Second Chance at Hope

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  I nodded and tried to smile at my grandfather before kissing him goodbye. No one needed to know how worried I was. A distraction was in order. I was tired of loose ends. Time to concentrate on something I could nail down. Something pretty and nonconsequential like a dress.

  “Honora? I don’t want to disturb you while you’re working, but have you heard from Binky?”

  “No, dear.” She picked up a tiny item she was painting.

  “Then I’m running next door to Vintage Threads. Maybe Danielle’s assistant Claudia can tell me what’s up with the dress. Be right back.”

  ~*~

  But I didn’t make a beeline to Vintage Threads because I was waylaid first by customers, then a call from a vendor, and finally a panicked email from the man who was buying our family restaurant on contract. In fact, three hours flew by before I was able to go to the neighboring shop. Although the door minder buzzed loudly as I entered, Danielle’s part-timer Claudia couldn’t be bothered to look up from her cell phone. Other customers wandered around the store, fingering the merchandise.

  Finally, I rapped on the counter and said, “Hello? Claudia? A little help, please.”

  “Yeah?” She cocked an over-plucked eyebrow at me. The green streaks she’d added to her hair did nothing good for her looks.

  “I bought a dress from Danielle. A Lilly Pulitzer. But Honora says it has to be a mistake. She insists that she knows the original owner and says the woman would never give up that particular dress. I don’t want to wear it if it needs to go back to the owner.”

  “What do you expect me to do about it?”

  “Could you check your paperwork? Or give Danielle a call?”

  “Nope. I’m busy.” Claudia sighed the deep wooosh of a person being put upon. “Everyone pestering me about stupid stuff. I’m trying to take care of customers.”

  That was ridiculous. However, arguing with Claudia would also be ridiculous. Time to try another tactic. “Do you know anything about this dress?” I showed her a photo I’d snapped with my phone.

  Claudia didn’t even look at the picture. “Look, you bought the dress; it’s yours, right? You got the sales receipt, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but if there’s been a mix up—”

  “Geez, this is totally annoying. People keep bugging me about everything! I don’t have any answers! Like I keep saying to everybody, I am not the person in charge. You want answers, you have to talk to Danielle.”

  “So you don’t have any records or any way to look up—”

  “No, I don’t. Danielle keeps everything in her head.”

  There seemed to be a lot of that going around.

  CHAPTER 22

  “Claudia is practically worthless,” I said to anybody and nobody in particular, when I returned to my store.

  “Claudia? From next door?” Sid hobbled out of my office. “I could have told you that. We went to high school together. She was always forgetting her assignments or saying she didn’t understand what the teacher wanted from us. I think all she cares about is her social life. Did you see her thumbs? She’s got callouses from text-messaging all day long. Honest.”

  “This is getting ridiculous. I don’t know what to do about that dress,” I said. “It’s turning into a colossal hassle.”

  Honora stood over a T-square that pinned down a large piece of graph paper. Her process included sketching a project on graph paper, creating a cardboard mock-up that was to scale, making adjustments as necessary, gathering supplies, and then executing her design. Originally, it drove me nuts to watch her, because I thought she wasted a lot of time. However, over the past few months, I’ve come to realize that Honora’s approach actually works wonderfully well. Her full-size renderings help customers visualize the end project. Alterations could then be made on the model, rather than on finished pieces, resulting in all sorts of savings.

  “Binky isn’t responding to my text messages or phone calls,” said Honora. “I imagine her battery is dead. Happens all the time. I had to quit watching that television show 24 because Jack Bauer’s phone never went dead. EveLynn got so agitated that she actually ticked down the time like a human bomb.”

  “Uh-huh.” I tried not to laugh.

  “However, I have a proposition that’ll fix both your problem and mine.”

  “You have a problem?”

  “Yes, actually I do. I’ve been working on a custom project for Martha Gunderson. That room box of a man’s office? It’s a gift for Martha’s husband. EveLynn needed the car. I forgot that I promised to drop the room box off today—”

  “When did we agree to start delivering room boxes?” I already paid a fortune to a delivery service that was giving me gray hairs.

  “Actually, this project took a bit longer than I expected, so I told her I’d drop it off. The Gundersons live down the street from you on Jupiter Island. The Jupiter Island Bridge Club meets today. Binky is a keen bridge player. I can’t imagine her missing a club meeting. One trip, and two problems solved.”

  I had tons of work to get done. A drive to Jupiter Island would take a big chunk out of my day. While I was debating, Honora continued, “I thought about asking EveLynn to drive over the room box, but you know how rigid she can be about schedules.”

  Boy, did I ever. When asked to make a change, EveLynn acted like a toddler who’d lost her favorite toy. I’d actually seen her stomp her feet and scream. We’re only six months apart in age, but you’d never guess that by how juvenile she can be. Once when I rearranged her display of placemats, she actually shook with rage.

  “Do you want to take my car and go by yourself?” I asked. “We could load it up for you.”

  “I could certainly do that, but don’t you think you should meet more of your neighbors? Wouldn’t you like to get this problem with the dress settled?” Honora stared at me expectantly.

  “Sounds like a plan.” I reminded myself we’d also be picking up a check when we dropped off Honora’s project. The money would provide small comfort if I wound up giving away my new dress. Dealing with outstanding receivables is a sad fact of retail life.

  “Good! I just love taking road trips.” Honora untied the strings of her apron.

  Life is one big circus act, and some days you wind up wearing the clown shoes.

  ~*~

  “Amberlee still isn’t answering her phone.” Sid had waited until Honora and I finished our conversation. “I sent her a text message.” His eyes were dark with worry.

  “Keep at it. She has to respond sooner or later,” I said. But I had my doubts. I just didn’t trust or like Amberlee. Furthermore, I hated seeing how she was hurting Sid. My heart was in my shoes as I helped Honora carry her room box out to my car.

  “First we’ll meet Martha at her bridge club gathering,” said Honora, as she buckled her seatbelt. “I want all her friends to see it, so I told Martha that I was running a little late finishing up the details. I volunteered to deliver the project directly to the Club.”

  “The Club” was short for the Jupiter Island Club, probably the largest and most expensive private club in the world, because you can’t join unless you own property on the island. Places here are pricey. Poppy was selling his little cottage to me. Otherwise, no way would I be able to afford living on Jupiter Island. As it was, I would pay more in property taxes than my parents had paid monthly to buy their nice home up in St. Louis.

  “Honora,” I said, “it was very cunning of you to make sure that club members would see your work.”

  “I’m sure we’ll get more orders this way.” With a tiny giggle, Honora added, “But I also really do want you to meet more of your neighbors. It can’t hurt for you to put names with faces. Have you been to the Club before?”

  “No, actually I haven’t. It’s behind the golf course, right?” Traffic on Federal Highway was slow moving, but at last we turned east toward the ocean and the island. My whole body relaxed as I steered the car through the tunnel of ficus trees that transports you to another world, a
place one author called “the self-imposed exile” of Jupiter Island. The dark shadows cast by trees played hide and seek with sunbeams, producing an ever-changing pattern on the pavement. Before long, I turned right at the stop sign and headed toward the south end of the golf course. Honora directed me to a sprawling set of white buildings overlooking the Intracoastal.

  “It’s best that we do a reconnaissance before carrying in the room box,” said Honora. “If they are playing, we mustn’t interrupt. We have to sit quietly until they’re done. I’ve tried to time this correctly, but I could be off by ten or twenty minutes. I do hope you’ll understand.”

  “You mean we need to wait until they finish a round? Or do they call it a hand?”

  Her smile was patient. “No. I mean until they are finished, finished. As in, done for the day.”

  “What?” I thought I’d misheard her. Did she really think I had that much time to waste?

  “Oh, dear. I assumed you knew how finicky these women can be. Surely Dick told you the story.”

  “Boy, this place has tons of legends, doesn’t it?”

  “Indeed it does, as does any place with such strong personalities and such a tightly knit culture. Although this particular story dates back many years ago, the tale is illustrative. Seems that one of the Jupiter Island matrons had an accident while backing out of her driveway on her way to bridge club. A worker was trimming her shrubs, you see. He was on his knees, facing away from her, with one leg stuck out behind him, and as she backed up, she ran over his foot—and kept going.”

  “She didn’t!” I could totally imagine that happening. Every morning at eight, the island comes alive with the sounds of lawn mowers, leaf blowers, and chain saws. Keeping the place spit and polish clean takes a crew of laborers, usually Hispanics. These poor guys work in the broiling heat, where the vegetation is thick, and the bugs are merciless.

  Honora’s voice jolted me back to her story.

  “She did, indeed. She ran right over his foot. The man’s co-workers gathered around him, carried him to their truck, and drove him to the hospital. Of course, the supervisor found out and was furious. He called the Jupiter Island Department of Public Safety and reported the incident, as well as reporting the resident. The Director of Public Safety went immediately to the resident’s house by himself. The maid explained that the missus was away. He asked where she’d gone, and the maid said, ‘Bridge club,’ so the director got in his car and drove to the club. When he walked in on the game in process and explained his mission, the perpetrator scolded him, saying, ‘Young man, I’ll go with you to the police station after I am finished playing bridge.’”

  “You are kidding, aren’t you? This is a joke, right?” I glanced over at Honora, taking my eyes from the dense shrubbery that hid homes of the rich and famous. Most were simple beach houses that had grown over the years to accommodate children and grandchildren. Very few of the homes on Jupiter Island are pretentious. In that way, it is the opposite of Palm Beach, where everything is calculated to impress. This place is a haven for the reclusive, old wealthy. People who want to go on vacation with their families and not be hassled. In Palm Beach, the goal is to mingle and be seen. On Jupiter Island, people don’t want to attract attention. They come here to get away from the spotlight, not to buff up their perma-tans in the rays of harsh scrutiny.

  “Unfortunately, no.” Honora sighed. “And the director did not interrupt the game. Neither shall we. Instead, we will take a seat at the edge of the room and wait quietly until they are finished. When in Rome…”

  “Do as the Romans do,” I finished for her.

  CHAPTER 23

  When we arrived at the set of glass French doors that marked the entrance to the Club, Honora paused. Like a military commander, she said, “Chin up. Remember, we have to wait. Martha called ahead and told them to expect us. But don’t ever forget that you’re a property owner here, too.”

  That was good advice. I squared my shoulders and followed her as she sought out two empty chairs at the back of a room full of card tables. Fifteen women watched each other with eagle eyes. The room proved to be a battleground of clashing perfumes. Florals competed with musky and metallic tones for dominance. The crunch of peanuts and the hollow rapping of cards against the tables created a background hum to the various voices. No one seemed to be having fun, except one woman with white hair cut in a bob. Skinny to the point of scrawny, it soon became apparent that she was winning. Her cackles weighed heavily on the mood of her table.

  The lingo was foreign to me. “Bid…call…trumps…” all meant nothing, but evidently it meant a lot to these people. The women dressed in ubiquitous white slacks and colorful tunic tops that I recognized as coming from a store in tiny downtown Hobe Sound. On their feet were Jack Rogers sandals, a brand associated with Palm Beach and much favored by the locals. To a person, they were tan. In fact, they’d spent decades in the sun.

  None had the telltale signs of facelifts, the too tight skin or the face oddly smooth against a withered throat. These women were secure in themselves.

  As the minutes droned on, having nothing else to do, I examined the cushions on our chairs. Needlepoint. Fine wool. Honora leaned over and whispered, “I bet you’ve never seen anything like this, have you?”

  “Yes, I have.” The country clubs in St. Louis sported the same handiwork. In fact, the subject matter even looked familiar.

  But Honora didn’t pursue the subject. I opened my phone and scanned various boards on Pinterest.

  Ten minutes later, a player at the far table collected the cards. The others leaned back in their seats and chatted quietly.

  Five minutes went by, and a second table finished their play. The tallest woman at that table scooped up cards with a mighty sweep of her hand. After she corralled them all, she gave Honora a tiny nod of acknowledgement. But instead of hopping up and heading for my car, Honora sat stiff as a sheet of plywood. She turned her attention to the last table. Those women still exchanged commentary and sets of cards. Despite all eyes on their backs, they played at a leisurely pace.

  Time wore me down, but all I could do was wait. After all, I’d been forewarned. Tucking my phone in my pocket and leaning my head against the wall, I closed my eyes—and woke up with a jerk.

  “Yes, this is your neighbor, Cara Mia Delgatto. She’s Dick Potter’s granddaughter.” Honora’s hand gripped my shoulder both to wake me up and to keep me from toppling off my chair.

  A tall bridge player, who reminded me of a flamingo, stared down at me. Her large diamond stud earrings twinkled as they caught the light. “Really? Gracious.”

  Getting to my feet, I offered my hand and introduced myself to Mrs. Gunderson, a vision in shades of pink.

  “Give me your keys, child, and I’ll get a couple of servers to help me bring in the room box.” Honora hurried off, leaving me to the intense scrutiny of Mrs. Gunderson and a few of her friends.

  “Where do you live?” asked Jenny Martin.

  I explained which house was mine, and she nodded in approval. “One of the old beach houses. I know it well. That second floor used to be an artist’s studio.”

  That I didn’t know.

  “It was before everyone started tearing down the old places,” said another woman, as she adjusted bifocals. “That’s a gem of a lot. Are you going to knock it down?”

  “Me? Heavens, no. I love that house.”

  “Good,” said a third who’d joined us while stuffing a plastic baggie of nuts into her Vera Bradley handbag. “I hate to think we’re losing places with so much character.”

  They peppered me with questions: “Have you lived here long? Do you have a house up north? Do you play golf? Are you married? Do you have a career?”

  When I explained that I’d purchased The Treasure Chest, a few offered advice: “Scour the consignment shops. Check out that Goodwill store up in Stuart. Go to the local art shops and pick up pieces there.”

  As best I could, I listened and paid attention. Ho
wever, they talked over each other frequently, and often two would speak at once. The pace of their advice set my head spinning. Honora’s re-appearance came as a relief.

  “Set it down there, please.” She pointed to an empty bridge table. Two men in black slacks and crisp white shirts easily carried the room box. It was not especially heavy, but it was fragile.

  “Honora!” Martha’s hands flew to her mouth as she peered into the box. “You managed to capture the space perfectly. George will be astonished. Come see, everyone.”

  The group clustered around Martha and took turns getting a close-up inspection of the gift for her husband. Several immediately flocked to Honora so that they could ask questions about the cost. One wearing pink glasses came to me and said, “So you only sell miniatures?”

  “No, we sell full-sized pieces, too. We upcycle, recycle, and repurpose as much of our stock as possible. Of course, there are a few items that are brand new, such as the soft goods created by Honora’s daughter EveLynn. However, I’ve tried to be as ‘green’ as I can. We also feature local craftspeople and artists, such as Honora and the Highwaymen.”

  “Where is Binky? Does anybody know?” asked Honora.

  The blonde with the pink glasses shrugged. “When you find out, tell her I’m terribly disappointed. We nearly had to cancel today because she was a no-show. Margrite had to rope in her daughter-in-law so we’d have a fourth.”

  Others chimed in, explaining they were shocked—SHOCKED in capital letters—that Binky missed her regular bridge session. As they protested, Honora gave me a look that clearly meant, “I told you something was wrong.”

  But one or two women didn’t seem flustered.

  “We’re all busy. She probably got her days mixed up,” said a tiny lady in periwinkle blue with bugle beads around the neckline. “The days blend into each other.”

  “I invite you all to come visit the store and see what Cara has,” said Honora. “In fact, here are my business cards. I also brought order forms. If you order a room box or a dome scene today, I’ll knock ten percent off the price.”