31
I got back to Time in a Bottle in plenty of time for Dodie to get to the CAMP meeting. However, one look at my boss, and I worried whether she’d be able to handle the appointment or not. Dodie was clearly not herself. She floundered around the store like a fish flopping around outside of an aquarium. Her eyes were big and bovine, and her gait was uncertain and panicked.
“Are you okay?” I asked. I wanted to ask her where she’d gotten the misinformation about Bama working at Artist Supply, but now clearly was not the time.
“No. I keep thinking about what’s coming. This is a disaster, and it isn’t fair! I am one of the original founders of CAMP, and if my hunch is right, I’ll also be the first to get kicked out.”
“Dodie, you don’t know that.”
“I do, too!”
Her worry changed to anger… at me. Instead of irritating her further, I took Guy and Gracie for a quick walk around the block. The fresh air did me good. I returned the pooches to the playpen and set to work organizing the paper bag album class. Rather than tell me she was leaving, Dodie simply walked out, slamming the back door hard behind her. Since I needed to use the restroom, I got up, checked that she was gone, and had a poke around.
On her desk was a pink “While You Were Out” slip. Dr. Andersoll had phoned while I was out, and his project was a go. I called the allergist; he promised to drop off photos next week. On a whim, I suggested a second album, one to highlight Dr. Andersoll’s allergy practice. He gave that a big thumbs up, too.
A good start, but we still needed more bright ideas, more incoming projects to offset the business we were losing.
I reviewed my proposals to photographers, offering them custom albums. I suggested three levels of customization: (a.) imprinted album covers, (b.) imprinted album covers plus handmade but standardized page layouts, and (c.) imprinted album covers, plus handmade and customized page layouts. Before printing a lot of copies, I phoned one of the photographers and tried the idea on him. He was cautiously enthusiastic and asked me to make a sample.
Another good sign. I did a little happy dance. More, more, more, I told myself.
Sinking into Dodie’s big leather office chair, I closed my eyes and let myself slip into a dreamlike, creative state. I visualized the cover of Joan Rivers’ Bouncing Back, written shortly after her husband’s suicide, a $3 million business loss, and a cancelled talk show. The trick, she said, is to have so many balls in the air that something has to work out. Not only would the law of averages suggest at least one winner, but high hopes for good news would keep you going.
My eyes snapped open. What Time in a Bottle needed was more balls in the air. With Dodie under the weather emotionally, it was up to me to keep the projects coming, one after another.
I prepped for my favorite creativity booster, a synectics exercise. First, I cut three shades of paper — pink, green, and yellow — into small squares. On the pink, I put stages of life. On the green, I wrote place names. On the yellow, I scribbled various types of equipment. I shuffled each eclectic list and pulled out three slips, one of each color. I drew “childhood” (pink), “church” (green), and “hammer” (yellow). I wrote those down.
Nietzsche said, “One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.” Right now, the cards produced chaos, but that didn’t mean I should give up.
I tried again. This time I flipped over “grandparents,” “home,” and “carts.” I was copying those words down when the door minder rang.
A woman stood in the center of the store, holding her purse in front of her like a shield. She seemed frozen in place, eying the paper racks nervously. This was a commonplace reaction. The awesome selection that attracts seasoned scrappers makes beginners want to throw down their scissors in despair.
“Hi, you look like you could use a little help.”
The customer nodded. The bangs on her pixie haircut barely fluttering as she moved her head up and down, affirmatively.
I followed her line of sight. “Overwhelming, isn’t it? My first visit to a scrapbook store, I bought one sheet of paper, folded it, put it in my purse and walked out. The other customers doubled over with giggles.”
“I’d heard this is easy and fun. But where does one begin?”
“Why not start by telling me about your project?”
“I’m Serena Jensen. My mother is in a home for people with dementia. She’s stuck in the past. The caregivers, of course, don’t know what a wonderful and exciting life she had before the Alzheimer’s. I put a large photo of Mother in her youth on her apartment door. The nurse and the helpers responded so favorably that I hoped to do more along the same line. Maybe if there was an album about Mother’s life, it would encourage providers to see her as the woman she was. Especially on those days when she is difficult.” She swallowed hard. “Which is often.”
“An album is a great idea,” I said. Actually, she wasn’t the first customer who’d done this, but I’d totally forgotten about this strategy for improving the quality of life for the elderly. “What a loving way to remind everyone to treat your mother with dignity.”
“Do I have to do it all myself? I’ve never been handy with scissors. Mother gave up teaching me to sew. Even though I’m retired, my schedule is very busy. Between taking care of my husband, watching the grandkids, teaching Sunday School, playing golf, and volunteering at a thrift shop—” She stopped and blushed. “I hope I didn’t imply my mother isn’t important to me.”
“Mrs. Jensen—”
“Call me Serena, please.”
I introduced myself, and she interrupted with, “You must be Sheila’s daughter-in-law! She’s been telling all of us how talented you are. I should have thought to ask her where you worked. Sheila swears you are a creative genius. A really sweet girl, too. And pretty. Which you are.”
Well, blow me down, Popeye. Sheila said all that about me? Quelle surprise.
“That is very kind of her and of you. Now why not have a seat over here at my work table? We can start by choosing an album style. As for the pages, you can do as much or as little as you wish. I can do the interior work, if you prefer. See? This will be fun.”
Not only did Serena Jensen prove to be the bearer of compliments, she was also the midwife of a great idea. She left a few minutes after five, and I quickly closed the store.
That night, alone in my quiet house, I thought about how best to approach retirement homes and independent living communities. I jotted down ideas about teaching memory album making to residents and their families. The thoughts came fast and furious until I stood up and took a stretch break. The dogs wanted one, too.
I checked my calendar. Mert should have called me with instructions about picking up Guy. I dialed her number.
“I know I’m late getting back to you,” she answered without any greeting. “I jest spent another half-day being questioned by the police about Yvonne. I’ll swing by your house tomorrow evening, if it’s okay-dokey. Guy’s people ain’t coming home until day after tomorrow. With all this hassle from them cops, I’m running way behind.”
I hung up the phone wondering, why did the police continue to be so interested in her?
32
Dodie wasn’t in the store the next morning when I opened. Neither was Bama. I called my boss several times, but wound up in her voice mail. Were we still part of CAMP? What had the other owners said? I wondered and I worried.
The radio silence from Dodie gave me an entire day to type up my new ideas. I wanted to present them to her all at once, in an organized fashion. In fact, I got so engrossed in my work that had it not been for the dogs needing potty breaks, I would have spent the whole morning sitting at my worktable.
Usually, Fridays are pretty hectic. This one was unusually quiet. In many ways, that was fine by me. Although Yvonne Gaynor’s death had been bumped to the back pages of the paper, our customers still hadn’t forgiven us. After I finished writing up my new ideas for Dodie, I started to ge
t ready for our evening crop.
As I worked putting together page kits, I found myself actually looking forward to the barbecue at Mert’s house. She wasn’t much of a cook, but her son Roger was a sweetie who treated Anya like she was an equal, not a pesky kid.
However, those two words – Opera Theatre – made me shudder. It sounded totally out of my league. Getting gussied up makes me nervous. I feel like an imposter. I worry that I’ll make some mysterious fashion faux pas that’s going to land me in Glamour magazine under the “Fashion Don’ts” heading.
Maybe I’d luck out, and the dress Sheila had ordered wouldn’t make it in time. Maybe. I crossed my fingers and my toes as I raced to the Science Center to pick up Anya. Gracie sat straight up majestically in the backseat, staring eye-to-eye with other drivers.
We were back on Highway 40, heading toward the store when Sheila called. “I know you have a crop tonight. Why not drop off Anya here? She can stay at my house overnight. Besides, your dress arrived. I want you to take it with you to the spa when you go tomorrow.”
So much for crossing my fingers and toes. With a sigh, I consoled myself with the fact that Anya would have a lovely evening with her grandmother while I was working at Time in a Bottle.
“Mom, look at that!”
As we turned onto Sheila’s street, I was thinking of excuses for ducking out on the Opera Theatre event. But my mental gymnastics came to an abrupt halt when my daughter yelled, “Mom! Look at that! I told you Gran is losing her mind.”
My mother-in-law stood at the far end of her lawn. Correction: What had been her lawn and was now a murky swimming pool. Sheila’s linen slacks were splattered to the knees with mud, and her crisp white blouse was polka-dotted with more of the same. Both hands clutched a garden hose in an inept attempt to control the flow of water. As I climbed out, I watched Sheila kneel and poke the nozzle deep into a mole tunnel. A geyser of mud, water, and grass shot out the other end. Her yard was looking more and more like a construction site.
“Sheila?” I called to her. “Anya? Take the dogs inside, will you? I don’t want Gracie and Guy to get all muddy.”
Quickly clipping on the leashes, my daughter took the dogs past me and through the side door of the house.
“Uh?” Sheila grunted at me! Grunted! Her war on nature was turning her into an animalistic predator.
I stifled a giggle and cautiously got closer. “Any luck shopping?”
“I’ll show you,” she said as she let go of the hose.
Big mistake. The metal nozzle rose up like a cobra ready to strike. Before I could grab it, a healthy spray of water doused both of us, squirting Sheila squarely in the face. The liberated hose swayed and took off, shimmying a path across the lawn. I wiped my eyes and watched it spew forth a strong stream of water.
“Grab it!” Sheila shrieked. I tagged along behind the green snake.
My feet were churning up more and more mud as I got closer to the hose. Sheila kept yelling, “Grab it!”
Finally, I tackled the blasted thing, doing a hefty belly-flop onto the lawn, pinning the hose under me. Reaching between my legs with both hands, I got a grip on the nozzle and twisted the sprayer shut.
Sheila raced over to the faucet and turned off the flow. I struggled to catch my breath. My bra was soaked like a sponge because the nozzle had shot water under me. My pants were crusted in mud. I struggled to get my breath, lying there in the goop. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw Sheila raise muck-covered hands to wipe her face. She was muttering curse words, profanities I’d never heard come out of her mouth.
Squeaky, squishy sounds followed me as I picked my way to where she stood, propping herself up against the side of her house. “Look at me. These moles have made a mess of me and my lawn. I’m even dreaming about them at night. Did you know a mole’s fur grows straight up? That way he can go forward or backward in a tunnel and not get dirt in his hair.”
“News to me. Um, were you trying to drown them?” I asked.
“No. I thought I could flood them out. Obviously, I need a new plan. This is so not working.”
So not working? My daughter’s preteen jargon was infiltrating my very proper mother-in-law’s speech patterns.
Anya and Linnea met us in the kitchen with a set of old towels. “Law's above,” the dark-skinned woman said. She clucked her tongue at the dirty footprints we made on her clean kitchen floor. Fortunately, Anya had shepherded both dogs skillfully enough that they had evaded most of the mud. While I patted myself down, I watched Gracie and Guy as they nibbled homemade dog biscuits that Linnea had baked just for them.
“Your dress is upstairs.” Sheila beckoned me to follow her.
We climbed the stairs to her vast and elegant master bedroom, where she turned her back to me and stripped to her lace undies. Over her bare skin, she slid on a silk kimono. From her closet, she withdrew a gown worthy of Cinderella.
“That’s what you’re wearing to the Opera Theatre event?” My voice dropped to a hush. The garment was breathtaking. A gold halter top extended into a beaded bodice. Below the waist tumbled a waterfall of gold chiffon over matching satin. A sheer shawl of the same chiffon draped over the shoulders. Sheila reached deeper into her closet and withdrew a pair of open-toed gold sandals.
“You’ll look like a fairy princess,” I said. “This is absolutely gorgeous, Sheila. A movie star could wear this to the Oscars.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Gold isn’t my color. I’m wearing turquoise. This is for you.”
33
“No way. I couldn’t, I mean, it’s too grand, and I couldn’t carry it off.” My voice cracked with emotion. My mother had never gone shopping with me or for me. In fact, no one but my late husband, George, had ever purchased any articles of clothing for me. Seeing this dress, I now wondered if Sheila had been his wardrobe assistant all along. Running a tentative finger along the bodice, I mentally calculated the cost of this finery.
“This is too much,” I stuttered. “I can’t accept it. You spent too much money.”
Anya gave a brisk knock on the door and poked her head in. “Hey, Mom, aren’t you going to try that on? Isn’t it too cool? Nana searched for days to get the right outfit for you. With a little bit of a suntan, you’ll look like a goddess.”
“It’s too much. I can’t.”
Sheila huffed. “Don’t be silly. Rinse the rest of that dirt off in my shower and then let’s see how it fits. There’s a fresh towel on the counter for you.”
I closed the bathroom door behind me, feeling acutely self-conscious about my tattered panties and ratty bra. After warm water hurtled out of the shower head, I disrobed and stepped inside the tiled cubicle. Using several of Sheila’s scented body washes, I cleaned off the mud. Once satisfied that I was clean, I used the fluffy towel sitting on the counter and patted myself dry. Only then did I shimmy into the beautiful gold dress.
Sheila sat next to Anya watching me as I walked out of her bathroom. “Hmmm. You’ll need the appropriate foundations. What size bra and panties do you wear?”
“Gran, I’m thinking Mom needs Spanx.” Anya studied me.
Sheila nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I think I can have those delivered later this evening. I have an account with a small boutique. The owner will know exactly what your mother needs.”
“Spanx?” I had no idea what my daughter meant. “I’m not zipped up in the back.”
Anya came over and zipped the dress for me.
Sheila got up, retrieved a shoebox, and sat a pair of new sandals on the floor. Anya steadied me as I stepped into them. I turned around slowly to view myself in the huge double-mirrors flanking Sheila’s closet. My gaze swept from my feet upward. The woman who looked back at me wore an elegant, slender column of gold from shoulders to toes. I pushed back my damp hair and tried to imagine an appropriate style.
“Don’t worry about your hair,” Sheila said. “The dress is perfect, and the staff at Spa La Femme will make you worthy of it.”
<
br /> “About that,” I said as I signaled Anya. She came over and slowly unzipped the gown. “It won’t take them long, will it? Dodie may need me in the store.”
Anya offered me a hand so I could step out of the dress, while Sheila slid the gown onto a padded hanger and covered it with a plastic zip-up bag. “Dodie and I have already discussed the matter. You’re covered. A car will pick you up at eight a.m. All your clothes and accessories will be in the car for you. I’ll have everything ready for you. When they’ve finished with you at the spa, the driver will bring you to my house, and we’ll attend the function together because it’s easiest to walk in with someone you know. Besides, I want to enjoy all the admiring looks you’re going to get. I’ve told my friends you are coming.”
“That reminds me. Serena Jensen stopped by the store. She passed along your compliments. You said some very nice things about me.”
“I’d had two glasses of wine.” Sheila smirked. “Serena is wonderful. She phoned and told me that you helped her figure out a way to help her mother. She and Bob will be there at the Opera Theatre event. See? Someone you’ll know.”
“It was easy to talk to her. We were in the store, discussing my favorite hobby. What will I say to other people? People I don’t know? I can’t very well begin a conversation with, ‘Hi, my name is Kiki, and I’m a scrap-aholic.’ Why don’t you take this dress back and get a refund? I really don’t want to embarrass you, Sheila.”
“Oh, Mom, honestly. You can be such a baby. I’m going to check on the dogs.” Anya flounced out of the room.
“Linnea is planning to spoil her tonight and tomorrow. No need to worry about Miss Hormones,” Sheila said.
“I’m not worried about Anya. I’m worried about me. I know these people are your peers. I don’t want to embarrass you, Sheila.” I folded the tissue paper back over the new shoes and returned them to their box.
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 32
