Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books!

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  The other guests migrated to the food table and helped themselves.

  This seemed like the perfect chance to follow up with Nettie. “Are you giving thought to being considered for the Design Team?”

  Nettie hesitated. “Maybe.”

  “I hope so. I haven’t seen your pages, but I’d like to.”

  She wavered. “How about I come in tomorrow? I’ll bring my favorite layouts. Could you scan them for me?”

  “Of course. I’ll be glad to.”

  The rest of the evening went by quickly. At closing time, I thanked Clancy for bringing the pastries and offered to repay her.

  Instead, she asked, “How about if we trade out the goodies for the cost of the crop?”

  “But this crop was going to be on the house.”

  “Then comp me the next one.”

  “Does that mean you’re coming back?”

  “Are you kidding? I had a blast.”

  Clancy helped me pick up all the small stray pieces of paper. I wrapped up the leftover pizza to take home. As for the Muffin Man offerings, there was nothing left but a small pile of crumbs.

  “I owe you for helping me,” I said, walking Gracie to the BMW. “Next time you come in, let’s find a nice album for your pages.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said, as she got into her car for the drive back to Illinois.

  Clancy’s upbeat nature and the general excitement that always accompanies any crop kept me in high spirits until I turned onto my street. Although I’d left on my porch light and Gracie was with me, I still shook with anxiety as I unlocked my front door.

  The place seemed unnaturally quiet without my daughter. Of course, I was glad that Anya could stay at her grandmother’s when I worked late. Usually I enjoyed having a quiet evening all to myself, especially after the hectic social interaction of a crop.

  But tonight, it felt different. Creepy. Tonight I hated being alone…in this house. The ugly mess that’d been left on my front porch left a dark stain on my psyche. As a matter of fact, I doubted I would ever be able to approach this house and not shiver with fear. It wasn’t just the memory of the fake Gracie, nor was it discontent with my landlord (although admittedly he was a creep), nor a lack of closeness with my neighbors. This house, this building, this place felt wrong. Just plain wrong.

  I needed to move out. The sooner, the better.

  64

  Once I felt certain that the house was indeed secure and that Gracie and I were safe, I got ready for bed. Lying there, staring at the wet mark on the ceiling, I stewed over what had happened with the Design Team announcement. Sorting my legitimate concerns from my emotional responses took a lot of effort. Gracie listened carefully while I went back and forth about what I could, and should, say to my boss. My goal was to approach Dodie in a professional manner. In the end, I got up, put pen to paper, and listed my talking points. Satisfied that my concerns were valid, I finally crawled back into bed and fell asleep.

  Sheila called bright and early the next morning. She didn’t bother to say, “Good morning.” Instead, she was totally focused on her agenda. “I plan to swing by the store and pick you up around lunchtime. Sylvia Bertolli has been kind enough to find a few rentals for us to look at.”

  “Sure, if Dodie can spare me.”

  We talked for a few minutes, during which we agreed that Anya’s involvement should be minimal at the outset. She was so emotional these days, and we didn’t want to add more uncertainty to her life.

  “Make sure you dress appropriately,” Sheila said. “I realize you and Sylvia have already met several times when she sold your house in Ladue, but you’ll still want to make a good impression.”

  “Will do.”

  I arrived at Time in a Bottle to discover that Dodie had gotten to work before I did. That was a good sign. I called out a cheery hello and put Gracie in the playpen.

  “Hi,” Dodie answered, but she didn’t bother to come out of her office. Instead, she sat with her head in her hands and hunched over her desk.

  All my well-crafted talking points flew out the window, I stomped in and took a seat across from her big leather office chair.

  “What is eating you? It can’t just be Yvonne’s death and Horace’s job. You’ve been through tough times before. I care about you, Dodie. You’re not just my boss, you’re my friend.”

  She picked up a wad of papers and tapped the ends against her desktop. Then she reached inside her top drawer and pulled out a paperclip. Moving very slowly, she clipped the papers together.

  Keeping my mouth shut was hard, but I managed. Finally, Dodie said, “I found a lump in my breast.”

  A chill spread through my body. “You are going to the doctor, right? Please tell me you have an appointment.”

  She rearranged the pieces of paper. “I can’t.”

  “What? You have to!”

  “Not until we get this thing with Horace’s job squared away. If we can get his old employer to pick up our insurance, great. If not, and if I see a doctor now, the new insurance company will call it a pre-existing condition and refuse to cover me.”

  “Are you telling me Horace doesn’t know about this? Dodie, we’re talking about your health. You can’t worry about insurance. You need to get to a doctor as quickly as possible. Don’t you realize the longer you wait —”

  “Stop!” she shouted. “Don’t start on me. I know exactly what the complications are. My mother and sister both died of breast cancer. There was nothing anybody could do to help them. I am fully aware of the consequences and the costs. I am not sending my husband and my daughter to the poor house over this. Especially if what I have isn’t curable.”

  “Are you nuts? Breast cancer isn’t a death sentence anymore. We aren’t living in the Dark Ages. As for going to the poor house, Horace would … would … well, he’d just curl up and die without you. Your kid can put herself through college. Your priorities stink, Dodie. Money isn’t everything—”

  “The heck it isn’t! You of all people should know that. I can’t get proper treatment without money. Loads of it. I won’t do that to Horace!”

  “Then I’ll tell him!”

  “You better not!”

  “I will do exactly that.”

  “I’ll fire your scrawny butt.”

  “That’s fine because I’d rather be unemployed than sit here and watch you die. Your health means more to me than my job. I can live without this place, but I can’t live with myself if you get cancer—if you’ve got cancer—and … and …” I couldn’t go on. Everything snowballed inside me. I’d had enough. I felt hysterical, and I sounded that way, too. “Please, Dodie, please. Don’t do this. Don’t make me stand by and watch.”

  “That’s exactly why I didn’t want to tell you. But you couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” Her voice was ragged.

  We glared at each other, speechless and shocked by the violence of our disagreement, and by the passion in our voices. I was the first to turn away. Tears blurred my vision.

  She came around the desk and put a heavy arm on my shoulders. “Don’t cry,” and she rattled off a Yiddish saying.

  “Huh?”

  She translated, “They bury better-looking ones. Hey, Sunshine, I didn’t think you’d take it this hard.”

  “How did you expect me to take it?”

  “I don’t know.” She stepped away and studied me. “I guess I thought, I’m your boss, and that’s all I am to you. You’d be upset. You’d worry about your job. You’d get over it.”

  “That’s hogwash, and you know it. Now what’s your plan? When can you see a doctor? Have you talked to the lawyer who’s working on Horace’s case?”

  Dodie leaned down and gave me a gruff hug. “That’s one of the things I like about you, Kiki Lowenstein. You really believe you can fix things, even when it’s clear they are hopelessly, irrevocably broken. You just keep trying, don’t you? You’re the queen of tikkun olem.”

  Now there was a term I knew. Tikkun olem means r
epair of the world. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry at being crowned the queen of fixing stuff. Yeah, Dodie was right. I set for myself impossible tasks. I was a real idiot, through and through.

  She fell back into her leather chair and sighed. “Here’s the plan. We’ll find out Friday what the attorney thinks about a settlement. Horace has been job hunting and has an interview in Chicago next Wednesday. Give me until next Thursday. It’s not that long. Promise me you won’t say anything to my husband, okay?”

  I nodded, reluctantly, and got up to leave. I had one foot over the threshold when Dodie said, “I have a confession to make. Sheila called me about Detweiler. I didn’t tell you, but I knew what she was planning.”

  I whipped around and stared hard at her.

  So she was in on it too.

  It was my turn to share a pithy little saying: “Better a good enemy than a bad friend.”

  From her spot behind her desk, she gave me a sheepish shrug. “Sheila and I figured if you felt like a million bucks, at least you could walk away with that detective with your head held high.” Her face sagged. “Sorry, but you had to know. You deserved to know. I hope we did the right thing.”

  I grew hot under the collar. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? After all, you two made your decision without consulting me. Thanks a lot. And I thought you were my friend.”

  “Hold on there, Sunshine. You just told me what you think is best for Horace and me.” She ran a shaky hand through her wild mane of hair. “So you have to accept the fact that I also care about you and Anya. We both have good intentions. Maybe we’re equal parts right and wrong.”

  Put that way, I couldn’t stay mad at her. “I guess you two did the right thing. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never know. But it sure is hard. I really, really cared about him.”

  “I thought highly of him too, until I found out about his wife. Life sure can stink.”

  “You got that right.”

  65

  I unlocked the front door to Time in a Bottle, flipped the sign to OPEN, and went to my worktable. My goal was to figure out a project for our Labor Day crop. The store was quiet, except for a phone call from Vanessa Johnson. “You’ll never believe it. Ellen sent out her new class schedule today. It showed up in my email box. She’s offering a paper bag class.”

  “That woman,” I grumbled.

  “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

  “Or something like that. Thanks for calling, Vanessa.”

  There was nothing I could do about Ellen’s uncanny ability to copy my work. Rather than dwell on it, I decided I needed to stay focused on being one step ahead. That meant coming up with more and more ideas. I planned to get cracking on them, but first, I needed at ask Dodie if I could take a long lunch break.

  I rapped on the doorframe of her office. “Sorry to bother you. But I forgot to ask you something. I’d like to take a long lunch break. Sheila wants to take me to look at new places for me to live.”

  “She told me. Sheila called me on my way into work. That’s fine. Bama should be here.” Dodie tilted her head and stared at me hard. “You really have had a bad week, haven’t you, Sunshine?”

  “Yup.” I told her about Ellen copying my paper bag album idea.

  “She’ll always be Number Two, kiddo. Coming along behind you. Just remember that.”

  That sounded more like the old Dodie. With a smile on my face, I padded back to my worktable. In minutes, I was well and truly “in the zone,” working on projects for the Labor Day crop. In fact, I was so totally immersed in my work that I didn’t notice Nettie until she suddenly appeared at my elbow.

  “Hi, I didn’t hear you come in,” I said.

  She reminded me of a shadow, sliding along the sidewalk. Her skin tone was ashen. Her graying hair was twisted with a rubber band into a ponytail. She wore an off-white polyester slack set with a matching top. Her clothes looked too big for her.

  “I brought my pages for you to scan.” She handed me a pizza box from Domino’s.

  “A pizza box?”

  “I use them for transporting pages. The local manager gives me the flat boxes. I assemble them. They’re the perfect size.”

  “What a brilliant idea. Let’s take these over to the scanner.” I opened the box and carefully removed the first page.

  What I saw blew me away. “Nettie, I had no idea! Gosh. You are so talented!”

  Who would guess that colorless, shapeless Nettie had a talent for mixing patterns and combining colors? In addition, she had a magpie’s eye for adding unexpected articles to her pages. On one, she’d added tea bag string and tags on a page. On another layout, she glued down a metal garden ornament. Her style was sophisticated, daring, and eclectic. I could only shake my head and marvel. I’d worried about Bama taking my job, and I should have been concerned about the woman standing next to the scanner.

  “How have you managed to keep this talent of yours a secret? You are fantastic!”

  She gave me a weak smile. “That’s really nice coming from you. I like your work, too.”

  “Why all the secrecy?” I was mesmerized by her pages and had a hard time conversing because I didn’t want to look away. I wanted to feast my eyes on her projects. My creative juices were flowing. I was itching to adapt some of her ideas for my own pages.

  “I don’t like copycats. I hate having other people scraplift my pages. When you’re a beginner, you have to copy other designs in order to learn. But once you’ve been scrapping a while, if you just take one element, give it a twist, you make it your own. That’s what being creative is all about. But, it’s wrong when you steal other people’s ideas wholesale. Especially if you pass the work off as your own.” She glanced over to see my reaction.

  “Yeah. That stinks, doesn’t it?”

  “Has that happened to you?”

  “More often than I care to think about.” I sighed, remembering the call from Vanessa Johnson.

  “Doesn’t it make you mad? It’s theft. Couldn’t you just kill the people who steal your work?”

  “I am used to it. I tell myself there’s always another idea. The people who copy —” and I hesitated, thinking of Ellen Harmon, “— are always a step behind.”

  Nettie picked up her box and said, “I guess you’re right. Thanks for doing the scans. I’ve got to go.”

  As she did, she knocked over her purse. Out spilled all the usual garbage that we women carry around. I helped her pick up a pack of tissues, keys, an empty pill bottle, receipts, ink pens, a pencil, coupons, a hair clip, sunglasses, and an inhaler with Dr. Andersoll’s name as the prescriber.

  She grabbed the inhaler out of my hand. “I need that.” She took a puff. This time she made it to the door.

  “Follow the directions on the sheet that Dodie gave you,” I called after her. “We’d love to have you try out for the Design Team.”

  The rest of the morning flew by as I worked on a patriotic page to celebrate Labor Day. I actually made three pages, but I didn’t like any of them. They all reminded me too much of the Fourth of July. There wasn’t anything to distinguish one holiday from another. What I needed was a project unique to Labor Day. Ideally, it would reaffirm Time in a Bottle as the place for truly one-of-a-kind pages..

  66

  At half past noon, Sheila pulled up in front of Time in a Bottle. I climbed into the back seat of her white Mercedes. In the passenger seat was Sylvia Bertolli.

  “Hello, dear.” The real estate agent nodded at me. Her hair swooped and curved like the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao. On anyone else, it would seem ridiculous, but Sylvia pulled it off.

  I’d dressed up for the look-see, wearing neatly ironed navy slacks and a lacy white blouse. Through my belt loops ran a pretty scarf in colors of blue, purple, and white. My whole ensemble had come from Target—or Tar-jhay—but as long neither Sheila nor Sylvia shopped there, they would never know.

  Although Sheila had instructed me to dress nicely, I’d already planned my outfit as part
of my new gussy-up policy. That enchanted evening at Opera Theatre had taught me nice clothes and makeup constituted a modern suit of armor, and I needed all the external fortification I could get. From the driver’s seat, my mother-in-law handed me a sack with an Einstein Brothers salad inside.

  “You eat. I drive,” she said, sending back a tall iced tea. “Sylvia will navigate and narrate.”

  Sheila had preempted my need to think or fully participate. My job was to obey. Since my mother-in-law doesn’t allow Anya to eat in her car, having my lunch handed to me was a big concession. This was clear evidence that my housing problem obviously mattered greatly to Sheila. I wondered how far apart her idea of suitable housing would be from mine.

  Her short list was three addresses. First she drove to one a few blocks from her home. This was an older home that one day would be torn down and replaced with a McMansion. However, the rental price was totally outrageous. “You might be able to get it for less than they’re asking,” said Sylvia. But we all knew that would involve sitting on our hands until the owners got desperate.

  The second house was farther away on a quiet street in Rock Hill. My excitement about the big yard and a more reasonable monthly expense disappeared with one sniff of the damp, dark interior. Almost immediately, my nose started to run, a sure sign of mold.

  The real estate agent smiled sweetly at me. “Not to worry. I saved the best for last.”

  House Number Three was a converted garage in Webster Groves. Exuding charm, this house sat on the grounds of a larger home owned by a local author. I’d heard his name but never read his books because people call them “gritty.” I think that means the stories feature blood, guts, and truths about life I’d rather not face. Sylvia, Sheila, and I inspected the large, fenced-in yard. Sylvia opened up the house so we could see the floor plan. The place was small, but well thought out. A serviceable neutral carpet complemented plain vanilla walls. I loved the place because I saw it as a blank canvas in a great area. The location was not too far from Sheila, Anya’s school, and my work. However, the price was the highest of the three we’d visited.