The Sweetheart Bargain (A Sweetheart Sisters Novel)

by Jump, Shirley

  Esther Gerke frowned at the shimmering contraband amber liquid in Greta’s glass. “Does Doc Harper know you’re drinking that? At this time of day?”

  “Doc Harper is still drying the ink on his degree. I like that boy, but he’s got a lot to learn about getting old.” Just to spite Esther, Greta took a long sip of the bourbon. It slid down her throat in one warm, practiced move. “Besides, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt me.”

  Esther’s lips knitted into a knot. “It’s scandalous. Drinking that”—she waved a hand at the glass—“devil’s brew. And in here, no less.” The last she added in a whisper, with a worried glance at the staff across the room.

  Greta had been sneaking drinks into the morning room from day one. A couple bottles of Jim for the staff at major holidays and they all turned a blind eye to her morning “coffee.” “Esther Gerke, I have seen you imbibe a time or two. Why that time at the Casino Night, you had three—”

  “It was after five.” She sat back in her chair as if that settled the issue. Beside her, a wedding ring quilt formed a lumpy blue-and-white cloud that poufed up and across the long table. Every Thursday morning for as long as anyone could remember—which at their age, wasn’t much beyond breakfast—the Ladies’ Quilting Club had met in the big room in the back of the Daily Grind across the street. Then the coffee shop had shut down, no word, no notice, and they’d had to move their quilting to the morning room at the Golden Years Retirement Village—a fancy name for an assisted-living facility that charged a small fortune to provide the comforts of home while a nursing staff hovered and fretted. Greta would have been just fine staying in her own house, at her own kitchen table, but her son had insisted on forking over the cash to keep her “safe.” More like under constant observation like a captured escapee in Alcatraz. Greta didn’t get into trouble, exactly; more like trouble found her.

  So she got distracted sometimes. She forgot to shut off the stove, left the front door open, and occasionally forgot to pay at the Sav-A-Lot. Edward worried too much, and overreacted too often, acting more like a mother hen than a child.

  Greta now lived at Golden Years and sat in the bright yellow-and-white morning room with all the other little old ladies—of which she was the smallest and the youngest—purportedly quilting while they sat in high-backed oak chairs with wide cushioned seats and watched other residents drift in and out of the room. Greta had been bringing the same set of squares for the last six months. She didn’t quilt—she groused. And that suited her just fine.

  “What’d I miss?” Pauline Lewis breezed into the morning room in a burst of Estée Lauder. A waterfall of personal possessions tumbled out of her hands and into an empty chair—tote bag, purse, wool coat, knitted hat. Pauline dressed like an Eskimo heading to the Antarctic for the twenty-yard walk from her villa to the main building.

  “Esther has been questioning my choice of morning beverage,” Greta said. “Again.”

  Pauline leaned over and gave the Maker’s Mark a sniff. “Nothing wrong with a little bourbon. Especially on your birthday.”

  Esther’s lips knitted up tight.

  “Anyway, I’m glad you two are here,” Pauline said. She dug in her purse and pulled out a stack of envelopes. “Because I have an idea.”

  Greta groaned. “The last idea you had nearly got me killed.”

  Pauline waved that off, sending another Estée Lauder draft into the space. “You had fun on the kayak trip. And getting in the water is good for your skin. Besides, you’re the one who keeps complaining a quilting club is boring.”

  “It is. It’s what old women do.”

  Esther arched a darkly penciled brow. The woman of many facial expressions. And many floral dresses. Today’s was a bright pink peony pattern that hurt Greta’s eyes. “I happen to love quilting.”

  “I’d rather stick this needle in my eye.” Greta held up the silver object of her pain and brandished it near her eye.

  “Don’t go doing that.” Pauline dumped an envelope into each of their laps. “Guess who died?”

  “Harold Twohig. Please say Harold Twohig.”

  “Greta, you are a horrible person. That man is your neighbor.”

  “No. He’s the devil incarnate who happens to live next door.” Greta sent a scowl at the easterly wall, and hoped Harold felt it in his bones.

  Esther made the sign of the cross on her chest and whispered up a silent prayer. Probably asking God to smite Greta for her unneighborly thoughts. God didn’t do any smiting. Not so much as a rumble of thunder. The Man Upstairs knew Harold well.

  “Common Sense Carla,” Pauline said.

  “Who?”

  “The advice columnist for the Rescue Bay Daily. Remember that woman who told Mitchell Walker that cleaning in the buff was perfectly fine?”

  “Poor man ended up at the minute clinic for hours.” Esther shook her head. “Who knew rust remover could do so much damage?”

  “Clearly, she shouldn’t have named herself Common Sense anything,” Greta added.

  Pauline shuddered, then leaned forward. “Anyway, as soon as I heard about Carla’s demise, I . . . well, I took advantage of the opportunity.”

  “Took advantage?” Greta hadn’t known Pauline to take advantage of anything other than the front of the line on Thursday buffet nights. “How?”

  “I signed up as the new Carla.” Pauline beamed.

  “You?” Greta scoffed. “I’m sorry, Pauline, but you don’t give the best advice. And you aren’t exactly overflowing with common sense.”

  “I am too.” Pauline pouted.

  Esther leaned forward. “Has anyone seen the yellow thread? I need to tack my corners.”

  “Pauline, face it. Your advice is . . .” Greta searched for a polite word. Didn’t find one. “Terrible.”

  Pauline pouted until her lower lip looked like that of an overdone Hollywood actress. “It is not.”

  “You advised Jerry Beakins to work out his issues with his neighbor over a cup of coffee. You know the result of that? Second. Degree. Burns.”

  “I never told him to throw the coffee,” Pauline said. “He was supposed to use his words. Not his coffee.”

  “Where is that yellow thread?” Esther patted the space in front of Greta, then bent down to search under the table. “Are you sitting on it, Greta?”

  “And you also told Betty Croucher that bee stings would help with her gout. Silly woman damned near had to buy an Epi-Pen factory.” Greta wagged a finger at Pauline. “That is why this is a bad idea. We need an advice columnist who can actually give advice. Not inspire lawsuits.” Though to be honest, the local paper had a circulation of, at most, a few thousand, so it wasn’t like Pauline could wreak worldwide destruction or anything.

  Pauline pouted. “I already told the paper I’d be the new Carla. My first column is due tomorrow.” She dropped a pile of papers onto the table. “And now I have all these letters to go through, to pick the best one for my debut column.”

  “Maybe I can use white instead.” Esther got back to searching the table. “Has anyone seen the white thread?”

  The door to the morning room opened and in a whoosh of sunshine, Olivia Linscott entered the room. Olivia had come to work at Golden Years a few days ago, and Greta had liked her instantly. A major miracle, because Greta didn’t like most people, and with good reason.

  Olivia was a beautiful young woman—the kind people called willowy—with long blond hair, an easy smile, and wide green eyes. She almost always wore a dress, something the traditionalist in Greta liked, and only had a kind word for others. She entered the room and instantly seemed to make it . . . well, happier.

  A snowy-white bichon frise marched beside Olivia, wearing a red vest emblazoned with THERAPY DIVA in glittering rhinestones, and MISS SADIE scrawled beneath that in stitched white cursive letters. Olivia, an animal trainer or some such thing, and the . . . what was that term she used? It took Greta a second, a second she blamed on the bourbon, and then she remembered. Olivia was an anima
l-assisted therapist. She and Miss Sadie worked with the folks at Golden Years, encouraging those who were antisocial to open up and those who complained about physical therapy to smile, and in general, just brightened the place.

  Truth be told, Olivia’s enthusiasm reminded Greta of herself at that age. Back when Greta had seen everything in the world as half full. Now she watched the sand in her personal hourglass empty more each day. What she wouldn’t give to be in Olivia’s shoes, embarking on a new life, one where love and adventure lurked around every corner. Course, if it were Greta’s life, she’d be doing it without the silly diva dog. A girl traveled fastest alone—and in sensible shoes.

  “Oh, look, it’s Olivia!” Esther got to her feet and did a paradeworthy wave. “Toodles, Olivia!”

  Olivia and her little dog crossed to the quilting table, Olivia’s high heels clicking on the tile floor. Miss Sadie plopped to the floor, her tongue lolling. “Why, good morning, ladies. Are you quilting today?”

  “We would if we had some thread.” Esther pouted. “I know I put it on the table. Why, I had three whole spools with me and now they’ve disappeared.”

  “Isn’t that the strangest thing? Your thread is always disappearing on quilting day.” Olivia shot a glance in Greta’s direction. “Greta, have you seen Esther’s thread?”

  “Why, no. Not at all,” Greta said.

  “Maybe it rolled off the table,” Olivia said. “Did you check the floor? I think it might be under a chair or something.”

  Esther bent down again, fussing around beneath the table. Greta nudged her purse farther under her seat and dodged Olivia’s knowing glance. “I don’t see it,” Esther said.

  “What a shame. Since it interrupts your quilting time and all, and I know how much you all look forward to that.” Olivia grinned and winked at Greta.

  “Yup. Damn shame,” Greta said. Esther hushed her.

  “How’s the new job going?” Pauline asked.

  “Good, but challenging.” Olivia’s gaze went over her shoulder to the people assembled for her morning group. Most sat, eager for Miss Sadie to come over and interact with them. The dog’s appearance had become a fun ritual for pretty much everyone at Golden Years. Only one woman sat to the side, slumped in her chair, staring out the window. “What do you guys know about Millicent Pierce?”

  Esther’s face turned down, and she tried not to stare at Millie, whose loneliness and despair carried through the room like cheap perfume. “Poor Millie. Lost her husband, then she got that cancer diagnosis. She’s lived here three months and I don’t think she’s said more than two words in all that time.”

  Pauline nodded. “Her and her husband used to do everything together. Poor thing, I think she just misses him something fierce.”

  Olivia sighed. “Well, Miss Sadie and I aren’t going to give up easily, are we?” The little dog swished her tail in response.

  “Any big plans for the weekend, Olivia?” Pauline asked. “There’s a barbecue here at the center if you want to come.”

  Olivia smiled. It was the kind of smile that warmed even Greta’s heart—wide, welcoming, genuine. “I’ll try, but I’ve got a lot on my to-do list for the weekend. I moved into a house that requires a lot of work. It pretty much defines fixer-upper.”

  “Bless your heart,” Esther said. “It’s always so encouraging to see young people take on challenges.”

  “This house is that and more,” Olivia said. “The woman who owned it before me didn’t exactly take care of the place.” She toed at the floor, an uncharacteristically shy move. “Maybe you ladies knew her? Bridget Tuttle?”

  Pauline’s brows knitted together. “Wait, isn’t that the one who was always rescuing dogs? I don’t think we knew her, personally. One of those keep-to-herself types.”

  Esther nodded agreement. “She loved those dogs, though. She was always putting up signs, trying to get them adopted. Why I almost took in a poodle myself, but poor Gerald was allergic.”

  “Bridget was so colorful, wasn’t she? Who could miss her? With those bright orange skirts she wore and that terrible yellow hat.” Pauline shook her head. “Wasn’t much for fashion sense.”

  Greta saw Olivia bite her lip, then work a trembling smile to her face. Poor thing probably didn’t like to hear such negative-Nellie comments about the previous owner.

  “I know the house. It’s next door to my grandson’s little place.” Greta leaned forward to change the subject. Goodness, why were they talking about dead people? Seems all the people around her ever did was talk about death, like it was another resident. “Have you met my grandson? He’s available.” Ever since Olivia had mentioned she was divorced, the quilting ladies had been conspiring to fix her up.

  “Oh, I met him,” Olivia said. “And it . . . well, let’s just say it wasn’t exactly a Welcome Wagon moment.”

  Greta waved that off. “Luke’s been going through a hard time. He’s not himself lately.”

  “Me either. Anyway, the last thing I have time for is a man.” She brightened and let out a laugh. “Unless he’s a handyman and willing to work for peanuts. Then you’re free to give him my number.”

  “There’s always time for love.” Esther pressed a hand to her heart and sighed. “I just love a good romance.”

  “Don’t we all,” Olivia said, but her voice was quiet, soft.

  Greta shot a glance at the young woman. Sounded like she was a little down on love, something Greta couldn’t understand. Olivia had every quality any man in his right mind would look for—what fool had let her go?

  They’d known the animal therapist for only a few days and hadn’t had many personal conversations, which most days, suited Greta just fine. She was very much a live-and-let-live person—or drink-and-let-drink, in the case of the bourbon breakfast.

  But something about the way Olivia had reacted to the information about Bridget Tuttle had intrigued Greta. She wanted to press the issue but decided first to do a little snooping and see what she could find out about the house, the Tuttle woman, and Olivia.

  Olivia shifted to pet the dog, and Greta noticed the porcelain butterfly necklace that often hung from her neck. It looked old, the kind of thing someone handed down, and Greta would bet her grandmother’s silver tea set there was a story behind that butterfly. It triggered a memory in Greta, but either the bourbon or her age whisked the memory away before it could manifest fully.

  “Oh, I almost lost track of time. I have a therapy appointment to get to in a few minutes.” Olivia gave the bichon’s leash a tug. “Time for me and Miss Sadie to get to work. I’ll see you later.” Olivia leaned down to Greta’s ear. “Oh, and Greta, I’ll be sure to stop at the Java Hut before I come in tomorrow and bring you one of those giant chocolate chip cookies. If you don’t tell Doc Harper, I won’t.”

  Greta crossed her heart. “What he doesn’t know can’t hurt me.”

  Olivia laughed, then turned back to the group of seniors sitting by the television. The little bichon trotted over to each one and gave them a friendly greeting with her pert black nose. Millie ignored the dog and barely even looked up when Olivia greeted her. The others got involved in a game of hiding the treat for Miss Sadie—six pairs of hands outstretched, but only one held a little snack. Laughter and smiles came from that corner of the room, from all but poor Millie.

  Greta wondered about Olivia a little while longer, then took a sip of her Maker’s Mark and got back to the subject at hand. Pauline’s newest crazy idea.

  She started to push the letters back toward Pauline. The woman was messier than a pig in a cheese factory. Then a pale-pink sheet of paper on the bottom of the pile caught her eye, and she snatched that letter back. She fished out her reading glasses from her purse and then shut the clasp again real fast—before Esther’s thread spools could fall out. One quick hand swipe when Esther wasn’t looking, and the world was safe from her needle. Greta was in no mood for quilting today, and especially not now, when they had bigger fish to fry.

  “Dea
r Common Sense Carla,” Greta read, “I’ve recently moved to town to make a new start in life. I’ve changed my career, changed my address, and changed my attitude, but I have yet to find true love.” She skimmed to the end. “Do you have any advice on how I can find Mr. Right? Signed, Forlorn in Florida.”

  “That one sounds like all the others,” Pauline said. “I want a challenge for my first letter. Give me a good love triangle or a secret baby mix-up.”

  “Lord almighty, Pauline, you have got to stop watching reruns of Days of Our Lives.” Greta fingered the letter, then cast a glance at Olivia, who was chatting with the group across the way, her pretty face bright and animated. “Hmm. New in town. Changed career. Looking for love. Who does that sound like?”

  “I swear, it’s like somebody absconded with every spool of thread in the building.” Esther threw up her hands. “How are we ever supposed to get any quilting done?”

  “That sounds like someone who’s lonely,” Pauline said, then grabbed a pad of paper and pen. She clicked the pen and hovered over the lined sheets. “I know. I’ll advise that she join a quilting club and make some friends.”

  “Why don’t you just make her a sign that says ‘Lonely Old Maid’ and mail it to her?” Greta leaned across the table. “If you’re going to do this column, you need to do it right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The idea spun and shaped itself in Greta’s mind. Brilliant. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? “To do this right, you need a team for this, Pauline,” Greta said. “A team of people who have wisdom. Experience. Heart.”

  “Where would I find that?”

  “Right here, of course. What else do we have to do with our day?”

  “We could quilt,” Esther said, then let out a gust of frustration. “If we had some thread.”

  Greta nudged her purse farther under her chair. Across the room, Olivia caught the movement. She shook her head and mouthed a tsk-tsk.