Button Holed (22 page)

He stepped in front of me. “I can help. I mean, maybe not so much with this crazy button business, but you know if you need me, Jo . . .” He took a step closer, checking out my jeans and the sky-blue T-shirt I was wearing. “You know, for anything . . .”

I am a strong woman, but this close, even I couldn’t resist skimming my gaze down Kaz’s muscled body. Oh, those abs! Oh, those pecs!

Oh, the heartache he’d caused me over the years!

I turned around so I could grab my purse and a sweatshirt, just in case the evening turned cool. “If you’re coming,” I said, “you’d better get dressed. Fast.”

IT DIDN’T TAKE long to find the fair or to see that, at least for the rest of that week, it was the center of activity in Bent Grove. Main Street was cordoned off and lined with pop-up tents that featured dealers selling everything from arts and crafts to homemade pies and jellies and the usual assortment of funnel cakes, hot dogs, and lemonade. The street ended at the high school, and the parking lot there was filled with amusement rides and games of chance. I parked the car (and paid two dollars to the Boy Scouts who were using the lot behind the city hall for their annual fund-raiser) and got my bearings. Before I left Chicago, I would have assumed the logical place to start was the sheriff’s department, but I had heard how reluctant that sheriff was to help out Nevin when he called, and I was not feeling up to trying to cajole information out of him. I already had Kaz to deal with, and he was all the blarney I could handle.

Instead of heading for the building up ahead with the “Sheriff’s Department” sign outside it, I looked up and down Main Street and made up my mind. “I’ll see you later,” I told Kaz; then before he could decide to tag along, I sidestepped my way through the crowd and headed for the nearest craft vendor.

No luck there, but then, her stock was pretty much limited to crocheted toilet-paper-roll covers and bookmarks.

The second vendor I stopped to talk to was no more help, even though the woman knitted fabulous scarves and hats. Obviously, there wasn’t much call for buttons on fabulous scarves and hats.

The third tent was set up right outside the Bent Grove Barber Shop and belonged to a quilter named Hetty, and just looking at the quality of her products, I perked right up. Her fabric choices were gorgeous. Her work was detailed and meticulous. In addition to meeting a kindred spirit, I was hoping I hit pay dirt.

I knew it for sure when I checked out the quilt hanging at the back of her display and drew in a breath of pure wonder. It was one of those crazy quilts—bits and pieces of fabric sewn together along with scraps of lace and pieces of ribbons and strips of velvet, then embellished with embroidery stitches in all shapes and sizes and colors—along with hundreds and hundreds of buttons.

I knew I was going to like Hetty, even before I introduced myself and showed her a photo of the mystery button.

“That’s one of Granny Maude’s, surely.” Hetty was as thin as a green bean, a seventysomething woman with soft creases in her cheeks and a head of riotous silvery curls. She smiled and nodded. “Maude, she made them buttons and passed them out to the children over at the local school when they graduated from eighth grade. Can’t be another person anywhere ’cept Maude who makes buttons as fine as those.” She gave me a sly glance. “You lookin’ to buy?”

She’d confirmed the Granny Maude theory, and for that, I owed her at least part of the truth. “I might be. What can you tell me about her and her buttons?”

“I’ve got a set.” Hetty grabbed my arm and piloted me to the crazy quilt. “See here. They was apples the year I graduated.”

Close inspection showed a quilted tree cobbled together from scraps of different green fabrics and topped off with six fabulous apple buttons.

“You’re not from around here,” Hetty said, while I was still staring, openmouthed, at the detail—including a tiny stem and leaf—on each apple button. “If you was, I’d know you. Everyone in these parts knows everyone else. So I’m guessing you think we’re a little funny turned, gettin’ all excited about buttons as graduation gifts.”

“Not at all. I think buttons . . .” I already had a hand out, ready to run my fingers over a quilt square dotted with dozens of earthenware buttons shaped like turtles and fish and seashells, and I caught myself just in time. I pulled my hand to my side. If quilters were anything like button collectors, they loved it when someone admired their work, but they also appreciated a little courtesy. It’s always best to ask permission before touching.

“Buttons are the best,” I said, and when a grouping of tiny calicos caught my eye, I bent closer for a better look. “Anybody who gives buttons as a graduation gift must be a real genius.”

Hetty laughed. “I s’pect that’s not the way folks looked at it that first year Maude made her buttons and showed up with ’em at graduation. She was a little touched in the head, see. At least that’s what folks always said about her. Me, I do believe buttons, they were her way of letting that artistic spirit of hers fly free.”

“Her work is wonderful.”

“That it is. And after the first couple years, when she insisted on giving the kids her buttons, the school board gave in just so’s Maude wouldn’t put up a stink. Well, that’s when folks in these parts realized how valuable them buttons were. Not because they were fixin’ to sell them, mind you.” I knew she’d added this caveat for my benefit. “But Maude, she started with her buttons way back during World War II. She figured if she gave them at graduation and it became somethin’ of an honor to receive ’em, then the kids, they’d stay in school.”

“Did they?”

Hetty shrugged. “Some did; some didn’t. Sometimes, the boys went off and joined the army even before they finished their schoolin’. You know, lied about their ages and all. Sometimes, makin’ sure there’s food on the table is more important than anything, even special buttons.”

I wasn’t so sure about that, but it hardly mattered.

“So, Granny Maude . . . She’s been making these buttons for a long time.”

“Died years ago, bless her heart.” Hetty’s smile was bittersweet. “Probably just as well. Can you imagine kids these days carin’ about a thing like buttons? It’s best that Maude was givin’ the buttons away years ago, back when people still appreciated things made by hand.”

It was more than I knew when I’d begun my Kaz-complicated trip to West Virginia, and I was grateful. But still not satisfied. “These buttons that look like hawks . . .” I held up the photo. “You don’t happen to know what year they were made, do you?”

Hetty cocked her head, considering. “Not back when I was a kid, I can tell you that much. Me and my brothers and sisters—there was thirteen of us—we all got them buttons from Maude. My goodness, how proud my mother was to know all her little ’uns had gone through eighth grade. If any of us had gotten them bird buttons, I’d surely remember. Must have come later.”

“And Maude, she’s been dead since . . .”

Thinking, she pursed her lips. “Seems to me it was that same summer the river up near Carrysburg flooded over its banks. Bunch o’ folks was killed. That would have been . . . oh my, a good ten years ago at least.”

“And that’s when the button tradition ended?”

“I suspect so. I’m pretty sure my grandson . . . that would be Bo, Bo Clarence Johnson . . . I’m pretty sure he got a set of them buttons. And he’s nearly forty.”

It wasn’t much, but it was a lead, and I tried not to look too enthusiastic. There was no use letting Hetty think that I, too, was funny turned. “Maybe if I could talk to Bo . . .”

She shook her head. “Livin’ up in Wheeling. Has been for years. Workin’ at some fancy school teachin’ fancy kids such as they don’t appreciate homemade things any more.”

My heart sank, and I guess Hetty knew it, because she patted my arm.

“Not to worry. Plenty of Bo’s friends still live here in town.” She checked the Timex on her wrist. “You come back when I’m done with my dinner break, say, five o’clock, and I’ll get some of the boys Bo went to school with over here to meet you. Sound good?”

It sounded better than good. I promised Hetty I’d see her in a couple hours and went back out into the street.

I wasn’t exactly looking for Kaz.

But then, it was pretty hard to miss the commotion coming from the tent with the sign above it that said beer could be purchased there. A loud bump. A crash. Voices raised in anger.

A second later, my ex came flying onto the street.

Chapter Fourteen

KAZ WAS AIRBORNE FOR A COUPLE SECONDS. THAT IS, RIGHT before he crash-landed next to a garbage can.

I didn’t exactly race over to see what was going on. I more like strolled, partly because I could see he wasn’t really hurt (well, except for his pride, but that was Kaz’s problem) and mostly because I wondered if whatever had happened inside would be continued outside. If it did and if—as I suspected—Kaz was in the center of things, the last place I wanted to be was at his side.

People streamed out of the beer tent and gathered around to see what was going to happen next, but thank goodness, nobody threw any punches.

That was my go-ahead signal. I excused myself through the knot of people gathered around Kaz and offered him a hand up, but not until I got in the dig I was sure he deserved.

“What, you were hitting on somebody’s wife?”

“That’s not a fair question and you know it.” Kaz dusted off the seat of his jeans. The left sleeve of his shirt was ripped, and he gave it a disgusted look before he turned the same expression on me. “Come on, Jo, whatever I did to you, you know I was never unfaithful.”

It was true, but that hardly excused a brawl in a strange town. Especially a town where we were supposed to be cozying up to the locals to get information.

Just to see how bad things really were, I leaned back, peeked into the tent, and saw that one table was overturned and a couple plastic cups of beer were spilled and scattered on the floor. The commotion was definitely over, and there didn’t look to be any major damage and nothing happening except for the man wearing an apron, cleaning things up and grumbling.

“So . . .” I waited for an explanation, and when Kaz didn’t offer one, I went right back to filling in the blanks. “You drank a couple beers, right? Then you informed them that you couldn’t pay.”

“What kind of guy do you think I am?” Ignoring the curious onlookers, Kaz limped across the street, putting some distance between himself and the ego (and butt) bruising. Once he was gone and the excitement was over, the crowd broke up, some of them going back in for beer and others continuing on their way through the fair. “I was chatting it up with the bartender,” Kaz said. “And not for any other reason than that I was trying to help you out, asking about that Maude lady and her buttons. You know, minding my own business.” He stretched and winced. “And this big guy walks right behind my seat and jostles me.”

The picture was starting to come into focus. I crossed my arms over my chest and stepped back, my weight against one foot. “So you challenged him to a throw down.”

“Hey, you know me better than that, Jo. I’m a lover, not a fighter!” His smile reminded me of exactly that.

Which is why I turned around and walked away. For all his faults (and lord, there were many!), Kaz had never been a brawler. I knew that, and I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. Then again, I doubt anyone could blame me. It was hard to think the best of a man who’d put me through the special hell on earth that is life with Kaz. And harder still to apologize, even when I knew I owed him.

Hard, but not impossible.

“Sorry,” I mumbled when he’d caught up and was walking at my side. “I shouldn’t have assumed—”

“No. Really. That’s OK. I guess I can’t blame you.” We were standing near a booth that sold kettle corn, and Kaz loves kettle corn almost as much as I do. He ordered an extra-large bag, then patted his pockets and looked to me for assistance.

I rolled my eyes and pulled out my money, and once we had our popcorn, we stepped to the side.

“So . . .” I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I smelled the delicious combined scents of fresh-popped corn and sugary coating. I got down to business, finishing a couple handfuls before I continued. “What did you find out from the bartender?”

“About Maude? Nothing. I never had a chance.” He tossed a handful of corn into his mouth and chewed. “The first time that big guy walked by and bumped me, I figured it was just an accident, you know? It was crowded in there, and I figured he wasn’t paying any attention. But the second time . . . Well, you can’t blame me for saying something to the guy.”

“Which was . . ?”

He shrugged and chewed. “Nothing inflammatory, that’s for sure. I know better than to get on the wrong side of the locals in a place like this. I said something about how he should watch where he was going. That’s it. That’s when . . .” He grabbed another handful of corn and winced when he chewed. “The big guy didn’t say a word. He just threw a punch.”

“And you punched back.”

Kaz’s shoulders shot back. “I tried. But . . .” He touched a hand to the spot on his jaw that was already turning purple. “Did I mention he was big? He picked me up and threw me right out of the tent. How humiliating is that? If word ever gets back to the guys at the port about this . . .”