by Carolyn Zane
This friendly, slow-lane lifestyle was new to Justin. Last summer, he’d transplanted from the East Coast to escape the rat race and a failed relationship and also because he needed to be closer to his grandparents. They still lived by themselves but were now in their eighties and beginning to have some health problems. Since he was the only one in the family who wasn’t saddled with a spouse and kids, Justin had been elected to head out to the Midwest to help them and to keep an eye on things.
For the most part, small-town, middle-American life really agreed with Justin, except that he missed his friends and family. Although he had to admit, venturing out on his own for dinner last night had been a step in the right direction. The place he’d selected? Normally, he avoided the bar-and-grill scene in favor of a drive-thru window. And dancing had certainly been the last thing he’d expected to be doing. But the smell of charbroiled burgers wafting from Low Places had been more than his rumbling gut could ignore as he’d driven home late last night, so he’d given in to his hunger pangs and pulled into the crowded parking lot.
Loud country western music greeted him before he even got out of his rig, and he’d followed the thrumming bass through the front door. When he’d entered the room, a tall, curly-headed blond was jumping to the beat and was obviously the life of a bachelorette party. Even from across the room, he could see she was different. A real spitfire, yes, but there was something else. Something unpretentious and oh-so-joyful. As he’d laughed out loud at her antics, he decided that he had to ask her to dance before the night was over.
Her huge green eyes seemed to miss nothing, and she had a single, deep dimple in one cheek that only appeared when she laughed. Her hair was wonderful—wild, shoulder-length blond stuff done up in a big old mess of curls that was losing its gravitational hold with every jerky dance step. Like a compass needle to due north, her carefree abandon had drawn the attention of every guy in the place. He’d zeroed in on her, a decision that had given him second thoughts in the middle of the night. A pang of guilt had him regretting his promise to meet her next Friday night. Just because he’d lived here for a year and hadn’t met some nice girl who shared his beliefs didn’t mean he had to start looking in bars.
He shook his head. Focus on business, Girard.
The pungent smell of hair chemicals assailed him as he stepped into the upscale hair salon.
“I help you?” A petite Asian lady sat painting the toenails of a kid who he assumed was her daughter. They were both pretty as porcelain dolls.
The nail lady eyed him with suspicion. Must not get a lot of guys in tool belts looking for hairdos and nail jobs. “Uh. Yeah.” Justin fumbled in his shirt pocket for her info. “I’m supposed to talk to somebody named . . . uh, Abigail Durham. She around?”
“Abby? No. You just miss her. She go home for little bit. Maybe one hour. I give message for you or you come back later.”
Coming back held no appeal. “Yeah. Okay. Tell her Justin Girard stopped by?” He dug around in his shirt pocket some more and produced a business card. “I’m donating the labor for the Quilt Fair food cart? I hear—since Jen Strohacker is having a baby any day now—Ms. Durham is taking over her job for the high school booster club.”
“Yeah, yeah. Abby doing that. She used to be Rawston Rah-Rah so she think she qualify for running little restaurant.” The nail lady seemed to find that hilarious. “This long message. You want to wait and tell her? Sit there.” She waved at a comfortable grouping of chairs in the corner. “Sit, sit, sit! She be here later to work.”
“Oh, no. I just wanted to tell her that I ran into a bit of a permit problem, and we need to talk before I put on the awnings. City ordinance won’t allow us to build it the way it’s designed without more fees. It’s going to be expensive, so we need to discuss options. Have her call that number when she gets a chance, okay?”
“It’s 8:10 here at K-RAW 101.5 FM. Hey, Julie, don’t know about you, but I’m already sweating. Feels like you could just grab the air and wring it out, huh?”
“Yeah, Mike, you know I’ve been thinking about starting a new fad and making all my clothes out of beach towels. Attractive, yet functional.”
“Hey, that’d be cool! Make me something fetching?”
“Aaanyway! We’ve got a set of concert tickets for the fifth caller in our Name That Hair Band contest sponsored by Doo Drop-In Hair Salon! So let’s wake these sleepyheads up with some rock and roll! Who’s performing this oldie but goodie?”
A refreshing shower, some fruit, oatmeal, and a huge cup of coffee later, Abigail felt as if she’d rally. She lingered another moment on her back balcony lounge chair, knowing that in a few minutes she’d be inside for the rest of the day. It would be too hot to do otherwise. Feet propped on the deck’s railing, she jotted down a quick grocery list as she watched a small cloud, like a puff of meringue, float across the crystal clear sky. Ron Donovan predicted a T-boomer, huh? Wouldn’t be his first misdiagnosis. Wouldn’t be his last. Seemed like he’d been wrong every day this week. Even so, she added batteries to her list. Her flashlight was dead.
Man. It was gonna be a hot one. Tiny beads of sweat were already collecting on her upper lip. She’d changed out of her sweats and mismatched shoes and into a bright, flowery mini-skirt, a periwinkle blue tank top and flip-flops. Wielding the blow dryer in this heat would no doubt make even this skimpy ensemble too much by midday. A quick glance at her watch told her Aunt Selma was due any minute now. She was notoriously early for everything.
Standing, she stretched and then paused, straining to listen to a low rumble in the distance. What was that? Leaning over the railing, she glanced up and down the street, looking for the semi-truck that sounded as if it was rumbling by. But there was none. She eyed the lone cloud with skepticism. Wasn’t thunder, that was for sure. Must be traffic from the next street over.
Skipping downstairs to her salon, Abigail headed to her whitewashed, antique lobby desk. A quick scan of the appointment book told her she had five haircuts, a perm, a complex color job, and two prom up-dos. Busy day. She dropped the pencil on her blotter and stepped back to survey the newly decorated room. The cream n’ java paint she’d chosen for the lobby walls last month looked perfect. Chic. Especially with the brown and blue curtains she’d made herself. She’d splurged on a fabulous blue vase for the coffee table and kept it filled with fragrant white roses. A special shelf held her North American Hair Stylist of the Year award and other trophies, certificates, and honors. Abigail was good at her craft. And people knew it.
It had taken her three years to achieve this magazine-cover perfection for her shop. Three years of garage-saleing and sanding and scraping and painting and arranging everything just so. But it had been worth it. Between her creativity with the shears and the beautiful salon, she was attracting new business in droves. Luckily, she was able to add two part-time stylists and a manicurist last year to deal with the overflow. She was even thinking about renting the spare room to a masseuse.
Then again, though Abigail loved her salon—and Rawston— an offer hovered over her, never far from her thoughts. Abigail had received a call from an exclusive salon in Los Angeles, one that catered to a number of celebrities. The money would be great. And it would be nice to finally bust out of small-town USA with the small-town busybody mindset. But she’d miss her aunt. And her friends. And her clientele. Some more mulling would have to happen before she made a decision that drastic.
Just outside her plate glass window, Selma Louise Tully’s 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, driven by Selma herself, jumped the curb for a moment before settling back into the parking spot in front of Abigail’s salon. The car was an ungainly machine that seemed to drive Selma, rather than vice versa, and had more than one dent to make that case. Riding so low in her seat that she had to peer through the spokes of the steering wheel, Selma regularly drew goggling stares from folks who thought the car careened down the road without a driver.
Selma was as saucy as a plate of spaghetti a
nd never failed to infect everyone she met with her unbridled enthusiasm for life. Though she was eighty-seven, she was still glass-shard sharp, and her dry sense of humor and boundless energy made her seem decades younger. She’d just renewed her driver’s license for another five years and ran the quilt shop two doors down—Quilty Pleasures, one of the most famous quilt shops, among the quilting set at any rate—in America. She wore her white hair in a close-cropped cap, and her clothing was usually gaudy enough to glow in the dark. She claimed it kept folks from stepping on her.
A blast of hot air charged into the room along with Selma. “Hi, honey. I’m early. Came straight here from home. Wanted to give you some extra time to turn me into a bombshell for the Quilt Fair. I have to look good for my adoring fans.” She grabbed Abigail into a crushing embrace and standing on tiptoe, noisily kissed her cheek. “Hey, Zuzu,” she called and climbed into Abigail’s hair chair.
“Hi, Auntie Selma,” Isuzu called back as she guided Brooke to the blue light machine to cure her nails. “You getting ready for quilt people to come mob you?”
“You know, I’ve been doing this thing for years, and I still get butterflies.”
“That’s because every year fair get bigger.”
Isuzu was right. Selma’s darling shop was a seriously big deal in Rawston and not simply because of her huge selection of vintage fabrics and notions. Nor was it a destination point because of the treasure trove of beautifully crafted quilts that hung from every wall and the high rough-hewn ceiling rafters. Though those things were true, the real reason for the shop’s notoriety was the annual Quilt-o-Rama Selma founded seventeen years ago. What had started as a little quilt show was now an event that literally took over the streets of Rawston as quilters from all over the nation flocked to partake of the festivities. Quilts dangled off railings, gutters, rooftops and any other thing that sat still long enough to act as a display stand. The carnival atmosphere consisted of a nationally renowned quilt contest, sack races, pie-eating contest, Mrs. Grandmother America pageant, quilting bees, and more.
Abigail was rummaging in her closet for a cape for Selma when Isuzu shouted, “Oh, Abby you have message from handsome guy who come in for you.”
“Seriously?” For a second Abigail thought it might be the guy from last night, until she remembered they hadn’t exchanged names. “What’d he want?”
“He leave his card. Call him. City won’t allow you to build booster food cart. You fix. Very expensive problem.”
“What?” Abigail moved to the door and stared at her, completely flummoxed. “You have got to be kidding me! The Rawston Taste is in two weeks! And we don’t have our new food cart? For the love of—” Spinning around, she gave Aunt Selma’s cape an agitated snap before she fastened it around the old woman’s neck. As if she didn’t have enough to do already for this Quilt-o-Rama booster club deal. Now she had to fix the food cart?
“Try not to let the stress get to you,” Selma clucked sympathetically. “You just do what you can do, and then let the rest go. It seems like every year there’s a crisis. Which reminds me, you know each year I host the team speed-quilting contest?”
Zuzu’s niece, Brooke, laughed from across the room. “That just sounds hilarious.”
“Oh no, missy. This is serious stuff. Even an Olympian such as yourself hasn’t seen competition until you’ve witnessed a dozen teams of quilters come in from all over the United States and start quilting Saturday morning and not stop until Sunday night. The prize is six thousand dollars for the charity of your team’s choice. The quilts are all auctioned off for that charity, too.”
“Whoa.” Brooke was impressed.
“Yeah, whoa. Well, anyhow, The Rawston Raw-Edges have not won in six years, and we’re tired of eating crow. We’ve all been trying to come up with a great theme, but so far,” Selma stuck out her tongue and blew, “Ppfft. Nada. Zippo. Thelma Edwards suggested a garden patch theme with flowers. Mae Dewsbury suggested berries or grapes. I’m thinking those are just . . . oh, what’s the word?”
“Mind-numbingly dull?” Abigail yanked her shear drawer open and stared inside. What was she looking for again? Ooo, this food cart thing honked her off.
“Okay. I might not put it that way, but sure. Anyway, I don’t know what is wrong with me, but this year I just can’t seem to think of a winning theme. Nothing seems to . . . to . . . to just jump out at me, you know?”
“That’s cool.” Abigail was only half listening as she was still fuming about the guy who’d just dumped the food cart problem in her lap. Thank heavens Jen Strohacker was coming in at ten. Maybe she could help her untangle some of this mess.
“I know God will eventually show me the perfect idea, because I’ve been praying over it for some time now,” Selma said. “I’m sure that I’ll know it when I hear it.”
Abigail closed her eyes so Selma wouldn’t see her rolling them. Like anyone—let alone God—cared about cool ideas for quilts. All her life, Abigail had listened to Selma natter on about the tedious subject of quilting. All those little pieces of material, making all those little designs and filling them with all those little stitches . . . Just thinking about it had her falling into a coma on her feet. Because, come on. Who cared? A quilt was a quilt was a quilt. Booooring.
“Quilting isn’t just sticking pieces of material together,” Selma liked to say, “it’s about putting the pieces together.” Abigail wanted to ask, “Putting the pieces together? Sticking the pieces together? What did that even mean? And why should I care?” But she didn’t because she loved her quirky aunt, and so she tried to listen and feign interest.
The bell over the door jangled. Isuzu’s sister-in-law was here to pick up Brooke.
“Hey, Mieko.” Abigail put on her professional façade of tranquility, though on the inside she still fretted. “You guys have something going on today?”
“I’ve gotta get the kids up to the Southshire ice rink for a training session with their coach,” Mieko said.
“On Saturday?”
“Every day.” Mieko sighed. “Monday through Friday the kids practice from three to seven, then we have to drive back in time for school. It’s a hassle.”
“Wait, you’re talking three a.m.?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow! And you and your husband still have to work all day at the restaurant?” Abigail occasionally ran over to the Sakura Garden for sushi. As far as she knew, aside from Isuzu pulling some evening shifts in the kitchen, Mieko and her husband were the only people who worked there. “When do you guys sleep?”
“Sleep?” Mieko laughed. “What’s that? The kids sleep in the car to and from, and I doze while they practice. It all works out. And, in the end, God willing, it will be worth it. Come on, Brooke. Tyler’s waiting in the car and he’s hungry. Let’s go!”
Abigail looked back and forth between mother and daughter. “Are we still on to put your hair up this afternoon for prom?” she asked Brooke.
“Oh, yeah!” Brooke was wriggling like a puppy.
Mieko’s smile was exhausted. “Four-thirty. Okay. Zuzu! You coming to help roll sushi tonight?” Isuzu answered in Japanese, but because her head was bobbing, Abigail figured that’s where she’d no doubt go after closing.
“And I thought I had a busy schedule,” Abigail deadpanned as she began wetting down Selma’s still thick, snow-white hair.
Selma tsked. “They are too busy. Everyone is these days. Busy, busy, busy. No time to sit back and enjoy the splendor of God’s creation. The devil must get a real charge out of all this stuff we think we need to do.”
“You preach, sister!” Isuzu shouted from her station.
“Who needs it? I’m telling you, Zuzu, I miss the good old days. The days where people turned off the boob-tube and went outside and visited with their neighbor—”
Abigail tuned the sermon out. Nobody ever said anything about her having to help build the stupid food cart. That was his job. For pity’s sake. She was a volunteer. She had already put
dozens of hours in on this project, and all she ever got was complaints. Well, this was the last time she was ever gonna step up to the plate. Let some other poor slob take the heat. Just as soon as Selma was out of here, she was going to call this goon and give him a piece of her mind.
2
8:30 a.m.
“Mike! We’ve got Elsa Lopez on the line! She says she knows who performed that last Hair Band number from 1988! Come on, Elsa! Tell us who it is!”
“Guns N’ Roses?”
Horns blared and Mike and Julie shouted in jubilation. “That’s right, Elsa! Who are you going to take to the concert with you?”
“My mom.”
“Your mom must be awesome!” Julie shouted. Elsa’s giggles and heavy breathing cracked over the phone line. “How old are you, Elsa?”
“Sixteen.”
“You weren’t even born when Guns N’ Roses performed that hit! Congratulations, Elsa and Elsa’s mom! What are your plans for the day, kiddo?”
“I’m going to prom.” More giggling.
“Prom! That’s right. Tonight is the big night out at Rawston High, huh? Have fun, Elsa! And, don’t forget to keep an eye out for some rocky weather this evening. Bring an umbrella, because you won’t want to get that prom dress wet, okay?”
“Okay.” More giggling.
Twenty-year-old Heather Lathrop was sitting in the kitchen of her single-wide mobile home, feeding her toddler son, when her husband staggered into the room and yanked the cord to the radio out of the wall. Without glancing at them, Bob Ray plugged in the blender and began to assemble the ingredients he needed to whirl up a batch of his special protein drink. He spent hundreds of dollars on that stuff and the majority of his time in the gym, sculpting his beautiful body. Heather eyed his bulging muscles with distaste.