Angel Lane (20 page)

“Daddy is a pig,” put in Mandy. “He eats a lot.”

Josh rumpled her hair. “Is that so?”

Mandy nodded and smiled up at him adoringly. So maybe not all cops were created equal.

Or maybe this one simply hadn't cracked yet. Jamie couldn't help but remember the story of the Tacoma police chief who killed his wife and then shot himself. That could have been her if she'd stayed with Grant. An image crashed into her mind—Grant showing her his service revolver and telling her, “Just remember, baby, accidents happen.” How did you ever know when the pressure would get to a man, when too much of the violence and the dark side of human nature would finally make him crack and turn him into something as dark as what he dealt with? It was a crap shoot.

Gambling was for fools.

“Are you cold?” asked Josh. “You're shivering.”

She forced herself to come back to the moment at hand, cutting into the pecan pie. “No. I'm fine.” Just fine, just as she was.

So when the day finally ended and they were all leaving and
Josh said to her, “So, I'll see you around?” she made sure he got the message loud and clear.

“It's possible. It's a small town.”

The shutters fell on his open smile. Good. He'd gotten the message.

 

Emma returned home from her family Thanksgiving feast with a special treat for the man in her life: turkey. Not the entire contents from the foil-wrapped packet Mom had sent home with her, but a nice-sized chunk.

“Pye, Mommy has something for you,” she sang as she walked in the door.

Pyewacket immediately appeared, trotting down the hall, tail held high.

“Were you a good boy while I was gone?” she asked.

He rubbed against her legs like a normal cat, like a cat who loved his mommy. Like a cat who smelled turkey.

Baby steps, she told herself. Right now he loves me for my turkey. Someday he'll love me for myself. She set the foil packet on the table, opened it, and pulled off a piece of turkey from the pile sitting atop the mound of stuffing. “You're going to love this.” She proffered the treat.

Pyewacket advanced and took it in one delicate bite. Then he squatted down and proceeded to enjoy the feast.

She put out a hand and petted her boy. He didn't hiss or scratch her. He simply took his turkey and left.

She stood and sighed. “Someday you're going to love me,” she called after him. But when?

Winning the love of an orphaned black cat was the least of her problems, she reminded herself. If she didn't turn her business around pretty soon Pye would be homeless again and so would she. Well, okay. She wouldn't be homeless. She'd be living with her parents and looking for a job. And her baby would be at the animal shelter on kitty death row since Mom was allergic to cats. No one would adopt him because the little guy was about as far from lovable as a cat could get.

What was she going to do?

Be thankful, she told herself.
You got a free meal today and have leftovers for tomorrow. It's more than half the world's population gets
.

She could hear Mrs. Nitz's TV blaring through the duplex wall. What was Mrs. Nitz doing home? Didn't she have any place to go on Thanksgiving?

Emma looked at the foil-wrapped bundle of leftovers sitting on her table. Nobody made stuffing like Mom. It would taste so good tomorrow.

It would taste even better today, and Mrs. Nitz probably loved stuffing. Who didn't? Emma slipped back out and went to bang on her neighbor's door. She'd already had her feast, and, after his stuck-up behavior, a certain cat sure didn't deserve any more treats.

 

 

 

 

J
osh couldn't get Mrs. Kravitz out of his mind. Had the woman been alone on Thanksgiving? Had she gotten rid of Godzilla Rat? Would anyone ever paint and repair those shutters?

The day after Thanksgiving was chilly but sunny—a perfect day to nail up shutters.

His dad agreed, so ten
A.M.
found Josh and his family on Mrs. Kravitz's front porch, Lissa holding out a plate of the cookies she'd learned to bake from Sarah.

“We thought you could use a couple of handymen,” Josh explained.

Her face lit up like he'd just told her she'd won the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. “Oh, how sweet!”

“These are for you,” added Lissa, holding out the plate.

“They look delicious. Did you make them yourself?”

“My sister helped.”

“Well, you're both very talented,” said Mrs. Kravitz. “Come in, everyone. I'll make a pot of coffee.”

Josh was ready to get to work, but he knew the importance of the ritual cup of coffee. So he sat and drank, and let Mrs. Kravitz sing his praises to his dad and get their whole family history.

With the girls right there they brushed past the whole thing of Crystal's death at the speed of light and Mrs. Kravitz got the message and changed the subject. But the quick conversation opened the door to a corner of Josh's heart where he only got trapped late at night after the house grew silent and he'd crawled into bed alone.

Crystal. When he lost her it was like a psychic cleaver had cut off part of him, and the dark emptiness of night brought the ache back like a phantom pain. So he always turned on his radio and put himself to sleep listening to the late-night talk shows. He'd recently stumbled on a great program where the host interviewed scientists with far-out theories and people who claimed to have been kidnapped by aliens. And, if he was lucky, he'd only dream about UFOs and he'd wake up rested and ready to check off another day on the calendar. Checking off days, it was a shitty way to live, but he'd been doing it long enough now that he was good at it.

“You would have loved this town, babe,” he murmured as he got to work with his hammer and nails.

And what would she have thought of Jamie Moore? Would Crystal have considered her good mother material? The girls sure seemed to like her. And they weren't the only ones. Jamie
had made his radar in a big way. She was a little bit of a thing, the kind of woman a man felt compelled to protect.

But Jamie had made it pretty obvious that she didn't need protecting, at least not from him. The only woman he'd met since Crystal who even remotely interested him and she didn't like cops. It just figured. Well, he and the girls and Dad had a good life here. They were doing okay.

He gave the last nail in the shutter an exceptionally hard pound. At the rate he was going, it was going to be a long time before his girls got a new mother. And it was going to be a long, long time before he got laid.

 

“Sarah and I are going in to Seattle on Sunday to hit the Thanksgiving-weekend sales,” Jamie told Emma. “Want to come? I'll pay for your lunch.”

Emma propped the phone between her shoulder and ear as she made the final touches on her Thanksgiving blowout sign for her store window. “I can't. I'm going to be open on Sunday for my forty-percent-off sale.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Then, “Em, are you sure you want to mark off so much?”

It was an insanely drastic markdown; she knew that. “If I don't do something to move my inventory I'm not going to be able to pay my rent, let alone my small-business loan.” Pulling up those words made Emma's voice tremble.

“I'm really sorry,” Jamie said. “So many people quilt. I just don't get why you're not making it.”

“Because people would rather get a bargain than support a
local business,” Emma said bitterly. It was a different world from when her grandpa did business. He and Grandma bought their washer and dryer from Anderson's Appliance, filled their prescriptions at Vern's, and supported the little local grocery store until the Safeway came to town and Pop's was finally forced to close its doors. “People just don't care like they used to.” She sighed. “You were right to sell chocolate. You'll always be in business.”

“Well, don't give up. The sale might be just what you need to prime the pump,” Jamie said.

Who was she kidding? The well of human kindness in Heart Lake was running dry and no amount of priming was going to help. Emma hung up, thoroughly depressed. All these efforts to get people to do good deeds were a waste of time. The bottom line was, people didn't care.

You can't think that way, she scolded herself. People were basically good. They were just ignorant and had to be taught. A sale would lure in new customers. She'd talk up her quilting classes, drop big hints about the importance of shopping locally, and things would change. Quitters never win and winners never quit. She had to remember that.

She'd just hung up the sign when Shirley Schultz wandered into the shop. “You're having a sale?”

For Shirley, who would, of course, conveniently forget her checkbook, it would end up being a giveaway.

No, she had to be firm. “Cash or credit card only,” she said in her sweetest, cheery voice, “so don't forget to stop by the bank.”

Shirley frowned. “I don't like to carry cash. I'll try to remember my checkbook.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Schultz, but I'm afraid, with such a deep discount, I'm going to have to take only cash or credit cards tomorrow,” Emma said firmly.

Shirley's thin lips fell down at the corners. “Well, I would think you'd want to accommodate your loyal customers.”

Accommodate? Shirley had probably absconded with enough free merchandise to set a record. “I try to accommodate all my customers,” Emma said. She kept her smile only by sheer willpower. “So, is there anything I can help you with today?”

“No, I don't think so,” said Shirley, her voice icy.

“Well, then I hope we'll see you tomorrow.”

“Probably not,” she said, and marched out the door.

“Well, there goes my best worst customer,” Emma muttered, as she watched Shirley storm off down the street, her worn coat flapping behind her. Now she could see Shirley had run into Ruth Weisman. Shirley's mouth was going about a mile a minute, and with her stiff posture and glowering face, it wasn't hard to guess what she was talking about. “That's right. Go ahead and blank out on all those times you ‘forgot' your checkbook and still walked out of here with a bag full of fabric,” Emma grumbled. She probably shouldn't have rocked the boat with Shirley. Bad angel karma. But all her good deeds really hadn't done much good anyway. She was living with a cat who barely tolerated her, her business was on the verge of going belly-up, and she couldn't even afford to have any fun with Tess in
My World
.

Every heroine has dark moments,
Emma reminded herself.
Think of Katharine Hepburn's character in
The African Queen.
She lost her brother and her home and nearly died. But in the end, she took out a German gunship and found true love.

You're not Katharine Hepburn.

Well, that said it all.

Ruth was in the shop now. “I hear you've got a sale coming up tomorrow. I guess I'll wait to get my fabric then.”

“You may as well,” Emma said. She knew her voice was flat. She probably looked like a droopy, old basset hound, but she couldn't help it.

Ruth studied her a moment, then said, “What the heck. I need fabric today.”

Bless you, thought Emma.

“And good for you for holding Shirley's feet to the fire. I haven't seen her so mad since the bank stopped giving away free toasters for new accounts.”

Emma sighed. “I probably shouldn't have done that. Poor Shirley is just squeaking by.”

“Like heck she is,” Ruth said with a snort. “She lives on the lake and I know for a fact she's got half a million in the bank. I heard her bragging about it to the teller just last week.”

“But her clothes.”

“She's proud of the fact that she dresses like a bag lady. That's one of her secrets to success, along with suckering local merchants into letting her get away with murder.”

Emma shook her head. “I think I'm the world's biggest sucker.”

Ruth smiled. “That's because you've got the world's biggest heart.”

“Big hearts don't pay big bills,” Emma muttered.

“No, they don't. Remember that,” Ruth said sternly. “And don't give up. It takes time to build a business.”

And a small fortune, which Emma didn't have, but she nodded and smiled gamely. “You're right.” Things have a way of working out. That was what Mom always said. She hoped Mom was right and things would start working out tomorrow.

 

It looked like a good sign when Emma woke up to an overcast day. But no rain. That was the best weather for a merchant in the Pacific Northwest. When it was rainy and cold, people often opted for socking in with a fire in the fireplace rather than venturing out to shop. When the sun was out, potential shoppers played outside in their yards, went on picnics, drove to the mountains. But a day like today? Perfect for shopping.

All she had to do was sell enough fabric to make her shop rent. She was sure Mr. Pressman at the bank would be patient for his money. But hey, why think small? Maybe she would have tons of customers this weekend and she'd be able to make both her rent and her business loan payment. She hoped she wouldn't have to float another loan from Mom and Dad for her rent at home.

“It's hard to start a business,” Mom always said. “We're happy to help you. You're going to get it all someday anyway. We'd rather help you now, when you really need it.” But they'd done so much already. She couldn't keep being such a drain on her family. It was do-or-die time.

Whoa, was that minicrowd of women outside her shop all for her? She gawked as she drove past the front entrance on Lake Way and turned down the little cobblestone alley that held more shops.

It was a cute little no-name street that housed a travel agency, real estate office, a day spa, and a hair salon. Recently, Kizzy's Kitchen had relocated there, too. The rent was cheaper than on Lake Way and those shops still had a Lake Way address. Many a time, as Emma had passed them to turn and park in back of her more expensive building, she'd wished she'd opted for a less prominent and cheaper location.