looked like, but all he remembered were the tats covering her arms like black vines.
He studied his beautiful daughter beneath her mask of makeup. The last thing he ever planned to do was take advice from Derrick or his mother. “You know, women thought I was good-looking when I was in college.”
“Dinosaur days.” She rolled her eyes.
He nodded. Without reaching his fortieth birthday, he’d already become old to someone. Maybe he’d talk to Jillian about that on the walk home. She had to be in her early thirties, so surely she wouldn’t think of him as old.
No, he decided. People who don’t have children don’t want to hear what other people’s children say. Correction, what their children’s pimpled-faced, oversexed boyfriends say.
Sunnie was always texting Derrick, even when he sat a few feet away. If she ever glanced up and really looked at him, she’d drop the reject from The Walking Dead. Ten years from now Derrick would still be wearing his leather jacket while he worked at the bowling alley.
As soon as Connor pulled up to the curb, Sunnie bolted from the old pickup. He remembered a time when she’d lean over and kiss his cheek before she headed to school. Those days were long gone.
A few minutes later he parked behind the quilt shop, walked through the place turning on lights, and unlocked the front door. He was early. It made sense to go across the street to his office and at least go through the mail, but he liked the silence of the shop. He’d known every corner of this place for as long as he could remember. In grade school he’d run, not home, but to Gram’s after school, where she’d have warm cookies from the bakery and little milk bottles in her tiny fridge waiting. He’d do his homework on one of the cutting tables until his mother came over from the paper and picked him up.
He knew his parents were just across the street, working on what was then a daily paper filled with local ads, but they were busy. Gram always had time to talk, even when her fingers were busy sewing. She’d ask about his day, and she’d tell him who came by the shop. Only, she’d never told him the stories about the quilts that Jillian was writing. To him, each one was a treasure and he wished he’d thought to ask about them when he was a kid. It would have been nice to have the stories woven into his childhood.
The door chimed and Jillian rushed in with the winter wind. She stopped the moment she saw him and hesitated, as if unsure how he might react to her.
“Morning,” he said, as he did every morning.
“Morning.” She relaxed. “I know I’m a little early, but I wrote another three articles last night and couldn’t wait to give them to you.”
“I’ll take them with me and let you know if I can use them. Everyone is talking about the last one I put on the blog.”
“Good.” She smiled and he took a moment to study her mouth before looking away.
Not something he should notice. They weren’t even friends. Might never be, but it might be worth a try. He could handle friends with a woman. For a short time anyway.
“You’re welcome to come with Gram and me for lunch.” He always asked. “We’re headed a few miles out of town to a Mexican place she loves, though all she ever eats is quesadillas.”
“Thanks, but I’ll work through lunch.”
He tried not to look disappointed. The Autumn Acres bus pulled up out front and their conversation ended.
After lunch, any chance to talk was quickly forgotten. By the time Connor had Gram back in the shop and helped her strip off a few layers of coats, Joe Dunaway had slipped through the unlocked shop door. He stopped long enough to turn the closed sign over to open, as if he thought of himself as the designated flipper.
Connor greeted the retired teacher. He had the feeling the old guy thought the quilt store was really a Starbucks in disguise. He rarely went a day without Gram’s coffee. He even had his own mug in her tiny kitchen.
“Got any coffee, Jeanie?” he asked Gram as he leaned on the counter like it was a bar.
“Of course, Joe.” She made no move for the cups in the kitchen. “Did you tell my Connor about your new invention?”
Joe lowered his voice. “No. Haven’t had a chance. Have to be careful, Jeanie. Make sure no one is around to steal it. Loose lips sink ships, you know.”
“What invention?” Connor doubted it could be any dumber than the last twenty inventions Joe had come up with since he retired. A few months ago he’d invented a birdfeeder that attached to a telephone pole. Said since everyone was using cell phones they wouldn’t be needing phone lines so he’d thought of a use for them. Only hitch was getting seed that high.
“You’re going to like this one, boy.” Joe had known Eugenia long enough to call her Jeanie. And Connor, no matter how old he was, would always be “boy.”
Gram lost interest in Joe’s great invention and followed Jillian as she disappeared into the tiny kitchen to put coffee on.
Connor waited. If he was going to listen to details of one of Joe’s inventions, he’d need caffeine to stay awake.
The little man was developing a kind of hobbit look. Hair seemed to be growing in every direction from every exposed square of skin. Everything he wore was at least two decades out of style but intelligence, or maybe mischief, still sparkled in his eyes.
Joe cleared his throat and straightened. “I’ve been thinking. You know how hard it is to sleep on your back with your feet sticking up?”
“No. I sleep on my side.” Connor held little hope that his answer would earn him a get-out-of-one-invention-lecture free pass.
“Well, if you did, you’d know how the blankets cramp your toes when you’ve got them pointed straight up. Colder it gets, more blankets and more cramped toes. So I got this idea. Doesn’t take much in materials or time. Just canvas and some eight-inch poles, maybe longer for those with big feet.”
Connor nodded as if following a logic that long ago had gone rogue.
Joe lowered his voice. “I’m calling them Toe Tents. You put them under the covers at the bottom of the bed. Slip your feet in and your toes can wiggle all night without being cramped.”
“Brilliant!” Connor shouted. Joe had finally come up with an invention dumber than Tele-Birdfeeders.
Joe smiled, scratching his beard. “I knew you’d like it. I figured I’d cut you in for a share, son, if you’d let me set up in one of those old barns on the other side of the creek. If I remember right, your family owns them and a few are still solid enough to be of use.”
“No one ever goes over there.” Connor’s family did own the worthless piece of town. From the thirties to the early sixties there had been several small businesses. A barrel shop. A furniture store that made rockers and coffins. A repair shop that could fix anything from toasters to TVs and a small winery that shipped as far as a hundred miles away. One small storage shed had even been used to weave Angora rabbit fur into yarn. But that was long ago, before Connor was born.
His dad had told him the businesses died one by one when the chain stores came in. Folks could buy another radio or toaster cheaper than having one repaired. If Joe
