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OH, IT WAS GOOD TO BE BACK.
Claire shifted position in the overstuffed burgundy tapestry chair that now had pride of place beside the antique console table holding the String Fever cash register.
She had no idea where Evie had unearthed the old chair and its matching ottoman. They had been waiting for her when she showed up a few hours earlier, plump and comfortable and exactly the right height.
From here, she could keep her stupid cast elevated yet still be part of the day-to-day action in the store. Evie had even found a little wheeled worktable that fit precisely over the arms of the chair for her laptop and whatever small bead project she might be tackling.
She listened to the chatter of a couple of customers asking Evie a question about a class on the schedule for a few weeks’ time and savored the joy of being back. She felt as if she had been freed from a long, dark winter, tossed headlong into verdant new leaves, warm sunshine, daffodils underfoot.
For the first time in three weeks, she didn’t have that little niggle at the base of her neck, that disconcerting sensation of a life spinning beyond her control. Here, she was centered, calm. She only wished she’d come in a week earlier.
The customers signed up for the class and left together and Evie returned to the inventory list they’d been going over before the women came in.
“So it looks like we’re running low on earring wires and toggle clasps.”
“Wow, already?” Claire exclaimed. “I swear, I just ordered those last week. I guess it must have been longer than that.”
Evie checked the computer. “Looks like six weeks. We had a run on both of those before Mother’s Day. I see you liked your watchband, by the way.”
Claire smile, twisting her wrist to better admire the way the recessed lights played on the gems. “You’re a sneaky thing, aren’t you? What were you doing, encouraging my son to lie to me about his whereabouts?”
Evie smiled. “Not my idea. He came up with the whole thing himself. Even picked out the spacers himself.”
“Well, thank you. It was a lovely gift.”
She’d cried buckets when she’d opened it—just as she’d cried when she opened the matching earrings and pendant Macy must have sneaked in to make. Her children knew her well. Handmade beadwork was definitely the way to her heart.
“Did you have a nice day yesterday?”
She thought of the brunch her mother had fixed, which had tasted slightly better than the crow Claire had decided to eat to ease the tension between them from their argument Friday night.
“Nice. My mom made her fantastic crepes. What about you?”
Evie smiled, though Claire thought it was slightly bittersweet and she wondered again at the past Evie never discussed. “Great. I picked up the dog I was talking about. He’s gorgeous.”
“Where is he?” she exclaimed. “Up in your apartment? You have to bring him down. I want to see! He and Chester can bond!”
“He was sleeping in his crate when I left and I didn’t want to wake him. I’ll go up in an hour or so and bring him down, see how he does in the store. I thought if you don’t mind, I’ll let him play out in the yard.”
“Of course!” One of the things Claire loved best about her store—in pleasant weather, at any rate—was the garden in the back. The fenced space was only twenty feet by twenty feet, but it had a colorful flower garden and a set of lawn furniture she’d found at a yard sale the summer before. On sunny days, the children liked to do their homework out there or play with Chester.
“This is the bolo tie clasp I was thinking about making for the next class at the art center. What do you think?”
Claire admired the cleverly constructed piece. “I think that is a fantastic idea. Maybe we can get some of the husbands involved, the ones who always sit out in their cars and listen to talk radio while their wives bead.”
Evie’s smile was mischievous. “That’s the plan. Get them hooked by making a project for themselves and then they won’t mind when their wives come to the classes in the future.”
“You’re an evil genius in the making.”
“Anything I can do to keep the classes going,” Evie said. “It’s my favorite part of the week.”
Claire completely understood. She had started the senior citizen classes shortly after she took over at the request of some of her regular customers who were looking for an excuse to gather socially while they pursued their favorite hobby. She had found the women hilarious—smart, pithy, immensely creative—and had been delighted with the response. From überwealthy older women with vast vacation homes in the area to humble year-rounders like Mrs. Redmond next door, the ongoing class had been enormously successful and Claire had loved the interaction with Hope’s Crossing’s more seasoned citizens.
After a few months, many of those who came to the Bead Babes meetings started talking about how their arthritis symptoms seemed less severe while they were beading, with increased dexterity and less pain.
With that in mind—and not without a great deal of regret—Claire decided to turn the Bead Babes group over to Evie when she came to town from Southern California a year ago. Her credentials as a physical therapist made it a logical choice.
“What about next month?” Claire asked.
Evie looked suddenly secretive. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“You can’t quit,” Claire said instantly. “I don’t care. I won’t let you. I know there’s no such thing as indentured servitude anymore, but I’ll figure out a way to make it legal again.”
Evie laughed. “Relax. I’m not going anywhere. Well, not taking a new job anyway. You know I love it here. But I’ve been kicking around the idea of going out on the summer craft show circuit. So many of our customers who bead have had their lives tangled up in the poor economy. I was thinking I could take their work out on consignment across Colorado. Charge a nominal fee to them, mainly to cover the booth costs. It’s sort of a win-win for String Fever because the beaders will buy their supplies from us, plus we can advertise at the craft fairs at the same time.”
“Evie, that’s brilliant!” Her mind raced with possible beaders who might be in need of a little extra income. Unfortunately, with the high taxes and cost of living in Hope’s Crossing, that list was longer than it should have been.
“I love this idea. Which shows were you thinking?”
“Well, because you asked,” she smiled. “I made a list.” With her usual efficiency, she pulled out a folder next to the cash register and extracted a piece of paper. “This was just a listing of all the fairs within a two-hundred-mile radius.”
“Wow! So many. I had no idea.”
“Yes, I was thinking I
