found him on the patio, feet propped up, puffing on one of his father’s cigars, the smoke spiraling above his head.
Tripp opened one of the French doors and stepped out. Morris crushed the cigar in an ashtray and swung to his feet. “Mr. Tripp,” he said in a guilty voice.
Tripp didn’t care that he was smoking cigars. He only cared that Morris looked out for his parents.
“I’m going into town. Please keep an eye on Mom and Dad.”
“Always do.”
“Don’t worry about supper, I’ll bring something from the Bramble Rose.”
Morris looked around. “There’s no roses. It’s too early. It’s just February.”
Tripp stepped closer. “I’ll bring something for supper,” he said louder.
“Oh. Gotcha.”
Tripp headed for his truck wondering how his parents had survived all these years without someone to guide them. After one week, he was totally exhausted. He’d check if there was someone in town who could provide some help. They all clearly needed it.
He drove into Bramble, which was barely a stop in the road. It consisted of main street that had businesses on both sides, mostly antique and gift shops, and a dollar store. There was a bank, a diner, two gas stations, a small grocery store, a feed store, and a hardware store and lumberyard. They also had a Dairy Queen.
Railroad tracks ran along the west side. On the east side was the residential area with the schools and city offices. Some people had lived here all their lives, only going farther to Temple or Austin when needed.
He stopped at the diner. A sign across the street read Common Threads—Camila’s Quilts, Soaps and Gifts. Could it be? There was only one Camila that he knew of in Bramble. Without a second thought, he strolled toward the shop. As he went in, the bell tinkled over the door. A natural pleasing fragrance, like a flower garden, greeted him.
The walls were a pale lavender and shelves were filled with baskets of soaps in decorative boxes and some sort of see-through fabric. Folded quilts decorated racks and there was a special area for baby quilts. A couple of women oohed and aahed over one, clutching a box in their hands. The lavender box had a C written on it in calligraphy.
He removed his hat and spoke. The women eyed him with a strange look. He walked to the counter where a young girl was putting a quilt in a box; which was adorned with a fancy needle and thread logo.
“Can I help you?” the girl asked.
“I’m looking for Camila Walker.”
“She’s in the back.”
“Thanks, I’ll—”
“You can’t go—” The girl stopped as another woman interrupted with asked a question.
Tripp went through the door to a large back room. Two quilting frames with quilts in them hung from the ceiling. One wall held spools of thread of every color. At the back were rows of fabric and a large table the size of a king-size bed, obviously a working area. A sewing machine was in a corner.
He didn’t see Camila. There was another door and he opened it. A pungent smell almost sent him reeling back, but then he saw her. Camila, in rubber gloves and apron, was stretching plastic wrap over large molds of soap.
She glanced up, startled, her dark eyes like lasers ready to cut him in half. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to apologize for my rudeness last night.”
“I don’t allow people back here,” she said in a sharp tone.
He should leave, but he couldn’t. He was curious. Intrigued. “Are you making soap?”
“Yes.” She continued to work with quick, sure movements, covering all the molds, then she placed boards on top and covered the whole thing with blankets.
“What are you doing?”
“The soap has to be kept warm while it sets for twenty-four hours. I then clean and wrap it, but it has to cure for three to four weeks before I sell it.”
He twitched his nose in distaste. “What’s that smell?”
Her eyes softened for a second. “It’s the lye. This batch is almond scent and olive oil.”
“Very impressive operation you have here.”
She turned to face him, her dark eyes back in laser mode. “You said what you wanted to, now please leave.”
Tripp nodded, knowing it was time to back off. Camila wasn’t too friendly and he couldn’t blame her—not after suggesting the DNA test. That was way out of line. Even a blundering cowboy knew that.
He headed across the street to the diner, straddling a stool at the counter. With plastic red gingham tablecloths and chrome-and-plastic tables and chairs, the place was a typical diner, like he’d seen all over the country. A jukebox stood in a corner and country music played in the background.
Melvin and Bert Boggs sat at a table and Tripp nodded in their direction.
“Hey, handsome, what’ll you have?” Rose, a woman close to seventy, but nonetheless spry and energetic for her age wore an apron over jeans and a T-shirt. Her blondish-gray hair coiled at the back of her head had a pencil stuck in it. She’d owned the diner as long as he could remember and still looked the same.
“Coffee, and do you have any suggestions for supper for my parents?”
“Mmm.” Rose poured a cup of coffee. “They’re not doing too good?”
“They’re just getting older.”
“Aren’t we all, hon.” She placed the coffee in front of him with a napkin. “But you’re looking mighty fine. Where you been all these years?”
“All over. Settled around Mesquite.”
“That’s too far away, hon.”
“Yeah.” He took a swallow of coffee and thought he’d steer the conversation back to the matter at hand. “So do you have anything I can take home?”
“Grif loves my meat loaf and it’s on the menu today with all the trimmings, even homemade corn bread. How does that sound?”
“Great, I’ll take three orders for my parents and Morris but I’ll take a chicken-fried steak. No one can beat your steak, Rose.”
“Now, hon. You’re gonna make me blush.” She turned toward the kitchen and Tripp thought her blushing days were probably over.
He glanced out the window and saw Camila loading packages into a Suburban. What was she doing?
“Watching her, huh? All the guys watch her.”
He swung around to face Rose. “What?”
She gestured toward the window. “Camila.
