Jessica studied her friend’s face, then allowed her mind to envision a gift shop on the square. A shop with her crafts in it appropriately tagged JESSICA’S JOYS. She’d meant to make decorative stickers like that for her bookmarks sold at the Pumpkin Festival craft fair, but never got around to it. She’d gotten so excited the day she’d come up with that wonderful play on her name, Jessica Joy, and the thrill of it rippled through her again, along with a slight wave of nausea that once again snapped her back into reality. “Oh, Katie, your idea does sound wonderful, and I can almost picture it,” she said, her eyes in a slight squint. “And I wish you well. But honestly, I don’t know when I’ll have an ounce of time to do crafts again. Ever.” She looked like she might cry.
“Jessica, you’re way too talented to ever let that creative part of yourself shut down just because you’re a mother! When are you due?”
“I don’t have my appointment until Tuesday, so nothing official yet. But from the best I can figure, this baby will arrive in late July or early August.”
“Well, that gives you several months to whip up a few things to begin with! And don’t put so much pressure on yourself, Jessica. It’s not like you need to fill the whole store; just one little display, just for your product. You’ll be one of many talented people to step forward once word gets around.” Please, God.
“For your sake, Katie, I sure hope so.” Wanita jumped into her mind. Oh, wouldn’t she be excited to know she had a year-around place to earn a few extra dollars with her crafts!
Katie leaned toward Jessica. “To tell you the truth, the size of that building is the one thing that almost held me back from making the purchase. That’s way more space than we need and it needs tons of work. But,” she said, rallying her energy, “it’s structurally sound—I had it checked out every which way—and it’s on the square, which is important to me. And the price was certainly right since it’d been on the market for so long that the Taningers had already moved to Idaho. They were more than ready to unload it. I figure I can subdivide the downstairs, open our shop and rent the other portions—including the upstairs—to unique types of businesses. I’ve been thinking about several alternatives. Things like maybe a bath shop or,” she eyed Jessica’s abdomen, “a children’s store. Kite shop. Types of trendy little stores that would be good complements to a gift shop. You know, create like a boutiquey mini mall of sorts in one building. After listening to the Hookers the other night talking about the need for antique repairs and thinking about my mother’s old dented pan and hearing Dorothy talk about how that awful eyesore of a Swappin’ Sam’s is actually a drawing card, I even picture an antique store in the building as a possibility, or maybe a clock repair place or something like that. I know,” she said, feeling incredibly alive for the first time in several months, “maybe even a tea room since Nellie Ruth and Maggie are always talking about teas!
“Partonville is ripe for possibilities. It just wouldn’t take that much to bring a solid quaint factor (as much as she hated to admit it, Colton had been right about the square’s lack of quaintness) to our (oh, GADS! she’d said our) town. Give out-of-towners, including Hethrow people, a reason to want to come to Partonville just to spend a few hours browsing, have a bite of lunch. Hey, maybe we could even put in a little bagel place that serves veggie dishes. If something like this could grow on itself, it might even help draw other new businesses to the square, not to mention to the Lamp Post! And speaking of the Lamp Post, the mini mall—and we’ll have to think of just the right name for it—will run full-page ads in BackRoads Illinois right next to your ads for the Lamp Post.” Jessica’s eyes widened. “I’ve done research on that paper and you and Paul were definitely smart to get in on the ground floor.”
“Oh, Katie! Thank goodness! Even though Paul tried to get me to let it go, we’ve fretted about that ever since you mentioned it!”
Although Katie wouldn’t tell Jessica this, at least right now, she’d been so impressed with the guy’s business plan that she’d decided to invest in his venture. If BackRoads Illinois made a go of it—which she was pretty sure it would—she perceived it could one day expand into a BackRoads for every state. On top of that, it would be a natural place to advertise anything, including acreage, should she be in the market to buy—or sell.
“What on earth brought all this on, Katie? I’ve never heard you talk about anything like this before.”
Katie looked at her watch. “Honest, I don’t mean to be evasive, but right now I’ve got to swing by and tell Dorothy and May Belle about it, then get to Maggie’s by . . .” She glanced at her watch a second time. “I’ve got to go right now! I hope I don’t chicken out before I get to Maggie’s. Nobody but nobody touches my hair but Jeffrey. To tell you the truth, I think this appointment is scaring me more than any business risk!”
The Craig brothers worked with a fury. They had been conducting conference calls and Internet researches on farm preservation, preservation easement programs, conservation reserve programs (a voluntary program for agricultural land-owners in Illinois), anything and everything that might give Kathryn Durbin the ability to set herself up to stop them cold in terms of commercial real estate development to the west of them. They’d long been in the business of buying up farms to transform into urban sprawl, not preserve their acreage. What they needed to get a feel for at the moment was how likely or not this preservation type of trend might be—or become.
What they both believed, however, was that Kathryn Durbin was interested in nothing but preserving her own potential. Her actual ability to get Crooked Creek Farm on the National Register of Historic Places (perhaps she was talking all smoke and mirrors) was somewhat difficult to discern, given they weren’t completely familiar with Crooked Creek’s history; they’d moved into this area from Chicago only a couple of decades ago when their development projects began. Although no plans would be as optimal as buying the contingent Crooked Creek, if push came to shove, they felt assured they could find ways around it—but they wondered if she’d already been consorting with others in the area, planting her wild ideas about preservation. Lots of question marks.
No matter, they decided. They knew of many farmers in the area on the brink of retirement who weren’t as much interested in preserving their farms as they were in feeding themselves once they aged out of the ability to continue doing the hard work. Farmers had taken a bite the last many years and there weren’t as many family members willing to stick around to take over. And no matter what some folks thought about the march of progress, the Craig brothers had, in fact, been thanked by many of those sturdy folks after a deal was done. What was to preserve? Aging into poverty? They’d received healthy dollars for a move, retirement security and enough to pay for health insurance and supplements—a long-time worry. Development had brought more hospitals into the area, a junior college, more jobs. . . . “It’s not like we’re the devil,” Colton told his brother. “Everyone can be reasoned with when it comes to finances, including Kathryn. That’s why she’s in this game; we just have to find her price.”
After laboring over their investigative results, possibilities and several hours of running the numbers, they came up with an offer for Crooked Creek Farm, one they knew she could not refuse. The offer was, in fact, exorbitantly higher per acre than what Crooked Creek Farm would be worth “as is” on the market today—even higher than it would bring after the park was open. She could make her financial killing now without having to invest—or waste—another cent of her time and resources. Yes, their offering price was outrageously high, but they believed the risk of the investment was worth it. (Risk was the name of commercial real estate development. You didn’t get into the business without being willing to risk, and high stakes at that.) They were willing to risk whatever it took to stop Kathryn Durbin. If indeed she had been talking to other farmers, once they saw she’d sold out, that would be the end of this preservation nonsense.
25
Katie’s heart was in her mouth. If
it was humanly possible, she was, she thought, perhaps even more nervous about letting Maggie Malone work on her hair than she had been about meeting Colton Craig for lunch or ultimately taking him on. Of course, it was ridiculous since hair was only hair (but then it was appearances!) and money was only money, but if she added up all the money she’d spent on hair vanities at Chicago’s most posh salon during the last five years, it would be shocking. One thing she knew for sure was that the only thing she would allow Maggie to do was to wash and . . . blow dry. At least she hoped the woman had a blow dryer, since she’d put her down for that “wash and set,” which was a throwback to her mother’s era. She could always go home and redo whatever Maggie did, and after all, her next all-day Chicago spa appointment was only a couple of weeks away.
As she drove to the salon the one thing she felt confident about was her scheme. Dorothy had literally cheered at her new venture (she’d even teared up at what she called “the goodness in it”), and May Belle was thrilled to think that once she got back up to snuff, she might be able to add some much needed income to her coffers by selling her baked goods in a tea room, which, as the creative energies spun between the three women, had now become an absolute part of the master plan—never mind that Katie knew nothing about running a food-service business. (She had the money to find someone who did.) Although Katie had originally hoped to get the first of the mini-mall shops open by Christmas (and the mini-mall idea had now become The Master Plan), she realized after looking at May Belle’s pained face, digesting everyone’s responsibilities for the upcoming Thanksgiving dinner, recalling how strained Jessica looked, knowing how crazed everyone got with the Christmas holidays (not to mention the building needed substantial amounts of work), it had been an unrealistic wish—even as much as she longed to smack Colton Craig right between the eyes with her Christmas-season grand opening. A spring opening, however, made the most common sense, and if she did things up in the grand style she was beginning to envision, even that might be pushing it, but she hoped not. She wanted to be able to give the Craig brothers something definite when next they spoke, though. She knew they were probably spinning all the preservation possibilities right this minute, which made her very happy since all they would really be spinning was their wheels. Whether or not she acted on any of the preservation possibilities remained to be seen, but for now, the only thing she knew for sure—at least for the moment—was that she was keeping the farm, setting up a business and buying every piece of real estate that became available within three blocks of the square.
And—yikes!—getting ready to enter Maggie’s. She parked the Lexus around on the side street hoping nobody would associate her with La Feminique Hair Salon & Day Spa, locked it up, took a deep breath and entered. To her shock, Gladys McKern was sitting in the color chair, her head a matt of Brunette Brown dye, aside from the few sprigs Maggie hadn’t yet smeared with her giant color brush she held in her rubber-gloved hand. It was hard to tell who was more shocked at the appearance of the other, Gladys or Katie. Maggie hadn’t warned either of them, not wanting to rob herself of the chance to witness their shock.
“Come on in! We don’t bite in here,” Maggie said, noting Katie had hesitated in the doorway. Gladys was the last person Katie would want to witness her being Maggie-ized, as Dorothy had called it. But Dorothy had also tried to encourage Katie by assuring her she might be surprised to find out just how talented Maggie really was since she attended those hair shows up in Chicago every year. Right.
“Please close that door. The cold air will set off my arthritis,” Gladys said, pulling the bottom of her drape down around her knees.
Katie stepped in and apologized for her delay. Her mind was reeling. Rather than being distressed about Gladys’s appearance, she was beginning to realize she couldn’t have orchestrated a better opportunity!
Her eyes cast around. To her surprise, the shop was quite trendy. She’d pictured décor about like the Landerses, but this, well, this was actually quite chic, for Partonville.
“Make yourself at home,” Maggie said, waving the goopladen brush as though it were a magic wand. “I’ve got chai tea bags out today, right back there,” she said, pointing to her tea cart.
“It’s too odd for me,” Gladys said, “but I guess some women like it.”
Maggie frowned at Gladys; she was sure Katie was a woman of finer taste. “Water’s still hot in the pot. You might enjoy browsing my supply of aromatherapy on the counter there, too.” Maggie’s aromatherapy display was one of her favorite things. It thrilled her to think somebody had arrived who might not only appreciate the offering, but be able to afford a bottle or five.
Katie walked over to the small rack of tiny bottles. Black velvet cloth was artistically wrapped around the base and decorative diffusers and a few shiny glass blobs were scattered here and there with perfect aesthetic balance. Maggie definitely had an eye for presentation. Katie tucked the piece of info into her mental mini-mall bank. She picked up a sample bottle and held it to her nose. Lavender! It reminded her of her last massage in the city. Michelle had laced the massage lotion with lavender to help soothe her frazzled nerves. Maybe a massage therapist could rent a space in the mini mall or open up on the square! Katie set the bottle down and noticed that both Maggie and Gladys had been watching her every move in the mirror. “Sell much of this?” she asked Maggie, picking another bottle up to read the label.
“I wish,” Maggie answered. “I can’t seem to convince my regulars there even is such a thing as aromatherapy, and it is just so . . . so delicious! Oh, well. Their loss, I tell them,” and she averted her eyes to Gladys for one quick nanosecond. Gladys mumbled “hogwash” under her breath loud enough that they could both hear it. Katie repositioned the bottle while thinking how well the aromatherapy would probably sell in a boutique location with fresh clientele. She smiled at both of them, allowing her eyes to linger on Gladys. She noticed the very corners of Gladys’s lips turned upward, just a tad.
“So,” Gladys said, “you’re here for . . . ?” assuming it wasn’t an appointment since she’d heard tell about Katie’s trips to Chicago for day-long salon treatments. Of all the wasteful things!
“A wash and style,” Maggie answered.
Style, Katie thought. I’ve been moved up to a style instead of a set. Thank goodness!
While Katie made herself a cup of tea (mmmmm, imagine a whole tea room ...), seated herself and began flipping through a magazine, Maggie studied the shape of Katie’s head, the width of her jaw, trying to picture the perfect do. She didn’t imagine Katie would give her much rein, but then again, maybe that’s why she was here, for a change! Although Maggie adored all her steady and long-term clients and friends, no one ever wanted to brave one of the new tricks she’d learned at the annual styling shows.
She finished Gladys’s final application, then put a plastic bag over her smeared mess of hair. Without instruction, Gladys rose and planted herself under one of the two dryers. Once the dryer was turned on and Maggie had set her timer, she sighed with relief and turned her attention to her next client. (Gladys didn’t need to be under the dryer at all for her processing, which took forty-five minutes of waiting; but since she didn’t wait well, the “air only” setting for the first twenty minutes or so helped cool her jets, so to speak, and offered Maggie a short respite on Gladys’s color days. It was, Maggie thought, one of the best survival tricks she’d ever invented—especially today since there always seemed to be tension between these two women; Maggie wanted to be flowing free in her creative zone when she worked on Ms. Durbin.)
“Alrighty then, Katie, set your purse there by the style chair and take a seat at the shampoo station.” With a slight hesitancy, Katie decided to abandon her handbag. Odds were high against anyone rustling this place—another positive thing about a business investment in a town like Partonville, she thought. Gladys raised an eyebrow, she being one to always hold her handbag tight to herself. Katie thought her heart would hammer out of her head, s
he was so caught up fretting about her hair. She arranged herself in the chair and Maggie put on her drape, adjusting the Velcro around her neck to the perfect tension. “Just lean back and unwind,” Maggie said, clearly noting the woman was a nervous wreck, her back like a ramrod, “and leave the driving to me.”
Quicker than she thought possible, Katie relaxed into Maggie’s able and generous scalp-massaging hands. Before she was ready, it was time to sit up. Maggie wrapped the towel around her head and ushered her to her styling chair. Katie noticed Gladys watching their every move, the angle of the mirrors being just right to see everything anyone was doing in the small shop. Maggie began towel drying Katie’s thick red hair, which, Maggie had already noted with her well-trained eyes, was color enhanced to cover the sparse gray—a few of the roots beginning to reveal themselves under her discerning study. (She remembered that Katie had a few roots showing the first time they met at Dorothy’s during Katie’s Aunt Tess’s funeral dinner.) While the towel was draped over Katie’s head Maggie said, “So, what’s new with you since the Hookers’ meeting? You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had a chance to ask you how you’re adjusting to life out at Crooked Creek Farm. That must be some transition for you.” Katie had her eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of hiding under the towel, wishing she could melt away into the floor.
Suddenly Maggie whipped the towel off her head and spun her chair around. Katie felt exposed in her thoughts. “New with me?” she blurted, lifting up her face to the mirror. Her eyes flashed from Maggie to Gladys and back again, then she remembered she was on a mission. She smiled at them. Time to forge ahead. “Interesting you should ask. Something quite amazing, really, and something that will affect both of you.” Katie noticed Gladys had scooted down in her chair enough to lower her head almost out of the dryer, no doubt straining to hear. (Katie decided Dorothy’s suggestion had been perfect: “Make your announcement proudly, Katie, and for goodness’ sakes, get Gladys on your side!”) “If it doesn’t disturb her color, you might want to turn off Gladys’s dryer for this, Maggie, so she doesn’t miss anything.” Maggie’s eyes sparkled; Gladys’s widened as they both stared at her. Gladys lifted her dryer and feigned innocence. “Were you talking to me?” she asked.
Dearest Dorothy, Who Would Have Ever Thought?! Page 25