I felt him chuckle. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Before I could say boo, he kissed me. Gently, but firmly.
The earth didn’t move, but, shoot fire, it was a close thing. Now I knew what I’d be missing when I went back to Houston.
When he pulled back, the music had stopped. Mrs. Gilroy cackled.
Eric just smiled and zoomed in for another quick kiss. “I’ll see you.”
• • •
I BROKE THE NEWS TO SHERRY THAT ERIC DIDN’T need me to stay in town.
“So you’re leaving tomorrow?”
“I think I will. I’m sorry, Sherry, but I do need to get back, before Barbra replaces me at the gallery.”
“You aren’t replaceable, child, but I understand.” She squeezed my hand. “You stayed much longer than you intended.”
Her bangs swooped over her bad eye. The gauze covered the cut and bump on her right temple. “Will you be okay while the others go to their volunteer jobs? I heard Dab say something about projects that are being judged tomorrow.”
“Semester projects. I thought I’d go with them. After all, we don’t do these volunteer jobs for our health. We want to pass along skills to young people. Who knows? They may be the ones carrying on the folk art festival in years to come.”
“Then I hope they’ve learned well.”
Word spread to the housemates, and it was more difficult than I thought to know I’d be leaving them. I’d revered Sherry as my aunt before this trip, but now I loved her. I’d come to love the housemates, too.
With promises that I wouldn’t leave until after breakfast in the morning, we turned in. Even though I’d bought some clothes, they didn’t take long to pack. Neither did my toiletries. I held out the gifts I’d bought at the folk art festival, though. Smelling Aster’s soaps and lotions. Tracing the delicate dips and swells of Eleanor’s lily napkin rings. Then I picked up the crocheted basket Sherry had given me tonight, one different from her usual type.
This one was made of stiffened white cotton twine, no bigger around at the bottom than the palm of my hand. She’d braided blue gingham ribbon in a small check with soft cotton twine for the handle. A ring basket, she called it. To hold jewelry. And perhaps, she’d added, to let my ring bearer carry if I got married.
I didn’t know when she’d made this. I didn’t know how she’d made it given her impaired vision. I knew I’d treasure it and that it was time to have her teach me her skills before she was gone.
I dreamed that night of the Silver Six, Mrs. Gilroy, even Sissy, and when I shot off the couch at seven, I had a plan.
I didn’t say a word about it. I needed to turn it over in my head. Go to the town square with a critical eye. Consider if the idea was worth pursuing. And I needed to be real with myself about my art gallery ambitions, modest as they were. Was I prepared to give them up to go in a new direction?
I loaded the car, ate and did KP with the seniors, then bid them a tearful good-bye. My tears as much as Sherry’s and everyone else’s. I thought even Fred got a little misty.
Car loaded. Check. Directions home. Check. Sunglasses. On.
Special list I’d lifted from Sherry’s desk. In my bag.
I was ready.
Because the tech school campus was more or less on my way out of town, and because Dab and Eleanor followed me, I had to drive past the downtown area, wait until they turned off, and double back.
I pulled into the diagonal slot in front of the antiques store, shut off the engine, and stared at the building. I pictured the retail space in my mind. Would it work? We’d need shelves and display cases. Did the glass-front counter stay with the building? I jotted a note to myself. I knew the back space would be perfect with only a little cleaning, some minor rearranging perhaps, and some seating.
I’d want to paint the entire store. The apartment, too, just to freshen it.
By ten o’clock when Vonnie opened, I had a long list of notes and questions. I wouldn’t have all of them answered today, but I’d make a start. The idea carried risks. Every new venture did. However, if I pulled this off—correction, if the Silver Six and I pulled this off—I’d be able to stay close to them all and still do what I loved.
A while later, I waved good-bye to Vonnie, then paused outside to gaze up at the building. I could’ve sworn I saw Sissy in the apartment window for an instant, but it had to be my imagination. I’d been immersed in visualizing how well the building would work with my minor tweaks.
At ten thirty, I went to the courthouse to find Patricia Ledbetter. She helped me pore over records, gave me the scoop on property tax issues, and told me she’d love to bring Davy in if I got the plan to work. She also gave me another idea for growing the business.
I went by the Lilies Café, idly wondering if Trudy had left yet. I less-idly wondered how Lorna’s husband was doing, and it was odd to know I cared about people here beyond my aunt and the seniors.
Including Detective Shoar.
Next I stopped at Gaskin’s to pick up the photocopies, met Carter and Kay Gaskin, and looked at their Arkansas-themed gift items. Which were fine for what they were, but we’d be offering different products entirely and wouldn’t be stepping on their retail toes. Or anyone else’s that I knew of. Good deal.
Last, since the day was perfectly warm, I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon camped out in the small gazebo on the courthouse grounds making phone calls to the people on Sherry’s list. The response wasn’t universally positive, but most were guardedly enthused by my ideas.
The seniors were due home from the vo-tech college about two thirty, and I wanted to be waiting on the front porch when they arrived. I gathered Sherry’s list, my notes, and my phone, and stuffed them in my bag. Then I drove back to the farmhouse, rehearsing my presentation.
• • •
THE SILVER SIX SWARMED THE PORCH WHEN THEY saw my car parked in the front yard. I assured them all was well, then sat them down right there in the wicker and willow chairs and on the porch swing to hear me out. As I outlined my idea to open a folk art gallery in the soon-to-be-vacant store space, six pairs of eyes rounded.
My plan was for Sherry and her friends to sell folk art year-round, even teach classes to pass along their craftsmanship, and invite guest artists to teach, too. The back room would be dedicated to Fred for his fix-it business, and for classes. I wasn’t so sure about having Dab distill herbs in the workroom, but he claimed to prefer taking over Fred’s sheds.
I’d manage the gallery, and I told Sherry I’d pay rent to live in the upstairs apartment. She nixed that, saying we’d dip into Sissy’s trust for the renovations and my rent. Since this wasn’t the time to argue finances, we settled on me paying the apartment’s utility bills. I’d bring up the rent issue again later when we got the venture off the ground.
“A folk art gallery,” Sherry said again. “I just can’t get over it. Are you certain you want to give up your paying job at that ritzy Houston gallery for an uncertain income here? I’ll be unhappy if you move to Lilyvale just for me.”
“I’m anxious about this,” I admitted, “but I’m excited. And if I didn’t want to do it, I’d be back in Houston by now. Besides, I want to be close to you. To all of you.”
Sherry beamed through her tears, and I knew in my bones this was right. I wouldn’t have thought it a week ago, but I was ready for a new home, a new job, and, okay, potentially even a man in my life.
As the seniors chattered and planned, I noticed Eric’s truck drive by. He wheeled into the drive, parked, and hurried to the porch.
“Is there a problem? Did your car break down?”
“Everything is wonderful,” Sherry gushed, a sly yet joyful sparkle in her eyes. “Nixy is moving to Lilyvale. We’re opening a folk art gallery. Isn’t it wonderful?”
“What a creative idea,” he said with a slow smile.
/> His deep, dreamy drawl sounded bland, but his brown eyes blazed with warmth when his gaze held mine.
I could hardly wait to call Lilyvale home.
Crafting Tip
From Marsha Knox of Earth Baskets St. Augustine, Florida
IF YOU ARE NOT A FIBER ARTIST (WEAVER, KNITTER, crochet, or needlepoint artist, etc.), you probably never realized how hard these materials can be on a body’s hands. To be specific, working with fibers and various kinds of wood such as those used in basket weaving can be extremely drying. Most materials will suck the moisture and oils right out of your skin.
One remedy is to use 100 percent lanolin. In its purest form, it is a very sticky paste. It seals in moisture beautifully, but leaves marks on your work. Solve that challenge by wearing cotton gloves when you craft. They are available at craft and hobby stores, as well as online. (BTW, you can also use lanolin on your hands—and feet!—at bedtime. After applying, don gloves and socks.)
Lanolin comes from the wool of sheep. Although you didn’t need a prescription, in days gone by, you’d ask the pharmacist to scoop some up for you. Most chain pharmacies no longer carry lanolin, but an old-fashioned, nonchain pharmacy may carry it. Lanolin can also be found in most stores with breastfeeding supplies or ordered online. The lanolin helps prevent tender mom parts from becoming dry and cracked, and it works! However you buy your lanolin, you will need very little, as it lasts forever!
Remember, the 100 percent natural lanolin will save your hands from dryness, and cotton gloves will save your projects from being marred. Happy crafting!
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Recipes
MAISE’S FRIED OKRA (In Her Words)
1 pound fresh okra, or however much you want to cook (I find smaller pods of okra to cook up more tender. Go for the 3-to-4-inchers.)
Crisco All-Vegetable Shortening—in the can
flour
cornmeal
salt
pepper
Rinse the whole okra, drain, then cut off the ends—unless you like them. I don’t. Then slice the okra into smallish chunks, about 1/2 to 1 inch. Okra should be slimy when cut, and that’s good. The more slime, the better the okra will coat in the flour and cornmeal mixture.
Now, depending on how much okra you’re cooking, mix flour and cornmeal in a large bowl. I start with a cup of each, but add more if you’re making more okra. I make a mess of it at once, but in batches. Add salt and pepper, and mix those dry ingredients well. A whisk works, but so does a fork.
That large bowl is important because you’ll need room to add the okra and stir and fold those chunks over until they’re thoroughly coated. Elsewise you’ll have a big mess of flour and such spilling out of the bowl.
Some use eggs, milk, or buttermilk in their fried okra batter. I don’t.
Dump your cut-up okra into the flour and cornmeal mixture. Stir and fold those pieces so they get good and coated.
Put a big pot on the stove—a deep one to keep the popping grease to a minimum. I use an old cast-iron pot, but use what you have.
Drop a few tablespoons of Crisco in the pot—about 1/4 to 1/2 cup depending on your pot size. I like the solid Crisco in the can, but I suppose you can use the liquid. None of that olive oil or coconut oil for me. The okra just won’t taste the same. And you be sure to get that Crisco real hot before you add the battered okra.
Spoon the battered okra into the hot oil and let it fry up golden brown—or darker if you want. Fred likes his on the burned side. When one side of the okra has begun to brown, turn it and gently stir as needed as you continue frying.
With a metal slotted spoon or spatula, take the cooked okra out of the pot and drain it on two or three layers of paper towels. Add the rest of the okra in batches until it’s all cooked. Be sure to change the greasy paper towels for fresh ones as you drain your batches.
Now, I drain my okra on those layers of paper towels, but I also pat the top of each batch with paper towels. Fried okra can be good cold, but not if it’s holding grease. I pat the top of pizza with paper towels, too. I may not cook frou-frou healthy, but I know to blot.
SHERRY’S CHICKEN AND ARTICHOKE CASSEROLE
SERVES 10–12
6 or 7 half chicken breasts, cooked, deboned (and cut when cool)
3 14-ounce cans water-packed artichokes
4 teaspoons olive oil
3 cloves garlic, pressed
MIX TOGETHER:
2 cans cream of chicken soup
1 cup mayonnaise
1 teaspoon lemon juice
1/4 teaspoon curry
Set aside 1 1/2 cups grated cheddar cheese.
MIX TOGETHER:
2 cups Pepperidge Farm crumb dressing
4 tablespoons butter, melted
Drain artichokes, and slice into smaller pieces before or after you mix with oil and garlic.
In a casserole dish, layer artichokes and cut-up chicken. Spread mayonnaise mixture over top layer, then sprinkle cheese over mayonnaise mixture.
Before baking, sprinkle dressing mixture on top.
Bake at 325 degrees for 30 minutes.
Note from Sherry Mae: The casserole should be warmed through when the cheese is melted and the crumb topping is browned. I use a 9 x 12, 3-quart casserole or baking dish when I cook for all of us, but you can divide the recipe to bake in smaller dishes for fewer people.
This casserole freezes and reheats very well, though the crumb topping won’t be as crisp. A few minutes under a low broiler might brown and crisp the topping some, but be careful not to overcook.
Keep reading for a preview of Nancy Haddock’s next Silver Six Crafting Mystery . . .
GOODBYE, GOURDGEOUS
Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!
“NIXY! NIXY, CHILD, WE’RE WAITING FOR YOU.”
“On my way,” I yelled down the stairs.
“We” meant my aunt Sherry Mae Stanton Cutler and her five housemates, aka the Silver Six. They lived together in Sherry’s farmhouse and were closer than blood family. The Six were in their late sixties and early seventies, but they’d worked every bit as hard and long as I had, because they were every bit as invested in the success of our new folk art and crafts gallery.
Oops. Not a gallery. The Six thought “gallery” sounded too highfalutin, aka expensive. We’d settled on naming our enterprise the Handcraft Emporium.
I paused long enough to eye myself in the large oval mirror in the small entryway of my new over-the-emporium apartment. Yep, I’d applied mascara to both sets of lashes. That should’ve been a given, but I’d been known to miss a set. Especially since I’d gone makeup-free for the past month. No point in primping when my waking hours had been spent sanding, staining, and sealing nearly every surface of this old building. I’d even learned to wield a power sprayer to paint the twelve-foot walls, the ceilings, and the exposed ductwork. We’d installed three new fire-rated entry-exit doors and two roll-up service doors, and improved the kitchenette and bathroom in back of the store proper. We’d installed security cameras and alarms, too.
Now the place shone, and we were ready for our grand opening.
“Nixy! Doralee will be here any minute!”
“Coming!”
I clambered down the interior staircase that led to the back room of the emporium. The space now served as Fix-It Fred’s workshop, but we’d decided to use it as a classroom as needed. Like for this evening’s Gorgeous Gourds class.
Fred scowled at me. “You know you sounded like a thundering herd trompin’ down them stairs, don’t you, missy?”
“Thundering herd?” I echoed, grinning.
“You laugh, but steep as those steps are, you’re gonna fall and break a bone someday when nobody’s here to help you.”
“Point taken, Fred. I’ll slow down.”
“Nixy, child, ho
w do we look in our new polo shirts?”
I realized the Six were lined up, as if for inspection. We were each outfitted in a white shirt with “Handcraft Emporium” embroidered in forest green above the left breast. Sherry, Maise, Aster, and I wore blue jeans and tennis shoes, while Dapper Dab wore his shirt with polyester pants and loafers. Elegant Eleanor, as I liked to call her, had dressed up her shirt with blue linen slacks and low-heeled pumps.
“You look fantastic. Are you comfortable?”
“I am,” Dab said.
“I do believe the shirts turned out quite well,” Eleanor declared.
Aunt Sherry ran her hand over the short sleeves. “They’re wonderfully soft, too.”
“I’m so glad we went with the hemp fabric,” our throwback hippie and all-things-herbal expert Aster added. “Hemp is sustainable, you know.”
“We know,” former Navy nurse Maise grumbled, “You can’t bleach hemp in the regular way, though.”
“I don’t think we’ll get that dirty,” I soothed. “Does the shirt work for you, Fred?”
“I ain’t used to working with a collar around my neck, but it’s okay.”
I smiled. Fix-It Fred was a walking hardware store in bib overalls. Tonight’s dark denim pair partly covered the embroidery on the polo shirt, but he did look spiffy. The many tools he stuck into each of his dozen pockets stood soldier straight.
Maise clapped her hands. “Time’s ticking. Is everything shipshape for the class?”
I looked over the room setup. Two four-foot folding tables were in place for Doralee Gordon, the gourd class instructor. She’d face the wall that led into the store. Two similar tables held refreshments at the back of the room. Four eight-foot solid wood tables, which Fred used for workbenches, were positioned in a semicircle to give all the students a good view of Doralee. The arrangement accommodated sixteen students, four per table, a roll of paper towels at each place.
We’d scrounged a variety of barstools to use for classes, and duct taped white plastic dollar-store tablecloths over the workbenches to catch paint spills. They were pretty much beyond harm, but the tablecloths at least made them look clean.
Silver Six Crafting Mystery 01 - Basket Case Page 27