Angel Lane (5 page)

He checked out the back of the car, looking for a half-consumed bottle of booze, probably. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty? “May I see your license and registration?” he asked, politely neutral.

She frowned and took her license from her wallet. “I haven't been drinking if that's what you're thinking. I just get the hiccups sometimes.”
Like when I'm nervous
. She got her registration from the glove compartment and handed it over. “Go ahead, make my day,” she said grumpily.

“Like I haven't heard that one before,” he said, and went back to his squad car.

She watched his retreating backside. It was a thick, well-muscled backside that made her think of football players—a great backside. For Emma or someone else. Not for her.

“So, did you find anything on my record?” she greeted him when he returned. “Drugs? Grand theft auto?”

Dumb. That smart mouth of hers was what got her in trouble
so much when she was married. Big, testosterone-laden men were like bumblebees. They were slow mental movers. But they packed a wallop when they hit.

A corner of his mouth slipped up. “Nope. Maybe I should look again.”

Cute. A cop who moonlighted as a comic.

“I'm letting you go with a warning.”

She stared at him. “That's unheard of.”

“What's unheard of?”

“Stopping someone twice and not giving her a ticket. In most places you don't even do that once.”

He shrugged. “This isn't most places. It's Heart Lake.”

“Mayberry,” she murmured.

“Just call me Barney Fife,” he said. “And get that taillight fixed. Third time you get a ticket, even in Mayberry.”

“Yes, Officer,” she managed. And swallowed a hiccup.
Ouch
.

“Hold your breath,” he advised. “Best cure for hiccups.”

“We both know scaring me doesn't work,” she muttered as he returned to his car.

He may have scared her, but not on purpose, or so he would have said. He was just doing his job. She still couldn't believe the man hadn't given her a ticket. Her conversation with Sarah and Emma about good deeds came to mind. Maybe she was this cop's for the day.

Or maybe the nose-wiggling had really helped. Who knew?

Who cared? He was gone and that was all that mattered.

 

 

 

 

E
mma's Quilt Corner was
the
place to be if you were a quilter. Sadly, there didn't seem to be many quilters in Heart Lake, and that was a mystery to Emma since quilting was getting more and more popular. All a woman had to do was look on the Web.

Maybe all a woman had to do was shop on the Web, too, she thought glumly as she worked on her new window display. Everybody lived on the Internet these days, she understood that. But the Internet couldn't look at a quilter's project and show her how to fix her wavy borders. The Internet couldn't demonstrate how to put on binding. Never mind, she told herself. You can beat the odds.

The quilt-draped rocking chair she had placed in the display window two weeks ago was too old-fashioned, she'd decided, so
she'd replaced it with several wall hangings, all dangling at different levels—gigantic lures to catch passersby. The first week of November she'd be adding a machine-quilted rectangle that reminded Heart Lake residents “Christmas Is Coming.” She'd scripted a sign announcing her next quilting class (free when you buy your materials at Emma's), which was now propped on an easel. She moved the easel six inches and stepped back to check out the overall effect. Perfect. People would see it and the lovely hangings on display and rush through the door to sign up.

Hopefully.

Emma looked out the window and surveyed the street. It was a rainy (big surprise) Monday and the only ray of sunshine came from the gold mums showering in their heart-shaped hanging baskets along the street. Soon those mums would be replaced by swags and candy canes. Then, after a short break, the hearts would be back, filled with plastic red roses for Valentine's Day. The roses would stay until spring, when real flowers could make their appearance.

It was little touches like this that made people want to live here. Emma sure didn't want to live anywhere else. Not that she'd been many places. She'd gone to Mexico once when the church youth group went to some remote part of the country to build houses for the poor, and she had made several trips to eastern Washington to visit her cousins. She'd been to Victoria once, too. It had been fun to ride the Clipper.

It wasn't much compared to Heart Lake kids like Kelsey Bleecker, who had moved to New York to become a star on Broadway, or Jamal King, who Emma heard was now in L.A.,
working on films. So many kids had fled after graduation, vowing never to come back. But what had leaving town really gotten them? So far she hadn't seen Kelsey on TV, accepting a Tony, and from what Jamie had told Emma about L.A., Jamal could have it.

The shop door opened and in came Kerrie Neil, with her two-year-old, Nesta, crying in her arms. “Just one more stop,” she told the toddler, then greeted Emma with, “Hi. I need some white thread.”

Good old Kerrie. She wasn't into quilting, but she and Emma had been in student council together. They had fought to keep the Heart Lake High Good Citizen Award going, even though most of the student body preferred to play mailbox baseball, climb the water tower, and sneak pot rather than look for ways to be good citizens. Now, even though Kerrie didn't quilt, she was still earning her good citizen award by helping to support Emma's business.

She grabbed the spool of thread and looked around the shop as if searching for something more to buy. So far she'd purchased embroidery thread and dish towels for her great-aunt's birthday, a book on quilting—which she claimed she would be using as soon as Nesta was in school and she had more time—and Emma's quilted Noah's Ark wall hanging for Nesta's bedroom. “I guess that's it for today,” she said at last, setting her purchase on the counter.

The little spool of white thread looked pitifully small squatting on that big, long counter, but a sale was a sale, and Emma appreciated the business. “How's Miss Nesta doing?” she asked, smiling at the toddler as she rang up the purchase.

Kerrie frowned. “We're going home after this. She needs a nap. I need a nap.” She heaved a sigh. “You know, when you get pregnant everyone says, ‘Oh, awesome, you're going to have a baby.' But nobody tells you what that really means. It means you're going to end up with a figure like a kangaroo, get no sleep, and be too tired for sex.”

“Which is what got you in this mess in the first place,” teased Emma. “You've done such a great sales job I think I'll have to grab a man on my way home tonight and have wild, crazy sex so I can get knocked up.”

Kerrie smiled down at Nesta, who was pretending not to listen to the grown-ups by offering intermittent whimpers. She ran a hand over her daughter's dark curls. “Then Nesta can have a best friend in the student council when she's in high school. Good idea.” She smiled at Emma and heaved a rueful shrug. “I wish I knew someone I could gift wrap for you. It seems like most of the single guys have left town.”

It seemed so to Emma, too. She'd done her share of checking out guys in Safeway's produce department. They all had gold rings on their left hand. “Oh, well,” she said with a shrug. “I'm waiting for Jimmy Stewart's great-great-great-grandson to come to town anyway.”

“Does he have one?” asked Kerrie, wide-eyed.

“I don't know. He should.”

Kerrie shook her head at Emma. “You and your movies. You are such a hopeless romantic.”

“No, hopeful,” Emma corrected her.

“Whatever,” said Kerrie. “Listen, I had another reason for coming in. I was just wondering . . .”

Emma knew by the sudden awkwardness, the hesitation, exactly what her old friend was going to ask. It happened a lot, and she didn't mind, really. “Yes.”

“You don't know what I'm going to say,” Kerrie protested.

“Yes I do. I'll make a quilt for you. What's the cause?”

“The wildlife shelter's annual New Year's auction. I don't need it till after Christmas.”

It wasn't much time, but she could do it. She sure had enough inventory on hand. Sadly. “No problem.”

“Thanks. You rock.”

Either she rocked or she was the world's biggest soft touch.

It was an hour before another customer came in. Actually, two women entered the shop within a few minutes of each other, but Emma knew right off only one would be a paying customer. Ruth Weisman, who not only quilted but also sewed clothes for her granddaughters, was always good for a few yards of fabric. Shirley Schultz, however, was another story. She was somewhere in her seventies and she loved to quilt. She always had a project going, which should have been a good thing for the shop. Except Shirley didn't believe in credit cards and she had a habit of forgetting her checkbook. Of course, she never had any cash with her, either. Emma now kept a running tab for Shirley. And it was definitely running—away from Emma.

She knew she should be firm with Shirley and insist she bring in her trusty checkbook and catch up on what she owed, but Emma couldn't bring herself to do it. Shirley was old enough to be her grandma. How could a girl be mean to her grandma? On top of that, Shirley was a widow, and judging from the frayed condition of her black wool coat and the shabby tennis
shoes she always wore, she was probably squeaking by on Social Security.

“This flannel will be perfect for matching pajamas,” said Ruth, fingering the bolt of soft pink fabric with its pattern of stars and rainbows that Emma had suggested. “It will look adorable on the girls.”

“It's a great idea to be thinking ahead,” said Emma. “Christmas will be here before we know it.”

“I just give the children a check,” said Shirley, who was moving toward the bookshelf. “It's too hard to shop anymore. They never like what I give them anyway.”

Emma had a sudden image of the old lady in the
National Lampoon
Christmas movie who wrapped up her cat and gave it away as a Christmas present. She could just see Shirley showing up for Christmas dinner with a jumping, yowling, beribboned box. Probably Shirley's pittance five- or ten-dollar check would be a welcome relief from whatever she chose to give.

Ruth raised an eyebrow and turned in Shirley's direction. “You can always give gift cards.” With her freshly dyed and styled hair, her acrylic nails, and her Lands' End clothing, Ruth obviously didn't have to worry about making do on a fixed income.

Shirley frowned. “Someone could steal a gift card. I read somewhere that thieves take the numbers right off them in the store and then cash in.” She shook her head. “People have no scruples. Oh, you have a book of Christmas crafts. How lovely!”

Ruth's eyes lit up at that. “Really.” She moved to where Shirley stood.

Shirley clutched the book to her scrawny chest. “It's the last one.”

Ruth looked down her nose at Shirley. “What do you want it for? You just said all you give is checks.”

“I might do something different this year,” Shirley argued.

Maybe she'd do something different right now, and actually pay for the book. “Not to worry,” Emma said to Ruth. “I've ordered more and they'll be in next week. I'll put one aside for you.”

Ruth shot Shirley a look of disgust, but said, “That will be fine,” and Shirley moved to the counter with her treasure.

“So, the book will do it for you today?” Emma asked pleasantly, all the while willing Shirley to pull a checkbook out of her purse.

Shirley nodded and patted her wiry, gray hair while Emma rang up her purchase.

“That will be sixteen forty-nine,” Emma said brightly. “A bargain at any price.”
So please pay me.

Shirley smiled and opened her capacious, old handbag. And then it began. First she scrabbled around in its depths. “Hmm. That's odd.” Next she began to remove the contents. Out came her hankie, a bottle of antacid, breath mints, a coin purse, three pens, a comb, various slips of paper with shopping lists, a folded envelope. “Oh, dear. I seem to have forgotten my checkbook.”

You have to stop this. Be strong
. “I can hold the book for you and you can get it the next time you come in,” Emma offered.

“Or I'll take it,” said Ruth sweetly.

Shirley ignored her, concentrating all her energy on looking pitifully at Emma. Her lips (bright red—Shirley liked to make a statement) dipped down at the corners. “Oh.” And, just in case Emma had missed the pathos in her voice, she said it again.
“Oh.” And added, “I was so hoping to start some of those crafts this week.”

It would probably be her only pleasure. Emma suddenly felt like mean old Mr. Potter from
It's a Wonderful Life,
about to foreclose on some poor old lady. All her resolve crumbled. “Okay. Tell you what. Let's put it on your tab.”

Shirley beamed at Emma like she'd just offered her a lifetime supply of free Metamucil. “That's a great idea.” She reached out and patted Emma's arm. “You're an angel.”

A stupid angel.

“You'll make some man a wonderful wife someday.”

I hope I make a better wife than a businesswoman, Emma thought.

“Are you dating someone?” asked Shirley.

“As if that's any of our business,” said Ruth.

“I'm way too busy with the shop,” lied Emma.

Shirley shook a cautionary finger at her. “Just remember, a loaf of bread sits on the shelf too long and it goes stale.”

“I'll remember,” Emma promised. How could she forget an image like that? She pictured a loaf of bread on the top shelf at the Safeway with her head sticking out one end of it and every man in Heart Lake walking right by. Most of them were wearing wedding rings. She sighed and watched out the window as Shirley sailed out the door with her treasure.