Bluegrass Hero

by Allie Pleiter

  “Fine,” he mouthed back, although nothing felt fine at all. Not a blessed thing.

  Chapter Six

  Stretching out on her couch after the show, Emily let Edith Piaf’s sweet, sharp tones pour French drama into the air. The woman had the kind of voice that dripped with passion for life and love. So French.

  Before Ash’s death, Emily had been given to daydreams of Paris. She’d talk to Ash about yearning to stroll the Parisian streets, see the Eiffel Tower and eat pastry until she popped, but there had never been enough time or money to even consider it. They always told each other they’d go “when he established himself.”

  And then he was gone. Now, even if she could find the time and funds, Emily didn’t think she could bear to go to Paris alone.

  Lemonade and bake sales in the high-school gym was a far cry from café and croissants on the French Riviera. But maybe someday she would find herself on a velvet divan tucked into the corner of a small Parisian flat. A charming little abode with a wrought-iron balcony and polished wooden floors that only barely muffle the sound of the starving musician who lives downstairs and plays classical piano till all hours of the night.

  Did she blame the bystander at Ash’s murder for the loss of that dream? A large part of her did. She never could get over the ache that he—whoever he was—could have done something to stop it. Emily blamed the man who killed Ash, surely. But he had been caught and was paying for his crime. There was some closure in knowing justice had been served there. But there had been no justice yet for the mysterious witness the police said had been at the scene. He’d just watched, according to Ash’s last words. To know your last moments on earth were spent watching someone ignore your pleas for help. How hideous.

  They’d never been able to find him. Never been able to discover if it was someone who knew Ash or the murderer, or just some man who could have been at the right place at the right time but chose instead to do nothing.

  She was still angry, four years later. She hadn’t really healed. Maybe giving that speech would help her along. It could cause one person to act differently if they found themselves in that kind of situation. Ash would have liked that. It would help his death to mean something. But a public speech? It would take a lot of strength. But then again, she was already stronger than she ever thought she could be. She started West of Paris with some of the life insurance money and a business loan, and she’d made it this far. She’d even made her January loan payment. January, the hardest retail month of all. Two weeks ago, it had loomed over her as an impossible feat. A near-constant entry in her prayer journal. And, praise God, her prayer had been answered. Granted, it had been answered in a strange way—scruffy thugs suddenly paying attention to personal hygiene—but it had been answered. Emily sent up a quick prayer that the lesson the guys had learned tonight was that a clean, nicely dressed man turned a woman’s head, not the scent of Lord Edmund’s Pirate Soap.

  And then there was Gil Sorrent. He almost never came into town—now he shows up with farmhands in tow at the community theatre musical? And why did she even care? He just happened to be in her field of vision, so that she could see him easily when she looked to stage right. She’d always liked that light-blue color, so it wasn’t that his shirt was particularly noteworthy or anything.

  As a matter of fact, Gil Sorrent was such a sourpuss, she’d been known to avoid him. She knew he was a man of faith, and she’d known plenty of lives turned around by God, but that still didn’t stop her from thinking he seemed far too severe for such a ministry. If they had fun on the farm, it never showed. On the rare times he did show up in town, he was always herding them this way and that, always watching them like a hawk, making sure they toed the line.

  You couldn’t argue with the man’s results, though. Every year Gil Sorrent managed a transformation that she’d have thought impossible. When she thought about it, Homestretch Farm was one of the strongest witnesses Emily knew to the power of Jesus Christ in a troubled life. Sandy put it best: “Men at Homestretch started out as hoodlums and ended up as heroes.”

  Othello began inching closer to the croissant she had on the coffee table. She waved the cat away. “Oh no you don’t, mister. That pastry’s all mine.” Dissuaded, Othello began swatting at the brochure that sat at the other end of the table, the one on ATM-unit designs. Howard had dropped it off at the shop in the afternoon, reluctantly muttering something about “valuing her input.” It sounded more like he’d tolerate her input under pressure, but Emily decided that worked just as well. Howard would still get his user fees, no matter what the dastardly little machines looked like, so he had little reason to grumble.

  Unless you counted the mandatory contribution to the Beautification Fund. That, Emily guessed, stuck in his craw more than anything else. Well, good. It was high time someone forced Howard to be a little less mayoral and a little more philanthropic. If Howard Epson became another of Gil Sorrent’s amazing transformations, she’d be fine with that. Maybe even Gil’d be fine with that.

  What Emily was sure Gil wouldn’t be fine with, however, was how many of his guys were bound to show up in West of Paris on Wednesday to buy more soap. Wednesday was their morning in town. Emily guessed that at the rate her nose told her they were using their current bars of soap, they’d be looking to restock if not to horde it. They’d garnered a fair amount of attention at the play—mostly just by showing up nicely dressed—but she doubted the guys saw it that way. Would more Pirate Soap make things better or worse? She had to find a way to keep her unlikely new customers and wise them up without giving Sorrent reason to stage a farm-wide boycott of her shop. But what?

  “I need a new plan,” she said as she snatched the last of the croissant out of Othello’s hungry gaze.

  Twenty minutes later, smack dab in the middle of Edith Piaf’s soaring finale to “La Vie En Rose,” it came to her.

  Emily wasn’t that surprised to see Gil Sorrent come in on the heels of his guys as the shop opened Wednesday morning. Even though it was often Ethan who supervised their in-town visits, Emily doubted the hands even sneezed without Gil’s permission this morning. He probably picked out their pastries from the bakery personally.

  When they shuffled into West of Paris, followed by a grumpy looking Sorrent, half of them were still licking icing off their fingers. She was ready. She had a stack of index cards in the left corner of the cash register, and a dozen new bars of Lord Edmund’s Pirate soap under the counter. The fact that the bars had numbers matching the index cards, well, that’d come to light soon enough.

  “Morning, ma’am,” said the big one. “I reckon you know why we’re here.”

  Over their heads, Gil Sorrent’s expression broadcast “So now what are you going to do?” He wore a brown leather coat that looked as if it belonged to a man who worked hard, jeans and a faded green sweater over a T-shirt. Comfortable, but not unkempt. He dangled an enormous set of keys from one hand while he held a big cup of coffee in the other.

  “Indeed I do,” Emily replied. “But I’m afraid things have changed a bit from our last transaction.”

  The one with dark hair pointed a finger at the group. “I told you she’d up the price.”

  Sorrent started to say something, but Emily held up one hand and smiled. “The price stays a fair four dollars.” She injected all the confidence she could muster into her voice, even though most of them seemed two feet taller than her. “But y’all still haven’t wised up, so your next sales are gonna have a few strings attached. Line up, please.”

  Sorrent’s eyes widened under the dark fringe of his hair. He stopped fidgeting with his key ring. The young men gaped at each other, then clumsily sorted themselves into a line. Emily pulled the first bar of soap from her box and held it up. All eyes followed. She pointed to the wrapper. “I’m guessing by now you noticed each of these bars includes a verse of scripture on the inside of the wrapper?”

  Sorrent’s face registered a curious sort of understanding, but the surprised f
aces of the hands told Emily they paid little attention to the wrapper in their rush to use the soap. “The verse that’s inside is also coded right here on the label.” She pointed to the number code the Edmundsons had shown her when she bought the soaps. She’d wondered why it was there, but now it seemed God had simply provided her with what she needed to pull this off. Emily caught Sorrent’s glance as she continued, “I wrote down the verse for each of the soaps on these cards. I’ll assign you each one bar of soap, and I’ll keep the card with its matching verse. Come back next Wednesday showing me you’ve memorized the verse on the wrapper, and I’ll sell you your bar.”

  Jaws dropped. Well, she’d fully expected that.

  It was another brilliant plan, if she said so herself. The boys got their soap, she got her money, God got a foothold into their troubled young souls and the world had another week to get over its misguided fascination with Lord Edmund’s Pirate Soap. It was an ideal compromise.

  Gil took a long sip of coffee. “Ms. Montague,” he said slowly, “that’s a fine, fine thing.” He turned to the men. “You were each going to get a memory verse in your Bible studies tomorrow, but it seems the Good Lord and Emily Montague just beat me to the punch. What do you know?”

  The hands erupted out of their neat line to express frustration in a variety of loud ways.

  “I need to change one thing, though,” Sorrent said, pushing through the group to set his coffee down on the counter.

  “You do?”

  “I’d like to assign the verses. I know these troublemakers, and I know what they ought to be learnin’. Would you agree to my looking over your assignments and making a few adjustments if need be?”

  Emily had to agree that his input—especially if it gained his approval—could only be an improvement on her plan for the guys. All scripture was useful, but applied scripture from a man who knew their strengths and weaknesses, well that would be a powerful thing, indeed. “I can’t see why not.”

  Gil ignored the groans that echoed out behind him and extended a hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Ms. Montague,” he said as he shook her hand. “I’ll come back at eleven-thirty after I’ve dropped this motley crew off for their haircuts.” He picked up his coffee and took a satisfied gulp.

  The haircuts were evidently news, for the chorus of groans rose still higher in volume. Gil turned to face them. “What are you all grousin’ about? You were the ones fussin’ with your hair all last week.”

  “I don’t want no buzz cut!” declared a tall youth with a head full of braided dark locks.

  “Nobody said nothin’ about no buzz cuts. You’ll all get what you want, provided it’s not spiked or purple. Now just give me a moment to square away things with Ms. Montague, will you?”

  He turned back to Emily. “I’ll come back without them in about an hour and we can match up guys with verses. Suit you?”

  “Fine, Mr. Sorrent. I’d welcome your input.”

  “More than Howard welcomes yours?” He managed something close to a smile, and she noticed the corners of his dark-brown eyes crinkled up.

  Emily laughed. “That wouldn’t be hard, I’m afraid.”

  “Howard’ll come round. And if he doesn’t, he’s still got to do it anyways, so it won’t matter. See you at eleven-thirty.”

  Emily stared after Sorrent as he left the shop. Had he just attempted humor? Nearly smiled? Here she was, expecting a battle, and she just received not only cooperation but a small dose of encouragement. Amazing.

  She shook her head and tucked the index cards away. Maybe there was more to Gil Sorrent than she first thought.

  Chapter Seven

  Twenty or so minutes later, a frazzled mother came into the shop with an infant boy and a toddler girl tucked into a double stroller. The infant was fast asleep. The girl had the red-eyed pout of someone who’d just finished crying long and hard. She glowered at Emily through wet lashes from over the top of a sippy cup held in bright red mittens. The woman didn’t look too far from a crying jag of her own. Her hair was starting to pull out of its haphazard ponytail and something had spilled down the side of her sweatshirt. It had obviously been a rough morning for this little trio.

  Emily reached into a basket below the counter and took out one of the little felt daisies she kept for just such occasions. She came around the counter and handed the toy flower to the toddler, who gave a shuddering sigh and pulled off her mittens to inspect it, dropping them distractedly to the ground. The mother gave an exhausted groan, as if she’d spent the entire morning picking up discarded mittens.

  Emily bent over and fetched the mittens for her. “Take a deep breath and enjoy the quiet,” she said, handing her the mittens. “Then you can tell me how I can help you.”

  The woman did as she was told, and for a moment she teetered on the edge of the crying spell hiding just behind her eyes. Then she took a second deep breath, and it pulled her back a bit from the verge of tears. Lavender does that, Emily thought, glad she had used that particular oil to scent the shop today. Calms the spirit.

  “I’m looking for the Peace Soap.” The mother shook out her shoulders to stand a little taller.

  “You must mean the Edmundson’s Fruit of the Spirit soaps?”

  “I guess.” She brushed at a spot on her sleeve as the little girl started singing to herself.

  “They come in a whole bunch of scents. Did you like the peace scent in particular?” Emily led the woman over toward the display.

  “I don’t know what it smells like, but if it smells like peace, I want it. I’m sure I can’t remember what peace smells like. I’m not sure I can remember what clean smells like.”

  Emily picked up the sample Peace Soap and handed it to the woman. “You might find several scents that appeal to you.”

  The mother held it to her nose and inhaled. Twice. “Oh, that’s nice. Yes, I like that one. I’ll take three.”

  “I’m partial to the Joy Soap myself.” Emily selected two additional peace bars, discreetly turning a few over to ensure the woman got three different verse labels. The Edmundsons had made sure that each type of soap came with five different verses. “Try this.” She held out a bar.

  “Ooo, that one smells good, too. But I’ll stick with the Peace Soaps. I need all the peace I can get.”

  “They’re a handful, aren’t they?” Emily offered, nodding toward the children.

  “Some days. You a mom?”

  “I…um…missed my chance,” Emily said awkwardly, “but every woman alive knows the power of a long hot bath with beautifully scented soaps.”

  “I’m lucky I get five minutes in the shower alone, so I’m ready to try anything. Hey, I’m calmer already and I haven’t even paid for it yet.”

  “I like to think of my shop as a calming place.” Emily began to ring up the woman’s purchases. “You know, the Middleburg Community Church has a weekly mothers’ group with free babysitting. I bet the company of other hardworking moms would do you a world of good. That comes to twelve seventy-two.”

  The woman handed over her credit card. When Emily handed her the bag, she dug through the tissue paper to pull out the soap and sniffed it again.

  “Lavender is very calming,” Emily explained as she wrote the phone number of the church and the name of the woman who ran the ministry on a card. She reached over and dropped the card in the bag. “Tell them Emily Montague sent you. Maybe we could do a spa night for the whole group, or just some of your friends.”

  “Maybe.”

  Emily pointed to the girl who had fallen asleep in the stroller with the felt daisy in her hand. The mom smiled and tucked a soft pink blanket around her. “See,” said Emily, “it’s better already. You’ll be fine.”

  “Maybe,” the woman repeated, sighing.

  “Lavender will only get you so far. Come to our church and find some real peace, won’t you?” The woman said she’d think about it, and headed out the door with lighter steps than when she’d walked in.

  No sooner
had the mother left than Gil Sorrent came back into the shop. He stood, finger pointing out the window. “I just…” He fumbled for the next words, wagging his pointing finger. “There was…I just saw a woman walking down the street sniffing your soap. She looked as if she was gonna inhale the thing.”

  “She was in here just now.”

  “That’s…that’s just weird. You know that, don’t you?”

  Emily bristled. So much for Gil Sorrent being friendly. “Nobody’s going to die from enjoying the scent of a bar of soap, Mr. Sorrent. That woman has every right to spend her money how she chooses, and I actually may have gotten her interested in our church’s moms’ group during the sale, if you must know.” Emily couldn’t remember the last time someone got her dander up so fast.

  “You can’t have people going nuts over soap like that.” He stuffed a hand in one pocket. “You can’t tell me you’re okay with that.”

  “Well, I admit some may find her reaction a bit extreme.”

  “Extreme?”

  “But I make it a point not to judge my customers.” Emily felt the desire to defend the poor woman well up inside her out of nowhere. “Parenting is hard work, and she’d had a rough morning from the looks of it. I’ve just made an inroad with her for our church. So what if it was over a bar of soap that she really likes? It’s good soap, and it has a very peaceful smell.”

  Gil broadened his stance, his boots thumping against the wood floor. The man was tall and he knew how to use it. “You’re defending the stuff,” he balked. “We’ve spent half the weekend trying to get my guys to see reason and now you’re defending the stuff?”

  Emily crossed her arms. “I’m defending her right not to be made fun of by the likes of you.”

  “That woman looked as if she might take a bite if she went on much longer.”

  “Gil Sorrent, you’re being ridiculous—”

  The bell on the shop door jingled as an older man wandered in, silencing their argument. “May I help you?”