of junk and antiques. She had a shopping list tucked in her purse—mostly groceries, plus an inexpensive lawn chair for enjoying the weather. Patsy Conway, who ran the campground with her husband, Dub, had filled her ear that morning with memories of Octobers as warm as any summer day and as bitter cold as the dead of winter.
Right now the temperature was in the midseventies, the sun was shining brightly, and there was a pleasant breeze blowing out of the northwest. It was so nice that Candace had done her morning meditation outside, sitting cross-legged on an old quilt spread over straw-like grass. She’d finished secure in the knowledge that she’d made the right decision in not running away this morning. One attempt to talk to Natalie didn’t constitute making amends. Hell, it hardly even qualified as trying. She was a journalist, which meant she possessed many qualities. Among the better ones was tenacity.
Natalie, also having been a journalist, probably didn’t even expect her to give up after one refusal. She’d taught Candace better than that—though she’d lived to regret it.
The owner of the antique store had directed her down the street to find a lawn chair. Just a few yards short of her destination was a pay phone. Though she tried to ignore it as she walked, her gaze kept drifting back to it. Even though it was the last thing she wanted on such a beautiful morning, she was going to stop and make a call before finishing her shopping. She was going to pick up the receiver, drop in the correct change and dial the number she’d committed to memory.
Rejection number two, coming up, she thought as she listened to the phone ring. It was answered after the third ring, making her catch her breath until she realized it was an answering machine. So Natalie wasn’t home, or she was screening her calls. It would make a lot of difference if she knew which.
It was the husband’s voice on the machine, his message simple and to the point. “You’ve reached the Rawlins residence. Leave a message and we’ll get back to you.” Just before the beep came a childish, “Yee-haw!”
Candace took a few shallow breaths, then hung up. She didn’t like pleading on tape where strangers could hear. Not that she was above doing it if she had no other choice, but only then.
Feeling as if the day were somehow less bright, less perfect, she crossed the final few feet to the store. Its name, U-Want-It, was emblazoned across one plate-glass window, and a life-size wildcat, its mouth open in a snarl, was painted on the other. The place appeared to have a little of everything—clothing, books, tools, toys, sports equipment, auto parts and even an old-fashioned soda fountain. The electronic bell on the door played the first few notes of a catchy tune, but the voices that greeted her were none too friendly.
They came from the checkout and belonged to two women—one with jet-black hair, probably in her forties, and the other a sullen blonde, maybe half that age. Candace gave them a vague smile, then wandered down the main aisle. That wasn’t enough distance, though, to block out their conversation.
“You can’t tell me what to do!” the blonde snapped in a tone that suggested this wasn’t the first time she’d said it. “My daddy—”
“Your daddy may run everything else around here, but this store is mine. I’m your boss, Shelley, and you know what that means? I do get to tell you what to do. Dusting shelves is a part of your job, as is being here on time and not making personal calls on store time.”
Shelley sniffed haughtily. “Dusting is a dirty job, and it’s hard on my nails, and I’m not going to do it. And I was only twenty minutes late.”
“For the third time in a week.”
“What—are you keeping track?”
“Yes, I am. It’s called a time card,” the woman said impatiently. “That’s how I know how much to pay you.”
“Hey, you can’t hold it out of my check just because I was a minute late! That’s not fair!”
“What’s not fair is you spending an hour a day on the phone, chatting with your—” As if on cue, the telephone rang. As Candace peeked up from the Christmas decorations that filled the center aisle, both women grabbed for it, but the older one was closer and quicker. “U-Want-It, we got it,” she said brusquely. “This is Martha…. No, Shelley can’t come to the phone now.”
“Hey!” Shelley shrieked, trying to get the phone before Martha hung up but failing. “You can’t treat me like this, or I’ll quit, and then you’ll be in trouble. You’ll never find anyone to replace me.”
“Oh, honey, my arthritic grandma over in the nursing home can work circles around you, and without whining, too.”
“That’s it!” Shelley jerked off the red vest that passed for a uniform, tossed it on the counter, then stomped toward the door. There she did an abrupt U-turn and swept back to grab the purse Martha rather loudly plunked on the counter. Back at the door, Shelley faced her once more. “Don’t even think about asking me to come back. You’d have to triple my salary, and even then I’d still rather eat dirt.”
“I’d be happy to serve it up for you,” Martha called after her as she left the store.
The quiet that immediately followed echoed in Candace’s ears. She hesitated a moment, then slowly approached the counter, where Martha was rubbing her temples. When Candace cleared her throat, she looked up, then smiled apologetically.
“Great service, huh? You come in for a simple purchase and instead get to watch the owner and clerk fight. I’m so sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it. Though, honestly, I don’t know how you expect to find good help if you expect them to show up and actually work. That’s a bit unreasonable, isn’t it?”
Martha laughed. “It certainly is to Shelley. Oh, well…I only hired her because my husband works for her daddy. I’m sure he’ll hear about this, but…” She shrugged. “That’s life. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Do you have any lawn chairs?”
“Only the cheap aluminum kind that you usually have to throw away at the end of the summer. All the way at the back on the left.”
Candace headed toward the back, marveling at the variety of merchandise. Besides the Christmas display, inexpensive Halloween costumes and decorations were packed into one section of the main aisle, along with paper Thanksgiving turkeys, tablecloths and such. Women’s clothing was on the right in the front half of the shop, men’s at the rear and kids’ in between. Exactly where Martha had said, she found the last of the lawn chairs and picked up one, then optimistically added another. Who knew? Maybe Patsy Conway would join her for coffee some morning.
Back at the checkout, Martha rang up her total, and Candace handed over a twenty. After returning her change to her wallet, she hesitated. “Will you be hiring someone to replace Shelley—at least, temporarily?”
“I have to. I can’t be here most afternoons right now. My mother just got home from the hospital after having hip surgery, and I’m the only one who lives close enough to stay with her.” Martha’s shrewd gaze swept over her. “You interested?”
“For a while.”
“You have any experience?”
“A little.” She’d worked as a cashier on the three-to-eleven shift at a convenience store back when she was in school—the scariest job she’d ever had. At least
