No Hiding Behind the Potted Palms! A Dance with Danger Mystery #7 (43 page)

The summer and fall months
were active in Habersham. There were concerts in the center of
town, so we had our own special viewing stand from the front porch.
We began to entertain, inviting new friends in for dinners, and
they reciprocated in kind. Mary seemed to be in her element. She
loved puttering in the kitchen. She even found there were a number
of retirees who enjoyed bird-watching and swimming at the community
pool. Soon she was taking off for trips with fellow seniors, having
a ball. Every day, she took a long walk through the center of town,
keeping herself in good shape.

I danced around the dating
situation for the first few months, meeting a nice divorced lawyer
for morning coffee and the occasional lunch, not yet ready for a
full-fledged date. Randolph Gentry had a power boat, so we
graduated to picnics and water excursions. Despite the fact that he
was an interesting companion and a kind, gentle man, there wasn’t
much chemistry between us. Maybe it was that my heart wasn’t quite
ready to decide. He was patient and never rushed me into a
commitment. Instead, he allowed me to slip into my new skin,
believing as he did that I was still a grieving widow.

We officially opened “La Vie
en Rose” in September, with a celebration that spilled out onto the
sidewalk. With a focus on southern artists and scenes, the shop
offered original artwork and reprints. By then we had found an
Atlanta printer who took master digital photos of the original
artwork. This allowed us to offer it in several formats and sizes,
including some museum-quality Giclée prints and some limited
edition, signed lithographs. Over the first months, business was
slow, but our Internet business began to grow rapidly, as we filled
online orders for the waterscapes, still lifes, and Low Country
scenes.

“If this keeps going in the
same direction, we’re going to have to hire help,” Mary decided one
morning, as she worked on the books. “We’re definitely making
progress.”

I began to enjoy being a
shop proprietor who gave artists a chance to display and sell their
work. Every month, we featured two artists, giving them prominent
space to display their original artwork in the front of the shop
and on our website. Artists and craftspeople began to seek us out,
hoping to be accepted into the shop’s roster. I loved the fact that
tourists often stopped in to purchase a souvenir of their visit.
The best part of our retail operation was that Mary was the public
face in the store, and she reveled in it. There was nothing she
enjoyed more than talking with the people who popped into the shop.
I began to see her come out of her own shell over time, and I
wondered if she realized that she was building her own roots in the
community. I hoped it meant that she would want to stay once I was
able to stand on my own two feet.

“We’ll know better once we
see where we are, financially, after twelve months. The shop has to
be in the black, or we’ll have to rethink this whole thing,” she
told me. “After all, you need to be able to support yourself, my
dear.”

About every three or four
months, Mary took a week or so to go visit her son. She never gave
me any details about his job, saying only that he worked for the
government. She hinted that she wanted him to settle down and get
married again, but admitted that she wasn’t crazy about his first
or second wife.

“He’s a good man, but a
lousy judge of women’s characters,” she told me. “We have a deal
now. He’s not to pop the question until I’ve thoroughly vetted the
candidate. When it comes to romance, he’s not thinking with his
head. I can’t tell you the number of sticky situations I’ve had to
dig him out of when it comes to the fairer sex.”

In January, a friend of mine
needed to find a home for a stray cat she found cowering behind her
office. Mr. Whiskers was not particularly happy with the vet exam
and the neutering, but he soon adapted to long naps curled up on
the velvet sofa in our living room and the occasional foray onto
the porch and balcony. After a while, he began to go downstairs to
the shop, to plop himself in a chair by the front door. Mary would
often scratch him behind the ears while she sat at the counter, so
he was quite content being with us.

I found Joy by accident. The
tiny little puppy was in a pen with her mother in a small gallery
down in Savannah, when I stopped to check on Terline Renaud’s
fishing scenes. The instant I saw her, I was in love with those
brown eyes. She nuzzled my hand as I picked her up and then tucked
her tiny head under my chin. There was no way I could leave her
behind.

“Tell you what,” said
Garrett Dupuis, the gallery owner. “Buy Terline’s canvases for cash
and I’ll throw in the puppy.”

“All of them?” I wondered.
“There are twelve.”

“Right,” Garrett
grinned.

“But I also want to talk to
him,” I insisted, “about a deal.”

“He’s a starving artist. He
needs the money. You want the puppy, buy the art.”

“You don’t understand. I
don’t just want the original artwork. I want to do reprints. And I
want Terline to get his fair share.”

“Lady, if that’s your
business, let me show you something,” he drawled. In the backroom
of his shop, he had at least a hundred framed pieces of original
artwork, some dating back decades. Some were mediocre, some were
decent, and at least twenty were minor masterpieces.

“How would you like to work
with me on finding talent worthy of the reprint business? I want to
find the best in Low Country art.” He was interested, so I gave
Garrett my card and a check for Terline’s original artwork, and he
gave me Joy in return.

It was a partnership that
grew over the next few months, as we bickered over what artists to
promote. Garrett was very opinionated and strong-willed, but he had
a good eye for what people enjoyed, and with few exceptions, he
picked some popular art to feature.

On my way home from that
first visit, I stopped and bought the necessary doggie
paraphernalia for little Joy. She slept comfortably in her little
case on the seat beside me as I drove back to Habersham. Mary was
in the kitchen when we arrived. As I reached the top step, I set
the puppy down and she immediately scampered across the
floor.

“What’s this?” Mary asked,
bending down to greet the little fur ball.

“This is my Joy,” I
announced with a grin.

“A dog at last! What
fun!”

Mr. Whiskers was less than
impressed. He tried hard to ignore her, especially when she wanted
to play, but they came to an understanding. Sometimes I would find
them curled up together on the floor, napping.

It was all going along well
until the day Mary announced her son had taken a job in Savannah
and he was coming for a visit.

“Does this mean you’re
getting ready to leave me?” I asked her. I felt a pang of panic at
the thought that Mary was about to disappear from my
life.

Chapter Ten --

“I hadn’t planned on it,”
Mary replied. To tell you the God’s honest truth, I like it here. I
like the town and I like the people. And I love this shop. You
know, Lucie, you really should consider expanding the the
business.”

“That’s what Garrett
says.”

“He’s a wily, old fox,” Mary
replied with a disapproving sniff. She was less than dazzled by his
courtly southern manners when he came for a working visit a few
weeks earlier. “If you ask me, he’s looking to get into your
bloomers.”

“And would that be a bad
thing?” Garrett was a tall drink of water, a high school history
teacher who opened Oglethorpe’s Lyceum as something to fill his
summer hours. In addition to local artwork, his shop also featured
unusual Southern antiques and local ephemera, including buttons and
posters of political events. Garrett was a died-in-the-wool history
buff. He had a retired railroad engineer and a former Miss Georgia
beauty queen filling in for him during the school week. He brought
Joy’s mother, his little Maltese, with him to work. Miss Marigold
was left behind by an ex-lady friend, who decamped in the middle of
a heat-wave with the guy who came to fix the air conditioner. At
least that was the story he liked to tell.

“I think you could do
better,” was all Mary replied before dropping the
subject.

But that was before her son
announced he would be arriving in a week. Ever since then, Mary
seemed extremely nervous that I would accept her son.

“What’s he like?” I pumped
her full of questions one afternoon in the shop, while we were
catching up on our paperwork.

“Oh, hard-working,
conscientious, a consummate professional.” She was marking items
with her label maker.

“I mean as a person. Is he a
quiet man, always keeping his head in a book, or is he boisterous,
the life of the party?”

“You tell me when you meet
Robbie. I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. You know how
mothers can be about their sons. To me, he’s close to
perfect.”

“Except that he has bad
taste in women,” I reminded her. She rolled her eyes and gave her
head a shake.

“Just once I wish he would
listen to me and find the right girl.”

“Headstrong,” I said with a
laugh. “He doesn’t want to be told what to do or how to do
it.”

“Well, he does have a lot of
people working for him,” she explained. “He’s used to being in
charge.”

“Ah,” I teased, “he’s
bossy.”

“He’s a leader. It’s his job
to tell people what to do.”

“What does he do for
fun?”

“Robbie’s a golfer. He was
on his varsity team in college. And he likes to tinker with cars
and boats. He can fix his own lawn mower, too.”

“Wow, that’s quite a list of
skills, Mom. Sure to impress any girl.”

“I’m just saying that he’s
got a good mind that can solve issues.” Mary seemed a little touchy
about the subject. “He’s a fixer and a doer. That’s a good thing in
a man.”

“Of course it is,” I
responded, trying to smooth those ruffled feathers. “Maybe we can
ask him to take a look at that drip in the shop sink while he’s
here.”

“Maybe.”

“Am I forgiven?”

“For what?” she asked,
surprised.

“For teasing you about your
son.”

“Oh, Lucie, don’t worry
about me. I’m just a proud mama who’s happy her son has finally
moved close enough to keep in touch. Pay me no mind.”

“If I pay you no mind, I
won’t have the benefit of your wise counsel.”

“I’m sorry, dear. I promised
him I wouldn’t play matchmaker and he promised me I could meet the
girl of his dreams before he proposed. I’m not supposed to
interfere, but sometimes it’s very difficult for a mother not to
want the best for her son.” Mary scooped up a sleepy Mr. Whiskers,
giving the surprised cat a chin rub.

“Gee,” I laughed. “For a
second there, I almost thought you were suggesting I might be a
candidate.”

“Well, promise me you’ll
give him twenty-four hours before you completely cross him off your
dance card.”

“With a mother like you and
a father like Bernie, how bad can he be?” We had talked a lot over
the last several months about her late husband.

“My son can be an acquired
taste,” she admitted. “He’s always focused on his job, and
sometimes his people skills lag behind. I’m hoping his new job
gives him more time to spend with family and friends.”

“Will it make you feel
better if I promise to take that into consideration and give him
time to unwind to a more southern way of life? Don’t worry, Mama.
We’ll have your boy swinging a golf club and casting a fishing line
in no time, at least while he’s here with us. By the way, where is
he staying?”

“He says he’s bringing his
own camp cot and a sleeping bag. We’re not to fuss. He’ll sleep in
the living room.” She shook her head at the thought.

“Well, he’s easy-going as a
guest,” I suggested. “He’s low-maintenance.”

“He’ll take over the
kitchen,” Mary warned me. “There’s nothing he loves to do more on
weekends than cook up a storm. I hope you like pancakes and
sausages.”

“I’m looking forward to this
guy,” I confessed with a laugh. “He must be something if he’s got
you proud and exasperated at the same time!”

“You don’t know the half of
it. For his entire career, he’s been moved around the country every
few years, and he was always flying here or there on assignment. We
never knew if we were going to see him for the holidays. This is
the first time Robbie’s lived anywhere near me since he was
eighteen. I just hope he likes it down here. I really want him to
like Habersham.”

“It sounds like you want him
to get a place in town,” I commented.

“Would that be such a bad
thing?” Mary put down the cat and looked at me. “He’s still young
enough to find a nice girl and have a long, happy
marriage.”

“And he’s more likely to do
just that if we stay off the subject of marriage,” I pointed out.
“This does not sound like a man who wants to be told what to do.
Why don’t we just show him around town and let him make up his own
mind about living here?”