“That’s what I have to find out.” Jo looked up at her longtime friend and part-time employee, dressed in a loose denim jumper to accommodate, she’d explained that morning with a woeful grin, her added holiday pounds. “Parker Holt bought Frannie’s building out from under her. She’s closing up shop.”
“What!”
“And he’s made an offer that might be too good to refuse to Ruthie and Bert. He’s trying to buy up the block, according to Frannie, to tear it all down.” Jo pulled her hands from the file drawer and looked at her friend. “Carrie, what will I do if I can’t stay here?”
“But you have a lease,” Carrie said, her tone hopeful.
“Only for six months, remember? I thought I was being so clever, not tying myself to the business in case it didn’t work out. But after four months, and a surprisingly good Christmas season, my books are actually starting to show some black. I want to stay, Carrie. And with all the money I’ve sunk into the place, I
need
to stay.”
“Oh, Jo.” Carrie looked as woebegone as Jo felt. After her husband Mike’s tragic death, Jo had come to Abbotsville mostly because of Carrie, who had suggested that Jo, with her art background, could make a go of an arts and crafts shop in the town where Carrie and her husband, Dan, had settled.
They had both helped scout out this location, and Dan, a home improvement professional, had stretched Jo’s meager funds wonderfully by setting up the shop’s interior—shelves, lighting, and everything else—for her. Carrie, with her vast needlework skills, had even volunteered to run that part of the shop, which Jo was convinced had made all the difference in drawing customers to her fledgling store.
Carrie and Dan, therefore, had good reason to feel as much pride in the Craft Corner’s budding success as she did. And would take the blow of its demise as hard.
“Well, let’s not panic until we have to,” Jo said, trying to sound a little less worried than she was. “Maybe Frannie’s landlord is the only one who’s caved in to Parker Holt. Who is this guy, anyway?”
“He’s a big developer.” Carrie set down her skein of wool on Jo’s desk and pulled up a chair. “You’ve seen Holt Meadows, haven’t you?”
Jo nodded, remembering driving, on one of her early trips down here, through the winding roads of the impressive community just outside of town. She had drooled over the houses, but knew there was no way she could afford one, needing to sink most of Mike’s modest life insurance payment into her business.
“Well,” Carrie said, “Parker is the Holt behind it.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“And he’s behind that new office building that’s going up near the center of town, where the old library used to be.”
“I’ve heard people complaining about that, how it’s changing the character of the town, and all.”
“And . . .” Carrie stopped, looking uneasy.
“What?”
“He’s also Dan’s employer, for the time being, anyway.”
“
He’s
the well-to-do homeowner that gave Dan the big remodeling job?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And here I was, prepared to hate him. But I know how excited you were when Dan got the job.”
“It’s an important one, for what it could lead to as much as for what it’s paying.”
Jo nodded. Her old school friends Carrie and Dan had made sacrifices to get Dan’s business off the ground, including moving away from family and friends in tiny Glenn’s Crossing to the broader possibilities of Abbotsville. It had been slow going, but Dan had gradually built a reputation for fine, honest work, and in his business, word of mouth was everything.
“Well,” Jo said, “we at least know that Parker Holt has the good sense to hire the best.”
Carrie grinned. “Yes, indeed. At least as far as his own home is concerned. Dan doesn’t have much to say about the work on some of his other projects. ‘Slapdash’ and ‘corner cutting,’ I believe were words he used. But when it comes to his place, Parker Holt pinches no pennies. But he also checks every inch of the work with a magnifying glass, according to Dan. And interrupts him all day long with constant phone calls.”
“A real control freak, huh?”
“Sounds like it.”
“Oh,” Jo said, glancing down, “duh! Here’s Max’s number. It’s right here on my blotter, circled and everything. Let me call him, and we’ll see just how much control Mr. Parker Holt actually has.”
The shop’s door dinged, and Carrie left to take care of the customer. Jo punched in the Florida number and waited. “Come on, Max. Climb out of that pool and answer your phone,” she grumbled, drumming her fingers on her desk. But when the answering machine kicked in she calmly said, “Max, it’s Jo McAllister,” then hesitated, unsure what else to say.
Are you selling my business out from under me? Sending my life once again into a tailspin?
Tempting, but she added only, “It’s very important. Please call me back,” and gave her number. She hung up, feeling dissatisfied. Should she have explained her reason for calling? Would it get her a return call sooner? How soon should she try again if she didn’t hear from Max?
Too many questions. Especially on an empty stomach. Jo reached for the half-forgotten bag of sandwiches, and opened it up. The best answer to almost everything, at least for the moment, was turkey and bacon with Bert’s special sauce. She unwrapped it and bit down, savoring the flavors that spread across her tongue, then groaned as yet another question popped up.
And if Bert decides to sell? What then?
By late afternoon, Jo had attempted to reach Max twice more without success, hanging up on the answering machine each time. She tried to take her mind off of it, telling herself the man was semiretired, after all, and wasn’t sitting at a desk all day, taking calls. But the little bit of stock tidying she busied herself with between customers wasn’t doing it for her. So when Carrie began to talk about Sylvia Ramirez and her tote bags, Jo welcomed the distraction.
“I told you about Xavier, didn’t I?” Carrie asked, and when Jo nodded, continued. “Dan’s been so glad to find him, says Xavier’s the best worker he’s had in ages, and so reliable. Anyway, Sylvia is Xavier’s wife, and they’re expecting their first baby soon, so she’s recently stopped working. But she’s been making these amazing handmade bags, quilted and beaded and such, for family and friends. I saw them the other night and thought how she could make a little money from them if she had the right outlet.”
Jo caught where Carrie was going. “The right outlet such as Jo’s Craft Corner?”
Carrie grinned. “Only if you like the idea, of course. Sylvia and Xavier have been having a tough time of things, ever since they lost everything in Hurricane Katrina. And I mean everything. They’re still struggling to get back on their feet. Dan isn’t able to pay Xavier very much yet, and they could probably use the extra income. But aside from that, the bags Sylvia makes are really quite beautiful. I think they’d be a terrific draw for customers.”
“Let’s ask her to bring some in, then,” Jo said.
“Really?” Carrie looked delighted. “I could probably get her in today, have her bring a couple samples for you to look over.”
“If you say they’re good, Carrie, I’m sure they are.” Jo thought it wouldn’t hurt to put a couple bags near the needlepoint kits, and who knows? Maybe someone would be attracted by their novelty and actually buy one. She could see how much this meant to Carrie, who cared as much about her friends’ well-being as her own. So Jo was happy to help Carrie assist Sylvia in this small way. At least, that is, as long as she had a shop to do it in.
Two customers walked in, and Jo took care of them while Carrie called Sylvia. The two had come mainly for scrapbooking supplies, and gathered a modest pile of purchases on the sales counter. But one, the slimmer of the two, hesitantly added a small kit Jo had packaged up for a bead-trimmed key ring as well.
“You shouldn’t have any trouble with this,” Jo assured her, “but come on back if you do, and I can help you out.”
The woman’s face brightened. “Oh, thank you!”
“Plus, we’ll be starting a few beading workshops soon if you’re interested in something a little more intricate.” Jo slipped a flyer printed with information on the workshops into the woman’s bag, and handed it over to her.
Carrie hung up the phone as the customers left and turned to Jo. “Sylvia said she can be here at four.”
“Terrific,” Jo said, taking in Carrie’s happy face. She hoped she herself would be as pleased by 4:30 or so.
Pleased was not the word for it. It was as though Sylvia Ramirez was pulling rabbits out of a hat. The “hat” was a simple, white plastic trash bag Sylvia had used to transport her quilted bags, and her modest demeanor displayed none of a magician’s flamboyance. But she might as well have cried “Abracadabra!” as she pulled out one handbag after another and placed them on Jo’s counter. Even though the basics of handles, pouch, and zippers were identical, each bag was so different from the others. The uniqueness came from the designs Sylvia had stitched into them with her quilting and trims. One had a delicate flower pattern, another took on a charming animal face, and a third simply swirled with rainbow colors.
“I love them,” Jo declared.
Sylvia, her dark hair pulled back and held simply with a white scrunchie, beamed, the smile rounding out her face to a near perfect circle.
“You think you can sell?” she asked.
“Definitely. How fast can you make them?”
Sylvia laughed, a light ripple that ran up half an octave. “Now, I have nothing else to do, mostly. I was cleaning houses, but with the baby coming, Xavier wants me to stay home. Our little place I can clean in two minutes. Rest of the time, I can make bags.”
“Perfect. Let’s figure out what a good price for them would be. What do your materials cost you, Sylvia?” Jo grabbed a clean sheet of paper and wrote down the figures the young woman pulled out of her head. Jo reached for her calculator to total the numbers up and work out percentages, and before long came up with a price that would give both the Craft Corner and Sylvia a reasonable profit.
“We’re going to start a fad right here in Abbotsville, mark my words,” Jo declared.
“A fad?” Sylvia looked puzzled. “What is a fad?”
“A ‘fad’ means every woman in town is going to want her own signature ‘Sylvia’ bag before long. They’ll be pounding at the doors, money clutched in their fists, waiting for our next shipment to come in.”
Sylvia spilled out her musical laugh. “No ships. I’ll carry them over myself.”
“Well, at least they’re light. I wouldn’t want you to overburden yourself.” Jo looked at Sylvia’s rounded middle. “When is the baby due?”
Sylvia smiled, and ran a hand over her belly. “Two months. March fifth. But he is big already. Maybe he comes sooner.”
Jo nodded, happy for Sylvia’s expected joy, but at the same time selfishly hoping Baby Ramirez wouldn’t rush to make his appearance. Jo wanted as many of Sylvia’s bags as she could get, and she knew designer bags would be pushed aside once diaper bags came on the scene. Then she thought about Parker Holt, and her satisfaction in the moment faded away.
“Something wrong?” Sylvia asked. “You change your mind?”
“No, no,” Jo reassured her. “Everything’s fine. I just remembered something I have to take care of.”
Like making sure I have a business long enough to sell these bags for Sylvia, as well as support myself. Why isn’t Max calling back?
The phone rang, and Jo heard Carrie take it in the back. She waited, but when Carrie didn’t call out, she turned her attention back to Sylvia, chatting until the young woman, bubbling her thanks, took her leave. Jo watched her buoyant exit, which, at this point in her pregnancy, was not exactly light-footed, but hadn’t reached the dreaded “waddle” stage yet, either.
“Carrie,” Jo called as she searched through a drawer for price tags to attach to the bags Sylvia left with her, “I’m so glad you—” A swooshing sound caused Jo to turn, and she saw Carrie pulling on her nylon parka in a hurry.
“You’re going out?”
“That phone call—it was from the Abbotsville Playhouse.” Carrie’s face was white. “Charlie was working there during rehearsals after school, and he’s taken a fall. They’re taking him to the hospital.”
“Oh, no!”
“I don’t know how bad it is, but I’m meeting them in the ER.” Carrie was zipping up and pulling on gloves hurriedly as she headed to the door. “I couldn’t get through to Dan. He’s probably at the Holt house. Would you keep trying and tell him I’ll call as soon as I know anything? And I’ll call you too.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll get Dan.” Jo couldn’t get more out before Carrie was gone. She stared after her dazedly, thinking, Charlie’s hurt? Her godson and most favorite fifteen-year-old in the world. How could it be? As alarmed as she was, though, she knew Carrie must feel ten times worse. This was Carrie’s child, her firstborn, her son. But it was pretty awful for Jo to handle too.
“Mike,” Jo silently said, speaking as she often did to her late husband, who, she was convinced, watched over her from his own particular heavenly spot. “How can this be? Bad things shouldn’t happen to Carrie’s family. I love them.”