A Steal of a Deal

by Ginny Aiken

  Our conversation gallops from that point on. Before we know what’s really hit us, Peggy and I agree to front our congregation’s efforts on behalf of the Kashmiri earthquake victims, and a three-way friendship, as unlikely as it seems, is forged.

  I glance at my watch and am stunned to see almost three hours have passed. Peggy and I hug Laura and head up the stairs.

  “Who would’ve thought,” Peggy murmurs.

  “What? That a movie would affect us that much?”

  She slants me a look. “No, you doofus. That sitting next to you would lead to chairing a missions committee project of almost astronomical proportions.”

  I sniff. “It’s not that massive. We’re just spearheading an effort to help those poor kids in Kashmir.”

  Peggy stops. “Are you forgetting the widows? And how about the doctors without meds, much less ER supplies or equipment? And that’s before you take into account the reconstruction efforts that haven’t gone anywhere in all this time.”

  My fluttery finger wave tries to dismiss her worries. “And you think you and I are going to fix all that? All we’re doing is recruiting the talent and funds to do it. We’re just the . . . oh, I don’t know. The delegators, I guess.”

  She howls. “The delegators, huh? Boy, are you good. No wonder Miss Mona’s got you selling rocks.”

  “Hey! I’m a master gemologist. I know what I’m talking about on-screen.”

  “And you know next to nothing about Kashmir, medical aid to disaster areas, construction, and third-world country cottage industries.”

  “What’s that?” a familiar male voice asks. “Do you mean to say we’ve found the subject on which Andrea Autumn Adams isn’t an expert? Will wonders never cease?”

  I spin, smack my fists on my hips, and roll my eyes. “Me and my shadow . . .” I warble. Then I ask, “Whatcha doing here?”

  He crosses his arms. “Are you claiming ownership of the church? It’s Sunday, and I’m no heathen.”

  “Yeah, but the service ended hours ago.”

  “Yeah, but Mr. Seward spoke to the men’s Bible study group for a couple of hours. The man’s fascinating.”

  “And that sent you looking for me?”

  That slow, maddening smile of his turns up his lips. “Wow!

  What an ego, Miss Adams. Who says I came looking for you?”

  A snicker at my side sends my elbow jabbing at Peggy’s slender waist. “Whose side are you on?” I hiss at her. To him, I add, “I’m here, and suddenly you show up. What do you want me to think?”

  Peggy laughs. “That you’re both heading out the church door.”

  To my eternal mortification, I look up, and realize that, yep. She’s right. We’re standing right in front of the massive glass doors to the church. Anyone could’ve been there; anyone on their way out. It just happens that Max is the one who’s chosen that moment to leave the building. Just like me.

  Great. Proximity to Max the Magnificent has bred paranoia. Now what?

  Before I have a chance to figure out what, Aunt Weeby marches up. “Hey, sugarplum! There you are. Mona and I were wondering if you’d like to go out for breakfast.”

  I blink. “Breakfast?”

  When my great-aunt nods, I stick a finger in my ear and wiggle. Something must not be right with my hearing. “Are you sure? It’s”—I glance at my watch—“two forty-five . . . P.M.! Who eats breakfast in the middle of the afternoon?”

  An elderly chorus sings out, “We do!”

  Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona nod like those dogs with bobbing heads in the back windows of big old cars. Then it registers. A rich male baritone had underscored their response.

  “Oh no!” I shake my head. Oh, Lord, please! More time with Max is too dangerous to me and my sanity!

  “What do you mean, no?” Max asks. “Breakfast is the perfect food. There’re whole restaurant chains devoted to serving breakfast 24/7.”

  The worst part about it is, he’s right. And I know it. Not to mention I have my teeny, tiny weakness for the perfect pancake. Slathered in cholesterol-filled, calorie-heavy butter. Oh! And drowned in yummy maple syrup.

  My stomach growls.

  Yeah, that Benedict Arnold. It betrays me. Can you believe it? My body wants me to go to breakfast with a pair of world-class matchmakers, who’ll have their beady eyes on me and their number one candidate for my match the whole time. “Come on,” Peggy says with a mischievous wink. “Admit it, Andie. You’re dying to go munch on pancakes with this crowd.”

  “Pancakes?” I ask then grin. “Okay, you busted me. I love ’em. But the company?” I wink. “You guys are loony tunes.”

  Miss Mona pats her perfect silver bob. “That’s right, honey! You couldn’t ask for better partners than us.”

  I look from face to face and have to agree. I start to nod, but then my eyes land on Max.

  Our gazes catch. Lock.

  The unnerving electricity that every so often zings between us blazes back to life. Against my every effort otherwise.

  “No . . .” Even to my oh-so-subjective ears, my objection lacks conviction. “Um . . . well, okay. I guess I’ll join you guys.”

  Peggy, the traitor, giggles, hugs me goodbye, and saunters out the door.

  Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona follow.

  Max, however, doesn’t move. The gleam in his eyes gets my dander going. I yank the door ajar.

  “Look at it as an opportunity,” he says, right on my heels. “We can talk gems.”

  I snort at the thought and hurry to catch up with the senior contingent. “Let’s change the subject. How about we talk Kashmir?”

  “Oooooh!” Miss Mona coos. “The loveliest sapphire I ever saw came from Kashmir. Long, long time ago. Can we get some for the show, Andie?”

  Max looks even more interested. “Kashmir sapphires? I thought sapphires came from Myanmar . . . Burma—whatever. We bought a bunch of them when we went to the Mogok Valley, didn’t we?”

  A little bit of knowledge can be dangerous, you know. I tried, Lord. I tried to turn the topic to where we could talk about serving you.

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “We did buy sapphires in Myanmar— very, very good quality sapphires. But Miss Mona’s right too. The finest sapphires in the world have come from Kashmir. The mines, though—”

  “Don’t tell me,” he says, that glib look on his face. “The mines are mostly done producing stones, and the prices are out-of-this-world high. How’m I doing?”

  At his singsong imitation of my teacherly efforts, I roll my eyes—I did tell you I do a lot of eye rolling around Max, right? “You did fine. You only got it a tiny bit off. The mines in Kashmir played out a long time ago. Like in the 1800s.” I figure it’s in my best interest not to mention the rumors of new finds in the last ten years.

  “Phew!” he says, as he holds the door to the S.T.U.D. Network’s limo for me. “And here I thought you were going to try and drag us out there to film another rickety mine. Never mind start another international incident—”

  “Max!” Miss Mona cries. “What an exceptional idea—”

  “NO!” Max and I cry in unison.

  Then we face each other. Max and I . . . in agreement? A wacko image crosses my mind again—pigs really do fly.

  I squelch a nervous giggle. You bet I’m in trouble.

  What’s my life coming to?

  “Lord?” I whisper, almost whimper. “Please? Not again.”

  200

  A brief half hour later, I close my lips around another wedge of fluffy, gooey, scrumptious pancake. At the table, the conversation continues in bits and spurts without any help from me.

  The pillowy texture and sweet comfort of the pancakes fill my mouth with happiness, and I chew, my every sense focused on the experience. Oh yeah. I do like my food.

  “. . . Andie?”

  I bite my tongue. “Ow! Hey, what’s that all about? Yelling at a woman who’s busy enjoying her meal is not fair.”

  Three pairs of eyes stare.


  “What?” There can’t be spinach on my teeth. I’m not eating spinach. “What are you guys looking at?”

  Max shakes his head. “No one yelled at you. You were way out in la-la land when Miss Mona asked you a question.”

  Choosing to ignore the la-la land comment, I turn to my boss. “What did I miss?”

  “Not much,” Aunt Weeby says.

  “So much!” Miss Mona says. “I think you and Max have come up with a brilliant idea.”

  Aunt Weeby, generally allergic to business conversations, now pats my hand, points at a bilious painting on the wall, and murmurs, “That’s a lovely picture.”

  My eyebrows fly hair-ward. “Hmm . . . ,” I say before I turn back to Miss Mona. “You know I love you to pieces, but I’m scared of what you consider brilliant ideas. Especially those that have even the most remote connection to foreign countries.”

  “What I’m afraid of is losing any and all fabulous opportunities.” Miss Mona purses her lips. “The network hasn’t flourished by ignoring possibilities, you know.”

  “A really pretty picture,” Aunt Weeby says, her voice determined and emphatic. “And the colors are great.”

  A glance at the orange, red, and acid green makes my eyes hurt. “Yep, it’s colorful, all right.” I turn back to Miss Mona. “We don’t need to go to extraordinary extremes. I’m good at what I do. I know my gems, and my show adds to the network’s bottom line.”

  Miss Mona smiles. “I’m the one who hired you, Andie. I know how good you are, and I know better than anyone else the bottom line. I also know a chance when I see one. It’s all the way down in my marrow to grab it and run.”

  Aunt Weeby jabs her elbow into my side. “Doesn’t it remind you of someone?”

  Sore and unwilling to really comment on the hideous thing, I squirm and scoot my chair a fraction of an inch away from her.

  She leans closer. “D’you think they had it painted special for them?”

  Max snickers.

  No doubt about it, I ignore him, but look from one senior citizen to the other. Usually, the two are in complete accord. But there are times, like now, when these two are enough to drive the sanest soul to the nearest shrink.

  And there are those who question my sanity.

  I take a deep, supposedly calming breath. “You know, Aunt Weeby? I’ll bet it’s one of those production-line paintings they sell out of the back of a rickety van parked in the corner at a gas station. I wouldn’t confuse it with a VanGogh.”

  “I will admit,” Miss Mona continues, oblivious of Aunt Weeby’s diversionary tactics, “there were some queasy-making moments during our last trip, but the results? Why, Andie, honey, they were pure genius.”

  A quick glance reveals the green around Max’s gills. It has to match the hue around mine. Neither one of us is about to forget anytime soon. “That trip, Miss Mona, was nothing short of a nightmare.”

  “VanGogh . . . that’s the guy who whacked off his ear.” Aunt Weeby gives an exaggerated sniff. “His stuff makes me think a’ the nightmares that come after I get indigestion.”

  I smooth a hand over the skirt of my dress, ready to take the out she’s giving me and run with it. “VanGogh painted marvelous, moody pieces, and his use of color was nothing short of brilliant. That”—I wave at the smears of primary colors—“is nothing short of . . . ah . . . well, colorful.”

  “Hmm . . .” Max grins.

  I ignore him—again. “It’s probably more Jackson Pollock than VanGogh.”

  “But how about the head? And the body?” Aunt Weeby prods.

  I glance at the rectangle on the wall—head? Body? I don’t see what she does. “Interesting.” I snag another piece of pancake with my fork, and rejoice that the conversation has now traveled far afield of the Kashmir issue. “And the colors . . . they’re very . . . primary.”

  “Don’t forget we made an excellent profit from the stones we bought in Myanmar.” Miss Mona raises her voice over Aunt Weeby’s and mine, determined, as always. “You were there. And then you sold the stones.”

  I groan.

  “Miss Mona has a point,” Max says, his eyes sparkling with mischief—the rat. “We sold every last ruby, sapphire, and zircon you bought. Even those other weird things sold too. The ones no one had ever heard of.”

  I chow down more pancake.

  “D’you think they’d sell it to me? I just have to have it.” Aunt Weeby, true to form, is obviously not finished with our conversation but has now turned to glare at Miss Mona. “What’s the matter with you people? Can’t you see it? It’s the spitting image of our darling little Rio.”

  I squint at the swipes of paint, and if I almost close my eyes, I can sort of make out the outline of what some might consider a curved beak. I’m no expert on van art, but I’m ever so grateful to the exotic breed right about now. “I suppose the painter made a bunch of them, but I don’t know that you can track any of them down. And who knows? If you don’t ask, you won’t know if the owners of the restaurant will sell it to you.”

  Back to Max, who’d just murmured something about “weird purchases” again.

  “Not fair! You know I never bought anything weird in Myanmar. Just because you don’t know your gems doesn’t mean kyanite, danburite, kornerupine, or peridot are weird.”

  He winks. “I love it when you talk rocks to me.”

  Aaaaargh! Even when he’s driving me nuts, his mischievous grin melts my bones. What am I going to do with the guy— Don’t go there, Andie. You’re doing nothing with or about the guy. You’re as allergic to relationships as Aunt Weeby is to business chit-chat.

  Since our party swells when two other S.T.U.D. employees come up on their way out of the restaurant, I’m definitely doing nothing . . . but scarfing another piece of pancake.

  “Hi, all!” Hannah Stowe, my fave camerawoman says. “Food’s great here, don’t you think?”

  Glory Cargill, Miss Mona’s newest camerawoman, rubs her nonexistent belly. “Mmm . . . You southerners really know your eats. I’m stuffed with the most delicious pork chops, whipped mashed potatoes dripping with melted butter, and steamed-to-the-perfect-crisp broccoli almandine.” Then she stares at my plate, the only one at our table with anything still on it. “Isn’t it a little late for pancakes?”

  Why me? “That’s what I told this crew”—I jab my fork in the direction of my table companions—“but noooo. They wouldn’t think of anything but breakfast at a time when most are getting ready for an early dinner. And they do a mean pancake here. You should try them next time you come.”

  “Isn’t that painting of Andie’s little parrot, Rio, absolutely fabulous?” Aunt Weeby asks.

  Swallow me, earth!

  Hannah winks. “I’ve always been crazy about brunch.”

  I steal another mouthful of my now cold, stiff pancakes.

  Yeah, I can agree with Hannah, even if my pancakes are past their prime. But then, who isn’t? Past her prime, that is. Especially after a couple of hours spent in the company of the stars of the Cirque du Senior-elles. They do know how to push my frustration button better than anyone—except maybe Mr. Magnificent himself.

  Who proceeds to scratch his chin. “Brunch? I think we left that back in the dust. How does ‘linner’ sound? If brunch comes between breakfast and lunch, then linner must be what comes between lunch and dinner.”

  I fight the grin; I don’t want to encourage him. I mean, why?

  Then Miss Mona throws me for even more of a loop. “See?” She points at Hannah and Glory, her words directed at me. “Here are the eyes of the shows. I think the Lord’s working this one out for me.” To the camerawomen, she says, “C’mon, girls. Grab yourself some seats. We have us some important decisions to make.”

  As the women scrounge for chairs, I drop my fork and scoot back. What are my chances for a timely escape?

  “I know!” Aunt Weeby cries before I can flee. “I bet I have something like it up in the attic. Y’all know our family’s never thrown any ol�
� thing out, and my uncle Zebediah was quite the bird fancier. Whoo-eee! Now, wouldn’t it be super if I could find me my own original treasure hiding with them mothballs and trunks and old chairs?”

  So there you have it. Miss Mona must have hired my foot-in-mouth-diseased cohost because she recognized in him the same malady from which her best friend suffers. I’m doomed.

  I laugh in helpless surrender.

  “What kind of decision are you talking about?” Glory asks Miss Mona, prolonging the nutty nature of the moment.

  Hannah plunks her elbows on the last patch of available tabletop and props her chin on the heels of her hands. “I have to assume you’re talking about work stuff, right?”

  That’s when it occurs to me. I stick my two pinkies into the corners of my mouth and give a shrill whistle. It works.

  Too well.

  The entire restaurant comes to a grinding halt.

  “Ooops!” That really wasn’t what I’d wanted. I turn to my fellow diners at other tables. “Sorry.” Then I face my crew again. “You guys. It’s Sunday. We just left church. How about if work and business and decisions wait until tomorrow?”

  Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby both look stunned. “You’re right,” my aunt says, her tone apologetic.

  “It is the Lord’s Day,” Miss Mona concurs, equally chagrined.

  Max gives me a knowing look. “The Super-Duper—”

  “Don’t say it!” No, I wasn’t rude. Well, maybe just a little.

  But I had to cut him off. I did. Really. What he’d been about to say paints me in a very yucky light. One I don’t want to see me in, even though I may have been the one to put myself in its glare. But I had to do something to derail the Miss Mona train. Otherwise she’d have had us chugging off to Kashmir.

  And after our trip to the Mogok Valley in Myanmar not too many months ago, I’m not ready to repeat the madness.