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

  How could I get back into her good graces? I didn’t need a prominent local family angry with me. The thought of her running around and telling people how rudely Poppy had treated them at my store event sickened me. But I also didn’t want to be disloyal to my grandfather. And I wasn’t sure that the Senator didn’t deserve his dressing down—I only wished it hadn’t happened in my place of business.

  This reminded me of taking a fresh razor blade from the paper wrapper. The chance of getting cut was greater than handling the sharp edge without self-harm.

  Still, I had come to apologize, so I had better get started.

  “Senator and Mrs. Wentworth? I am sorry about how my grandfather acted toward you last night in my store. He was way out of line. I hope you’ll accept these flowers and my sincere regret for any discomfort that he caused you.”

  The Senator didn’t look up from his book. His wife glared at me.

  “Jenny Beth,” said Honora, “Cara was understandably nervous about visiting you today. I reminded the child that good Christians always turn the other cheek. Especially since this wasn’t Cara’s fault. She still feels awful about what happened. I know you won’t hold her grandfather’s words against her.”

  Honora’s words dampened the fire in Mrs. Wentworth’s eyes. Our hostess said, “Of course I don’t blame her for what Dick Potter said. Everyone knows he’s ten times a fool.”

  I thought about standing up for my grandfather, but I decided she had a point. Poppy certainly could act like a fool. I’d made the same observation myself.

  “How about something cold to drink?” LaTisha asked. “Mrs. Wentworth just brewed some iced tea. The Senator loves his sweet tea.”

  “That would be lovely,” said Honora, as she took the chair next to Jenny Beth. That left me with the empty seat closest to the Senator. Their old Dalmatian snoozed in the sun, not even opening his eyes. That reminded me of Sven, my Golden Retriever. When he was old, he’d sleep right through the doorbell.

  Perching awkwardly on a rickety wicker chair, I let Honora involve Jenny Beth in conversation while I took in my surroundings. It was as if an entire flea market had rolled up, dumped its wares in this room, and left the scene of the crime.

  LaTisha returned to serve all of us tea from a large plastic pitcher. I took my glass gratefully so I’d have something to do. The Senator ignored me. Despite her absolution, Jenny Beth gave me the stink eye. All Honora’s attempts to involve me in the conversation fell flat. I settled back in the chair and turned my attention to the coffee table in front of me. Photos littered the surface. Most were black and white. A few were of the Senator and Jenny Beth together at official events. She kept one hand on his arm, clearly signaling her possessiveness, but she also kept a distance between her and her husband.

  Kiki once told me about using photos to help dementia patients reconnect with their past. Perhaps that’s why these were scattered in front of the Senator.

  “I see a lot of pictures of you,” I said to the Senator, but he didn’t respond.

  LaTisha took her leave of us.

  I moved a few photos around to see them better. As a young man, the Senator looked a bit like Howdy-Doody, with hair that stuck straight up, a gap-tooth grin, and a sprinkling of freckles over his nose. He wore pants cinched with a wide belt.

  I picked up a picture of him with a group of young boys.

  “What are you doing?” Jenny Beth asked me. “How dare you!”

  “Oh,” I withdrew my hand like a child caught snatching cookies. “You’d mentioned that I should look at your family pictures and—”

  She jumped out of her wicker chair with enough force that it nearly toppled over. With one deft sweep of her hand, she gathered all the photos and took them away. “These are private.”

  “My boys!” said the Senator. “I want—”

  “That’s enough,” snapped Jenny Beth.

  Honora looked at me, her eyebrows raised. She gave me a “who knows?” sort of gesture with her hands.

  “The Senator has been working on his memoirs,” Mrs. Wentworth said, once she had all of them tucked away in a large Bergdorf’s box. “Seeing you paw through pictures that are precious to him is upsetting.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling thoroughly sick of having to apologize to this woman. “You had invited me to look at photos when you are in my store, and so I assumed—”

  “You took liberties,” she cut me off.

  As if on cue, LaTisha reappeared with a tray of muffins. The fragrance of blueberries, sugar, and butter filled the room. “These are hot, right out of the oven.”

  As it often does, the food provided a distraction, one we badly needed. LaTisha peeled away the cupcake paper and sliced the muffin into small chunks for the Senator. He paid no attention to her efforts.

  “For pity’s sake, LaTisha, don’t baby him. You,” said Mrs. Wentworth, pointing at me. Hand me the Senator’s tea.” She meant the glass on the TV tray table between the Senator and me. I passed it to her, as she continued her harangue with, “LaTisha, we don’t need to go putting out a spread for everyone who barges in here. Unannounced and unwelcome.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said, backing out of the room.

  I’d had enough of Jenny Beth Wentworth. I rarely wear a watch, so I stood up and glanced at my naked wrist. “Gee, look at the time. Honora? We need to get back to the store.”

  45

  ~Cara~

  10:15 a.m. on Saturday

  Jupiter Island, Florida

  “Is it too early to have a stiff drink?” I asked Honora as we pulled out of the Wentworths’ driveway. “Although I still have a headache from the wine last night, I could use one or two more bottles."

  “You should switch to bourbon,” she said. “Works faster. I’ll share some with you. But first we have to pick up more soft goods from my house. Once we’re back at your store, we can knock back enough alcohol to sooth our tattered souls. As long as the booze holds out, I think we can ease the pain. Let me look in my purse. I might have some aspirin.”

  “What was that woman’s problem?” I asked.

  She dug around inside her handbag. I caught a glimpse of a small glass vial. “I have no idea. Believe me, dear, if I’d known she was going to be so horrid, I wouldn’t have suggested a visit. Turn right when you get to the light at Gomez.”

  “What’s with all that fussing at me about those photos? After telling me I should drop by to see their old pictures? Geez, Louise.”

  “I know,” said Honora wearily. “Poor LaTisha. Can you imagine being trapped in the same house with those two, day after day?”

  “I’d find another job.”

  “She can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “She got pregnant young. Was a struggling single mother. Then she met this fancy man. Thought she'd died and gone to heaven. Loved that guy to pieces. Especially when he married her. Then her husband involved her in a check-kiting scheme. She refused to tattle on him, but he pointed the finger at her. LaTisha went away for many years. Lost her kids. It’s tough enough to find good jobs when you’re black, but when you’re black, female, and you have a record, it’s darn near impossible.”

  “Wow.”

  Honora pointed to a wooded lot. “At least I saved a nice surprise for you. There’s a driveway there. Please turn in. It’s almost noon, isn’t it?”

  “Five till.”

  “Good, we’ll be right on time.”

  “A carnation farm?” The faded sign was barely readable.

  “No. You’ll see soon enough.”

  The turn took us onto a rut riddled driveway blocked by a rusting privacy fence. A padlock on the metal gate kept us at bay. I put the car in park. “Now what?”

  “Patience, dear.”

  At noon, a man wearing a faded baseball cap appeared out of nowhere. Pulling a bunch of keys from his pocket, he unlocked the metal gate and swung it open.

  We bumped along a deeply rutted dirt road leading to a park
ing lot dotted with sparse clumps of grass. Instead of asphalt, the space was dirt with a handful of gravel tossed here and there. Since there were no lines or concrete markers, I chose a space and turned off the engine. Plastic canopies covered rows of plants on worn wooden tables. Broad rows of green plants ran like corduroy stripes hemming in a rickety building with a corrugated metal roof. A broken conveyor belt had been loosely bolted to the outside wall that faced us. Next to it was a sidewalk, cracked and buckled, partially intact.

  Honora opened her own door before I could get to her side to help. She led the way under the open roof. Once out of the sun, I could see that the building was not much more than metal supports under a tin roof. To the left was a yawning area with makeshift tables on sawhorses. To the right stood the thick metal door of a cooler. Almost though on cue, workers in sweat-soaked tee shirts streamed in, their arms laden with bunches of flowers. Silver coins of dew nestled in the blossoms and leaves. Lusty floral fragrances filled the air, sweet, spicy, and verdant.

  “Wholesale flowers,” said Honora, as I stared at the bunches of vibrant orange Gerber daisies, whisper pink snapdragons, sky blue larkspur, cobalt delphiniums, peach-blushed freesia, innocently white baby’s breath, and others I couldn’t name.

  “This is Lilia,” said Honora, waving over a grave looking woman with nut brown skin. “She runs the place.”

  After I shook Lilia’s hand, I asked the price of a bouquet. The low cost surprised me; I’d paid twice as much for Mrs. Wentworth’s bouquet.

  “Since we were driving by on the way to my house, I thought I’d share this local secret with you. Flowers are so cheery, aren’t they? Scientifically, their color and scent evolved to attract pollinators. However, I can’t help but think that God knew these attributes would lighten the burden on our weary hearts. When I imagine Paradise, it looks like this,” and she gestured to the rows and rows of freshly picked blossoms.

  I chose a bouquet for the store, and one for my apartment. Honora picked one for herself and EveLynn. Then I bought two more bouquets because I wanted to share the joy with Skye and MJ.

  Skye had been right: I needed to feed my soul. I made a vow. From now on, I would do at least one thing each day to make myself happy. Not necessarily something costly or time-consuming. It could be as tiny as adding an extra spoonful of sugar to my morning coffee. Or taking the time to do a Zentangle tile. But it had to be purposeful, my gift to me.

  46

  ~Cara~

  “See the sign with the turtle? Reminding you to slow down?” asked Honora as she pointed up ahead. “That’s my driveway next to it.”

  I pulled up to a one-story stucco house, pale green with white trim. A dozen wind chimes played songs in various keys. A tree with graceful orange-red blossoms framed a cardinal red front door.

  “EveLynn? I’m home!" Honora sang out once we were inside the tiny bungalow. Then she bent close to me. “Cara, this will be hard for her. You might want to hang back. She doesn’t deal well with surprises.”

  “Should I wait in the car?”

  “No, dear. Just because she doesn’t like something, doesn’t mean that the world should bend to her will.”

  “Gosh, you sure are tidy,” I said, as I looked around. The place smelled of bleach and pine-scented cleaner. There were no extraneous objects on any surface. Every piece of furniture had been placed at exactly equal distances from the wall and each other, forming a symmetrical setting. Three of the same plants marched in a line in a windowsill. They’d been potted in the same pot, same color, and trimmed to the same height.

  “EveLynn craves order. Believe me, I’m much more fussy and eclectic in my choices, but since she’s moved in with me, I do things her way…most of the time. That makes life less stressful for both of us, because I’m flexible and she’s not.”

  EveLynn walked out of a room at the end of the hall. A frown worried her face. As before, she didn’t acknowledge me or look me in the eye.

  “Did you get my text?” Honora asked her daughter. “I told you that I’d be coming by with Cara to pick up more of your soft goods.”

  “I have two boxes ready,” she said. “The inventory sheet is on top.”

  “Can I see what you’re sending me?” I wondered.

  “No. It’s already packed up.”

  “Oh.”

  “Perhaps Cara could borrow your portfolio. If she makes a copy of it, customers could use those pictures to place orders. Cara might also come up with ideas about what she’d like to stock in her store.”

  “I know what people like to buy,” said EveLynn.

  Oh-kay!

  EveLynn ducked back inside her room. I took that opportujnity to sneak a peek inside. I’ve never seen such a tidy workspace. Pegboards covered one wall. The outlines of tools made it clear that every item had its own home. Shelves with labeled bins marched up another wall. Despite the fact that she’d been in the midst of sewing—a piece of material rested under the head of the machine—there wasn’t any litter on the floor. Not a scrap of thread or fabric. A pincushion had been Velcroed to the sewing machine. Not one pin rested on the tabletop. Usually as I pull them out of my project, half of the pins wind up on the floor.

  I’d never seen such organization.

  EveLynn grabbed a notebook labeled “EveLynn’s Portfolio.” From inside, she withdrew a card from a library pocket. She asked, “How long do you intend to keep this?”

  “Would a week be too long?”

  “No. Do you need my phone number? To write on the library card?”

  “I have your phone number memorized.”

  I took the portfolio and thanked her.

  “EveLynn, would you please carry the boxes out to Cara’s car? I want to show her my craft room.”

  Honora opened a door to a disaster. Or as Kiki might say, “This room illustrates the crafter-math of a creative session.”

  Painted at the top of one wall was a saying by Nietzsche: “One must feel the chaos within to give birth to a dancing star.”

  “My personal motto,” said Honora. “In every other aspect of my life I’m very tidy. But when a creative surge arises, look out world! I don’t take the time to put my tools or supplies away. That would stop the flow. I can’t tell you how many projects I’ve ruined because my workspace was messy.”

  “How do you and EveLynn keep from getting on each other’s nerves?”

  “It’s been impossible, actually. That’s why I wanted you to see how it is. Cara, dear, I need a space at your store where I can do my work.”

  47

  ~Cara~

  Skye was already working her shift at Pumpernickel’s, so I put her bouquet in a vase for her. MJ was thrilled with her bouquet. I gave Sid an envelope with a crisp twenty dollar bill, and thanked everyone for their hard work at the VIP event. Their joyful responses reminded me how important it was for me to celebrate our successes. My dad often held impromptu staff parties at the restaurant. Whenever he heard good news, whether it was a server’s birthday or even once when a dishwasher passed his GED, Dad seized the opportunity to note the milestones.

  Gosh, but I missed my father.

  "Cara? You're the best boss I ever had,” said Sid.

  “Ditto,” said MJ. “By the way, that picture and three copies are on your desk. Skye printed them on photo paper and used deckle scissors around the edges. You can't tell the new ones from the original. She said to tell you there's a scan of the original in your computer."

  “Great. I’ll give one to Kathy Simmons’ mother at the funeral.” I tacked a print to the bulletin board so I wouldn’t forget it. Thinking better of the situation, and knowing my tendency to be forgetful, I left that one on the bulletin board as a reminder and popped another copy into my purse. I didn't want to give the woman a photo with a thumbtack hole in it!

  Sid brought in the boxes of EveLynn’s soft goods from my car. I had to admit, her choices were perfect. She had machine-appliqued stylized seahorses, seashells, and waves on muslin
pillows, throws, and table runners. Fabric napkins were trimmed with ribbon in matching colors. The effect was charming.

  “I’ll put these out on the sales floor,” said Honora.

  “I need to run out to a customer’s house,” said MJ. “She’s thinking of buying a Highwayman painting. I told her that I’d schlep over a few that might work for the space she wants filled. While I’m out, I’ll pick up supplies for your cat.”

  That left Sid and me in my office.

  “As soon as I can get the shopping basket up on our website, I’ll take photos and post them,” Sid said, as all my female employees headed for the sales floor. “That stuff will sell fast.”

  “Is that what you planned to work on today?” I asked.

  “Yeah, the website in general. I know you want me to compile a master inventory list for you, but if I can get the shopping cart added to our website, it’ll bring in more money, faster. Especially now that you can show off the miniatures. They’re perfect for an online store. They’ll cost you next to nothing to ship, they photograph well, and they’re unique.”

  “Good thinking. In the words of Jean Luc Piccard, ‘Make it so,’” I said, settling in behind my desk. “I have one concern about the website. What if the color or patterns vary on our items? What if we only have one of something?”

  “No problem. We put OOAK next to the listing.” He leaned against the door jam.

  I smiled at him. Although he was young, Sid was a problem-solver who took initiative. That reminded me. “We need a space where Honora can work. Here in the back. Can you put that together for her?”

  “Sure, now that your office is in the storage closet, we can use the area where your desk used to sit.”

  “She’ll need a really good light,” I told him.

  “Right. With all the storm activity here in Florida, a surge protector is a must,” said Sid. “If I can borrow your car, I'll run to the hardware store and pick one up. She can order a lamp online. I bet I can find her a nice desk there, too.”