A Small Town Christmas Page 13

  “So go. No one’s stopping you,” Josh snapped. He turned his back on his father and poured himself another cup of coffee.

  A moment later he felt a big hand on his shoulder. That hand on the shoulder had been a comfort when his team lost the championship game, when his first girlfriend dumped him, when he stood bewildered in the church foyer, trying to think of what to say to people after Crystal’s memorial service. Now it called up a lifetime of memories: his dad swearing over a leaky inflatable boat that ended their fishing adventure on an ill-fated camping trip, his dad holding him on his lap while they watched a scary movie, his dad in trouble when Mom came home and discovered Dad letting him watch a scary movie.

  “Oh, hell. If you want to go, we’ll go,” he said.

  The old man was smart enough not to gloat. “Sarah said bring whatever you want as long as it’s not dessert.”

  Fine. He’d bring something. But not his enthusiasm.

  By four o’clock in the afternoon exactly three customers had come through Emma’s shop door. The first was Shirley, who had managed to skip off with two yards of fabric she’d never pay for. Emma had chalked it up as her good deed for the day.

  But these last two—well, one, really—were enough to drive her to close up early. She’d been trying not to eavesdrop as the women talked in a corner over by the hundred-count fabric, but the shop wasn’t exactly buzzing with activity.

  “This is nice,” said the short, middle-aged woman with the dark hair.

  Her friend, a tall, frosted blonde with perfect makeup and expensive clothes, took the cloth between well-manicured fingers and inspected it. “It is. Overpriced, though. You know, you can get the same thing at the Savemart for fifty cents a yard less.”

  “Really?” said the short woman.

  “All my quilting friends shop there.”

  So that was where all Emma’s potential customers were. Panic and defeat began to play ring-around-the-rosy in her stomach.

  “Still, it’s nice to support local shops,” said the short woman.

  “I suppose,” said her friend, who could obviously afford to do the same.

  “I think I’ll buy this,” the short woman decided. “And this.”

  Bless you, thought Emma. She set aside the work she was pretending to do and donned her cheeriest smile as the two women approached the counter. “How are you ladies doing today?” she asked, trying to sound cheerful.

  “Fine,” said the short woman.

  Her friend just stood next to her and said nothing. Emma was willing to bet she hadn’t gotten that fancy suede jacket at Savemart.

  The short woman laid two bolts of cloth on the cutting counter. “Can I have two yards of each of these?”

  “Of course,” Emma said, and cut the cloth. She wished she could think of something else to say, something friendly and inspiring that would prove to these women that shopping with her was worth an extra fifty cents a yard. But all she could think of was how she wasn’t going to be able to make her rent either here or at home this month unless her fairy godmother or the patron saint of quilters showed up. And then there was the small matter of the eighty-thousand-dollar bank loan she’d taken out to buy her inventory. Her parents had matched her savings with another ten thousand and cosigned for the loan. With all of forty-six dollars left in her savings account, she was in very deep doo-doo.

  Didn’t these people understand about community loyalty? Hadn’t they ever watched It’s a Wonderful Life? “Are you ladies new to Heart Lake?” she asked. They couldn’t be from around here. Otherwise they’d understand the importance of supporting their local merchants.

  “I’ve been here for ten years,” said the woman in the suede coat.

  Even though by Heart Lake standards that made her a newcomer, ten years was still long enough to figure a few things out. But judging from what Emma had overheard, a lot of people in town were just as clueless.

  “I’m new here,” said the short woman, “and I love it. Everyone is so nice and friendly. And I love the idea of doing good deeds. I saw the article in the paper,” she added, beaming at Emma.

  “Well, you’ve just supported a local business and done your good deed for the day,” Emma said as she rang up the purchase.

  “You do know you’re overpriced,” said the other woman. Did she consider sharing that information to be her good deed for the day?

  Her friend blushed, and Emma felt a sizzle on her own cheeks. “I try hard to keep my prices competitive. Unfortunately, I can’t always offer the same discounts as the big chains. But I make up for it in service.” She slipped a flyer announcing her upcoming quilting class in the bag along with the fabric and handed it to the short woman. “Classes are free when you buy your fabric here.”

  “Now, that’s a good deal,” said the woman.

  “And there’s something to be said for shopping right here in town,” Emma continued. “Think of the money you save on gas.”

  The short woman nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right.”

  But as they walked out the door, Emma heard the tall one say, “Savemart’s not that far away, and the amount of money I save on everything there, including my groceries, more than makes up for what I spend on gas.”

  Emma wanted to scream after them, “But does Savemart care about you? Do they care about the community? DO THEY OFFER FREE QUILTING CLASSES?”

  After the depressing encounter she felt too sick to keep the shop open. She closed up and went straight home. Pyewacket was her welcoming committee. He came trotting out from her bedroom and followed her into the kitchen, rubbing against her legs as she dialed her mother. “In a minute,” she told him. “And what were you doing in my bedroom?” She could have sworn she’d shut the door.

  “Hi, sweetie,” said her mom. “Why are you calling me from home?”

  “I’m sick. I’m not coming over for dinner tonight.”

  “Oh, no. What have you got?”

  A bad case of discouragement. “Nothing really, I’m just . . . my stomach’s upset. I’m going to have some tea and then go to bed.” And consider smothering myself with a pillow.

  “Do you want me to bring you some chicken soup?” offered her mom.

  “No, thanks. I’ll be okay.”

  “Maybe it’s a simple case of exhaustion. You’ve been working too hard.”

  She wished. If she’d been working hard it would have meant she had customers and could pay her bills.

  “Get a good night’s sleep,” said Mom. “And if you’re still sick tomorrow I can man the shop.”

  The ghost shop. The last thing Emma wanted was her mother there all day, seeing no one coming in and nothing happening, but she murmured her thanks. Then she hung up and went to see if her bedroom had survived a day of Pye.

  The quilt on the bed was her first concern. She’d made it when she was thirteen, and Grandma Nordby had helped her. Her parents had been busy building their house on the lake and she had stayed with Grandma. She’d been convinced she’d be bored with no friends around, but Grandma had introduced her to the magic of creating beautiful patterns out of bits of fabric, and between that and watching old movies together, the summer had flown by.

  Now, seeing the quilt, she wanted to cry. “Oh, Pye!” She held it up to survey the damage. One whole side looked like Freddy Kruger had gone on a binge.

  The cat had followed her in, probably to remind her that he expected his food dish to be filled immediately, as always. She glared at him. “Look what you’ve done!”

  He could have cared less about looking. He already knew. Unlike a dog, who would have realized how he’d disappointed his master and come slinking over to her to offer an apology, Pyewacket simply scatted.

  Emma slammed the bedroom door after him. Then she fell on the bed and indulged herself in a good cry. No good deed went unpunished. She was living proof.

  FIFTEEN

  Jamie had enjoyed a great week. The shop had been busy and so had the town. It really looked like Heart L
ake was rediscovering its small-town spirit and getting into doing good deeds. She and Emma had finished their design for the T-shirts, adding a red heart with an angel perched on top to their KEEP THE HEART IN HEART LAKE slogan, and a shop in Seattle was printing their first batch of shirts. Now one of her customers who had gotten into the gift-jar idea was in buying chocolates to fill another Mason jar.

  “I started a game of front porch tag in my neighborhood,” she reported.

  “I was always It when we played tag,” Clarice said. “That sucked.”

  “This is much more fun,” the woman assured her. To Jamie she said, “I left one of your truffle jars on my neighbor’s porch along with a note to go tag someone else, and I just saw a jar at a house at the end of the street on my way here.”

  “If it meant getting chocolate, I wouldn’t mind getting tagged,” said Clarice.

  Like she needed to. Clarice was a two-legged chocolate mouse. If she didn’t stop sneaking into the inventory Jamie was going to have to hide a mousetrap in the display case among the white chocolate– blackberry truffles.

  “That is awesome,” Jamie said to their customer.

  “Looove in a jar,” crooned Clarice. “Hey, that almost sounds like a commercial.”

  “Or at least a headline,” said Jamie. “Want to be in the paper?”

  “Really?” The woman was grinning like a jack-o’-lantern.

  “I think that would be a yes,” said Clarice, so Jamie sicced Lezlie Hurst on her.

  On Wednesday the paper’s Lake Living section ran an article dedicated to the art of goody jars with all kinds of suggestions for turning a Mason jar into a good deed.

  “Those gift jars are really catching on,” Sarah said when the three friends met.

  “I’ll bet the baking classes are, too,” said Emma.

  “They are,” Sarah said, “but I’m not sure the real thing is matching up to what I envisioned.”

  “Reality sucks,” said Jamie cheerfully. “What happened?”

  “Nothing that bad. The girls are a handful, that’s all.” Sarah stared into her empty mocha cup. “I may not have had the purest of motives when I started this baking class.”

  “You? You’re joking, right?” scoffed Jamie.

  Sarah shook her head. “I think I was expecting those girls to magically turn into granddaughters. I was doing it more for me than to help someone.”

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” said Emma. “Of course you miss your granddaughters, but part of why you miss them is that you don’t have anyone to do nice things for. Isn’t that why you really started the baking class?”

  “Yeah,” put in Jamie. “You weren’t being a selfish grandma. You were a good deed looking for a place to happen.”

  “I don’t know,” said Sarah. “I hope you’re right.” She looked at her watch. “I should get going. I’ve got a lasagna to deliver to the firehouse.”

  “You spoil those guys,” Jamie told her.

  “Maybe, but guess who gets a free calendar every year,” Sarah retorted.

  The fire department’s fund-raising calendar, featuring hot firefighters from the local stations, always sold out.

  “I need to start taking lasagna over there,” cracked Jamie. She regretted the words the minute they were out of her mouth. Sarah would take them as permission to start matchmaking.

  Sure enough. “We’ve got a couple of new guys,” said Sarah. “Both single.”

  “Give ’em to Emma.”

  “Hmm. What can I set on fire?” Emma said with a smile.

  It wasn’t a typical Emma smile, though. Her eyes were sad. “Are you okay?” asked Jamie.

  “Me? Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me,” said Jamie.

  “Life is great. Well, except for the fact that I have no customers. And do you know why I have no customers?”

  Emma’s chipper voice had taken on an edge. “Uh-oh,” said Jamie. “Why?”

  “ ’Cause they’re all going to Savemart where they can save fifty cents a yard on fabric,” Emma said, her smile determined, her voice brittle.

  Jamie scowled. “Beatches.”

  “Are you going to make your rent okay this month?” asked Sarah, cutting to the chase.

  “I’m sure I will,” said Emma, sounding far from sure. “If worse comes to worst I can close and move back in with my parents,” she added in an attempt at humor. Her eyes were tearing up now. She stood suddenly. “I’d better go, too. I’ll see you guys next week.”

  “Wait,” called Sarah, “let’s talk about this.”

  Emma shook her head violently. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  Jamie could think of a few things, like how Emma was going to pay off her business loan and how they were going to drum up customers for her. But while she sat there in shock, Emma was already to the door.

  “Emma,” said Sarah, going after her.

  “I’ll be fine, really,” Emma said, holding up a hand. “Things will work out. Don’t mind me.”

  And then she was gone, leaving Jamie sitting stunned in her seat and Sarah standing in the doorway.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Jamie.

  “I don’t know, but we’d better think of something before the end of the year,” said Sarah, “or there’s going to be new retail space to rent on downtown Lake Way.”

  That quilt shop was Emma’s baby. Jamie couldn’t imagine what she would do if she lost it. Somehow, they’d have to find a way to make sure she didn’t.

  To do her part, she left Clarice in charge on Saturday and slipped off to purchase some fabric.

  Quilting wasn’t her thing. When it came to arts and crafts she preferred shorter projects with more immediate results. But what the heck? It was always good to learn a new skill.

  She found Sarah already there, buying fabric like it was the end of the world.

  “Not you, too,” Emma greeted her.

  “What?”

  Emma smiled at both of them and took a swipe at her eyes. “You guys are the best. You know that?”

  “Yes, we do,” said Jamie, and went to browse the little book section over by the window. She found one full of holiday gift crafts. “You should definitely push this,” she said, holding it up for Emma to see. “You could have a Christmas gift-making class.”

  “By gumballs, that’s a great idea,” said Sarah. “I’ll sign up for it.”

  “Me, too,” said Jamie. “Put an ad in the paper.”

  “I will,” said Emma with a decisive nod. “It can go right next to the one I just put in.”

  “Oh, for what?” asked Jamie.

  “I’m going to have a Thanksgiving sale: forty percent off. Tell everyone.”

  “Whoa, that’s quite a markdown. Don’t you want to wait and do that in January?” suggested Jamie.

  Emma’s perky smile faded. “Not if I want to still be in business in January.”

  “You will be,” Sarah said.

  “You really think so?” Jamie asked her as they left the shop, laden with fabric.

  “I hope so.”

  “We need to find her a sugar daddy,” Jamie said.

  “A man isn’t always the answer. You know that,” said Sarah.

  “Not for me,” Jamie agreed. “But Emma’s different. She’s a believer.”

  Jamie was once, too. Sometimes she wished she could turn back the clock and start her love life over again. Would she have been any wiser in the choices she made? Who knew? One thing she did know for sure, she was going to be smart from now on.

  Whatever her motives for starting her girls’ baking class, Sarah was determined to finish it with a big heart and a big smile.

  Big heart, big smile, she repeated to herself on Monday afternoon as she dealt with spilled pumpkin on the floor, Beanie dropping a hot pad on the heating element and catching it on fire, and Damaris declaring their finished product, pumpkin cookies, “Okay.”

  The only silver lining in the aft
ernoon’s cloud was that Sarah would be getting rid of Damaris on time thanks to a dinner invitation from Lissa. “Go with God,” she said to George.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I survived Desert Storm. I should be able to survive this. If I’m lucky.”

  “Just remember how fast they grow up,” Sarah told him. “It will all be over sooner than you think.”

  They were still talking when Leo Steele sauntered over from across the street. “Looks like a party over here,” he said with a wink. “Thought I’d join in.”

  “I wouldn’t call having a bunch of kids running around my place a party,” said George. “More like a bad case of insanity.”

  “We’ve been having a cooking class,” Sarah explained. “George is here to pick up his granddaughters.”

  Leo stuck out a hand. “Nice to see ya again.”

  George shook hands with him, but Sarah could tell by his cool reception that he had no desire to become buddies with Leo. That made two of them.

  “I came over to see if you had a can of tomato soup I could buy,” Leo said to Sarah. “I’m all out.”

  “I do. And you certainly don’t need to pay me. I always keep extras on hand to use in my spaghetti sauce.”

  “I should get going,” George said. “Come on, girls,” he called. “Time to go get hamburgers.”

  That was all it took to send the girls squealing to his car. He gave a casual wave and followed them. He was just driving away when a familiar white truck pulled into the driveway. Out stepped Sam. Her husband’s easy, sanguine nature had earned him the nickname Smilin’ Sam, but today he wasn’t smiling.

  “Hi,” she called. “What are you doing here?” He’d made it abundantly clear he wouldn’t be stopping by on baking-class day.

  “Just came home to check on a few things,” Sam said, looking at Leo.

  “I guess I’ll shove off,” Leo said.

  “Wait. Your soup,” said Sarah.

  “Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

  She hurried into the house and fetched soup from the pantry. Both the men remained on the porch. It wasn’t like Sam not to invite someone in. She was glad he hadn’t stayed true to form today, though. She was pooped.