Cut, Crop & Die (29 page)

I was deep into doodling designs on the frames when a mellow voice interrupted.

“Hey, babe.”

Johnny draped an arm over a nearby fixture. There was a languorous, graceful line to his body. I wondered if he had any idea how powerfully attractive he was.

I bet he did. Not even Helen Keller could have missed his sensuality.

“A little bird named Mert told me you got a long evening ahead of you. With the crop and all. I put a picnic in my truck. How about we run over to Tilles Park and sit outside with Gracie? Figured you might need a break.”

I was happy to go with him. There was an element of the unknown and unknowable about him that set me tingling. This sort of distraction would make it easier to wean myself from Detweiler.

On the way to the park, I told him about the shots that were taken at my car.

“I wondered what that bandage was on your dog’s ear,” he said. “You need to be careful. Look, anytime you need help, just give me a call.” He was silent for a while. Then he said, “You know about me being at Potosi.”

“Yes, Mert told me.” His introduction to a topic I’d rather avoid was spare, laid out without preamble. I said, “I have a daughter. Anya.”

“I know. I met her, remember?”

Okay, it was a non sequitur to him, but to me it followed. I was trying to say I was worried about the impact of bringing a felon into our lives. Even if this wasn’t a segue to dating, it was the opening of a door. Johnny didn’t need to spell out his thought process. Or maybe he did. Maybe jail defined him. Maybe this was the “getting to know you” discussion that preceded ongoing interaction on any level.

Johnny shifted, restive in the driver’s seat. “She’s a wonderful girl. My sis talks real highly of her. Roger thinks she’s cute as a new pup.”

And I am her mother. Responsible for her. What would happen if the Venn Diagram of our lives included Johnny as an overlapping circle? How might we then color in the shared space? Would we be endangered by his past? Could I possibly be in more danger than I was now? Would Anya be shunned by other kids if word got around her mother was dating a former inmate? Would Johnny’s presence bring into our lives an undesirable group of friends? And, I couldn’t suppress a thought I skittishly avoided, what would Sheila say?

Suddenly I felt totally tongue-tied and inadequate. That’s how conflicted, how confusing were my thoughts. They rendered me dumbstruck.

He searched my face. Then he laughed, a sound as rich as roasted coffee beans. “I’m not a child molester, Kiki. Is that what worries you?”

“No! Not at all, it’s just … it’s just … I worry about your friends, and if you are safe, and there’s my mother-in-law. Her reaction. How Anya fits in, and what her schoolmates might say.” Now the words came out in a torrent.

“I don’t remember proposing marriage.”

“Right. I know. I mean, I realize I must seem … overwrought. I’m protective.”

“You should be. It’s not easy to be a single mom. Mert told me about your husband. I’m sorry for your loss.” This politeness felt deeply, thoughtfully genuine. He added, “I need to get everything out in the open. No games. I’m starting over, so to speak, and want a cleanness, an honesty to my life. You deserve that, and I respect your situation.

“See, I’m not good enough for you. There’s my past. I don’t have a good education or prospects. But—” and his withdrawal seemed shamed and painful, “but here I am. I take care of my own, and at the very least, I’d like to build on my sister’s friendship with you.”

My thoughts jumbled and rolled over each other. I didn’t say, “It’s just that I’ve never dated a convict before.” I wondered if this was a new low? Or was I simply being true to my belief we all deserve more than one chance? Was this the right time to invite someone like Johnny into our lives? While my husband’s killer was loose and threatening me? Was I begging for more trouble? Or might Johnny have the inside track (whatever that was) on criminal behavior?

On the other hand … he was so luscious. Maybe he could help me forget the monster-sized hole in my heart left by Detweiler. (And I could only imagine what Detweiler would think about me cozying up to Johnny. That alone would be worth the price of admission.)

Johnny parked the truck and dipped his head level with mine. His index finger raised my chin. “Say the word and I’ll disappear.” When I hesitated, he moved closer, closer, and kissed me very, very lightly on the lips. “Or stick around. Up to you. We can see how it goes. Now, what do you say we eat? Mert had all sorts of leftovers and I hate for them to go to waste.”

I’ve always been a sucker for bad boys. Who isn’t? The thrill of danger mixed with the hormonal rush of desire is heady stuff.

But my inexperience always caused me to hang back. In my youth, my innocence was at risk. I lost that to a good man, or so I thought, who had done me wrong. What could a bad boy do? Besides use a heightened sense of awareness, of fear, of the unknown, to awaken my Sleeping Beauty of a romantic life?

All we did was eat. But … my legs were wobbling and my knees were knocking, as I entered the store. And I hardly ate a thing. I wasn’t that kind of hungry. I went straight into the bathroom and splashed my forearms with cold water. That didn’t help much, so I tossed cold water all up and down my neck. All we had was cold water, because Dodie wouldn’t turn on the miniature water heater again until the fall. But cold water was all I needed.

Liar.

I needed something more. I was, after all, human. And lonely. And in the prime of my life. My motor was racing and my engine was pointed toward the Indy 500 Speedway of Desire.

Johnny could do all this with one kiss and a lot of innuendo? Oh, boy.

“Have you seen Yvonne’s pages on the magazine website? Gosh, I didn’t know she was that talented. Last time she and I went to a crop, she could barely manage one of those packages of coordinated paper and embellishments,” said Bonnie Gossage as she copied my boho page. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but I thought I was a better judge of talent than that. I mean, after all these crops, I thought I had a pretty good handle on other people’s ability.” Baby Felix dangled on her knee as she scrapped with one hand. Every once in awhile, another scrapbooker would snag Felix and love him up. He was our resident pass-around baby. The duckling down of his hair was as kissable as his fat little arms and legs. Women cooed over him and wistful expressions blanketed their faces.

If a baby boom started among our group, Felix bore the responsibility of being the trigger and catalyst.

Emma Delacroix Martin was attending her second crop, her old St. Louis pedigree indicated by her French middle name. Like dog breeders, the hoi polloi of our town industriously kept their breeding lines straight. Surnames regularly appeared as first names and conjoined last names drew straight lines of genealogical descent. Someday soon I’d run across an Elizabeth out of Gerald or some nonsensical nomenclature. Intermarriage kept money and power within the family. It also spawned imbeciles, but those problems were kept behind closed ranks.

However, Emma exemplified the best of good bloodlines. Her queenly carriage, her good manners, her patrician intelligence made her someone I wanted to know better. She was everything I aspired to be. She smiled and said, “My teenage son helped me find the website featuring Yvonne’s pages. They certainly are impressive. Of all the winners, I think she has—had—the most talent. But, Bonnie? You didn’t see her like that? In real life, I mean?”

Nettie blew her nose loudly and hocked up a loogie. “Sorry. The mold count is unbelievable. The air quality is yellow. The color of pollen. Geez, my allergist wants me to keep puffing on my inhaler, taking Claritin, and he’s after me again to quit smoking.” Nettie copied my page and finished a greeting card. I also noticed she brought along an album. That was a first. She never brought her original work to a group session. At the next break, I wanted to ask her discreetly if I could see what she had. Looking over our customers’ work was a great way to get to know people better and learn what appealed to our consumer base. After all, scrapbookers usually scrapbook what matters most to them. So each album is a glimpse into their psyches, their value systems, and their world.

Nettie reached into her purse and rattled a pill container. “Could I have some water, please?”

I retrieved a bottle of water from the back. As she fiddled with the lid of the bottle, I noticed Dr. Andersoll’s name on the label. Anya’s allergist.

Emma signaled for my help. “I don’t know how to do a design transfer.”

“No problem. I’ll show you how to do one on light or dark paper.”

Markie Dorring added glitter glue to her frame. She was working to create an album for her nieces and nephews, and the frame I’d created would be perfect for spotlighting their photos. She talked as she worked. “Has anyone gone to Memories First to see Yvonne’s pages? The ones for the Scrapbook Star contest?”

“You know I’ve been meaning to do that, but I don’t want to run into Ellen Harmon,” I admitted. “Until all this is settled, it seems like a good idea to steer clear.”

Markie said, “That store is packed all the time. Ellen is on top of everyone, asking questions about Yvonne’s death. I keep expecting her to waltz out of the back room wearing a deerstalker cap and smoking a pipe. Perry’s employer is offering a $10,000 reward for information leading to Yvonne’s killer.”

Nettie wiped her nose. “Are you saying you think Ellen will try to pin this on someone? So she can collect the reward?”

Markie shrugged. She wore her hair in a short cut that hugged her head the way a receptacle cradles a flower blossom. “Why not? I heard her bragging. She’s as greedy as they come. I suppose she’s got as good an idea who did it as anybody. She was there when it happened. She knew Yvonne. She has access to all those people trooping into her store and a reason to ask them about Yvonne without seeming inappropriate. Seems to me that she’s got the ideal set up for tracking down who dunnit.”

Before anyone could respond, Dodie commandeered the head of the table and cleared her throat. “Since you are among our favorite customers, I wanted you to be the first to know our news. We’re launching a Design Team. Bama and I are working out details.”

News? I’ll say. It was a surprise to me. Usually we discussed ideas and refined them together. Why had she left me out? A sudden anger at Bama rose within me. Once Dodie and I were a dynamic duo. Now I was just another employee.

The table buzzed with chatter. A Design Team offers page designers a forum for their work and a steep discount for supplies. It helps a store stay up-to-date with trends. Designers display new products, add excitement, and sometimes teach classes. Before our fiasco with the CAMP outing, Dodie and I had discussed the possible merits of a Design Team. But she hadn’t said anything since then. Her announcement took me by surprise.

Get over it, I told myself. It is, after all, her store.

Dodie explained she wanted a variety of talents and experience levels on the team: newbie scrappers, card makers, artist trading card makers, altered items specialists, and seasoned scrappers. To be considered, she asked each woman to submit six of her best pieces of work by e-mail or in person.

“Who’ll be the judge?” asked Nettie. “You and your staff?”

Dodie’s bushy dark hair swayed around her olive-complected face as she shook her head. “Not just us. Fellow store owners around the country will help choose. That will be more fair, and we can’t be accused of favoritism.”

The women at the table found her methodology pleasing. We all knew of contests biased by personalities or pocketbook, as in, you buy enough stuff from me and I’ll treat you like a star.

“What if we don’t have a scanner?” asked Nettie.

“Bring in your work, and we’ll scan it. But please know, if you are selected, we will want to display your work in the store.”

Nettie nodded. “That makes sense. It’s just I don’t like to leave my work where everyone has access to it unless there’s a reason. Otherwise people can copy my ideas.”

Markie agreed. “Yep, I’m with you, Nettie. A lot of people try to pass off other people’s work as their own. Anyone catch the chat on that one list-server where a scrapbooker copied another woman’s journaling and then entered it in a challenge?”

A challenge is a sort of mini-contest. Scrapbookers are “challenged” to use a certain technique or theme in their work. Sometimes the winner gets a prize; sometimes it’s just recognition. Usually all the responses to the challenge are posted for others to see and appreciate.

The group responded with a chorus of “No way!” The women chimed in with their opinions and swapped viewpoints on scraplifting—authorized or unauthorized use of other’s ideas and designs—until time to leave. Dodie called our rent-a-cop to escort our customers out the back door. That’s when I realized that Dodie’s announcement had distracted me from seeing Nettie’s work. “Nettie, are you giving thought to being considered for the Design Team?”

Through our broken and mostly boarded-up front window, and under the glare of new security lights, we watched the other women climb into their cars under the watchful gaze of our new rent-a-cop. In addition to the lost revenue from our CAMP disaster and from the bad publicity, these security measures were costing Dodie a bunch of money.