point of locking the place up when half the town has a key?” I whisper to Alex. All I get in answer is an elbow to the ribs.
“Oh, yeah, those were the days,” Fergie sighs when we’ve looked at the old rodeo photos. “It takes me back.” Then he squints at Arlo. “I’d give my favourite cowboy boots to see the rodeo up and running again, but it would be a foolhardy thing to attempt. It would never fly. This place is dying. Why are you even thinking about it?”
Arlo smiles. “Thinking doesn’t cost a body anything but time, and you just never know what the result will be.” But when we’ve dropped Fergie back at his house and are back at Alex’s cabin, Arlo says, “Fergie has a point, Dani. And no offence to you, Alex, cuz you live here and all, but Farrow is well on its way to becoming a ghost town. Trying to put on a rodeo where there aren’t any people to see it is plain foolishness. Expensive foolishness. I know you mean well, Dani, but I don’t see how this can work.”
I glance at Arlo and Alex. He looks grim and she looks apologetic.
“So that’s your only reservation about going ahead with this?” I say. “The shortage of people in Farrow?”
“You have to admit that’s a pretty big problem,” Alex points out.
“It might be,” I say.
“Might be? Are you serious?” she blurts. “How can y —”
I hold up my hand. “Before you have a hissy fit, hear me out. I may have a way to turn things around here. Farrow is dying, because there is no industry — no jobs. Right?”
They both nod.
“Well, it just so happens that my stepdad owns a very large brewery, and he’s looking to open a new distribution facility somewhere in the Okanagan. From what I know of his requirements, Farrow could fill the bill. And if the distribution centre went in, it would provide industry and jobs, which means people could come back here. The town could start growing again.”
Alex is gaping at me. “Is this a for-sure thing?”
I shake my head. “No, but my stepdad is coming to see the place. He likes what I’ve told him, and the next step is to see if it’s a feasible move.”
“When’s he coming?”
“He and my mom will be here tomorrow.”
Chapter Seventeen
That evening my mom calls with good news. Even without seeing the merchandise, two distributors have expressed an interest in carrying Alex’s pottery. Mom says they can tell from the photographs that the pieces are excellent quality and the unique style will have customer appeal. Once Mom gets her hands on some actual pieces, she is confident she can convince even more vendors to take on Alex’s work.
Mom says she and Reed should make it to Farrow by early afternoon. That gives me time to get Arlo back on the bus to Barriere before they arrive. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. Everything rides on Reed moving the brewery’s distribution facility to Farrow, and at this point there’s no telling which way that’s going to go. Reed may see the town’s potential, like I do, or he may decide it doesn’t have what it takes. I just don’t know.
I drop Arlo at the bus station and pick up a couple of subs before heading back to Farrow. As soon as I turn off the highway, I see the smoke curling into the sky above Alex’s cabin, and suddenly I can’t get there fast enough. She is going to be thrilled when I tell her about the headway my mother has made.
I don’t waste any time sharing the news, and just as I expect, Alex is pumped. She can’t even sit down to eat her sandwich, which means I spend the whole time pivoting on my chair, trying to keep her in sight. Her nervous energy is contagious and I find myself getting wound as tight as a spring right along with her. In self-defence, I finally get up to leave.
“I’m sure my mom will want to talk to you,” I say as I head for the door. “I’ll call you when they get here.”
Alex nods so hard, it’s a wonder her head doesn’t snap off and roll across the room. She stuffs her cellphone into her jeans. She’s practically bouncing. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”
I roll my eyes. “For God’s sake, Alex, calm down.”
“How can I? I’m too excited. This could be the break I need.”
“Maybe,” I say. “I hope so, but don’t get your heart set on it. We’ll know better once we talk to my mom. In the meantime, you need something to take your mind off this. Listen to some music. Go throw some clay. Run a marathon! I don’t know. There must be something that will distract you.”
She grins. “How about Chris Hemsworth? I’m pretty sure he could hold my attention.”
I might have been the voice of reason while I was talking to Alex, but the truth is I am just as anxious as she is. In fact, it’s a miracle I don’t wear out George’s living room rug waiting for Mom and Reed to arrive. When the BMW finally pulls up behind my Honda, I want to run outside, yipping like a little kid. But I don’t. Somehow I manage to contain my excitement and stroll down the path like an honest-to-goodness, pulled-together adult, and I start to think maybe I should pursue a career in acting.
It’s Mom who loses it. “Oh, Dani!” she gushes the second she sees me, throwing her arms around me and squeezing so hard I can’t breathe for a second.
I laugh and hug her back. “Good grief, Mom. It hasn’t even been two weeks. You’d think I’d been away for two years.”
On his way to the trunk, Reed kisses the top of my head. “It’s good to see you, kiddo.” Then he says to my mother, “You see, Joanna?
I told you she’d be fine.”
Reluctantly, she lets me go. “So I worry. What’s wrong with that? It’s a mother’s prerogative.”
“Let me help you with the bags, Reed,” I say.
He waves me away. “I’ve got it. We didn’t bring much. You show your mom the B&B.”
Mom and I lock arms and start up the path.
“This is really lovely,” she says, taking in the yard and cottage. “I bet it’s stunning when everything is in bloom.”
“Probably,” I agree. I lead her inside. “Let me introduce you to George Washington.”
She pulls back. “I beg your pardon.”
I laugh and drag her toward the kitchen and its mouth-watering aromas. George has been cooking all day.
“George, I’d like you to meet my mother, Joanna Malcolm. Mom, this is George Washington, the proprietor of this fine establishment.”
“George?” My mother extends her hand.
“Georgina.” George grins. “But nobody calls me that. Pleased to meet you.”
“What a lovely cottage you have,” Mom says. “So charming and cosy. No wonder Dani has stayed so long.”
“Are you saying I’ve worn out my welcome?”
“Nonsense,” George jumps in before my mother can reply. “Dani and I get along like a house on fire. She’s more like family than a paying guest.”
“But I am paying,” I throw in quickly when my mother raises an eyebrow in my direction.
“Hello?” Reed calls from the front hall. “Anybody home?”
“In the kitchen,” I holler. “Follow the scrumptious smells.”
“Have you had lunch?” George asks my mother.
“Hey, I thought you didn’t provide lunch,” I cut in.
George shrugs. “It’s my bed and breakfast. I can change the rules if I want.”
We all laugh just as Reed walks in.
“Now that could give a guy a complex.” He grins.
Mom pulls him forward. “George, I’d like you to meet my husband, Reed. Reed, this is our hostess, George Washington.” When he cocks his head in surprise, she adds, “It’s the truth.”
In Search of Sam Page 10
