Smooth Moves. Carrie Alexander

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      3

      THE NEXT DAY, Cathy worked at Scarborough Faire alone all morning. Its herbal-scented atmosphere soothed her fitfulness. Amongst the shop’s cornucopia of gnarled branches and vines, sheaves of dried flowers, weathered barn-board shelving, old jelly cupboards and pie safes stocked with ribbons and wrapping papers, stationery, pen nibs and bottles of ink, she was as at home and confident as never before in her life. Peace had its price in this instance; few customers stopped in. Distracted from issues of commerce, she did not particularly care.

      Quite naturally, Cathy was occupied with thoughts of Zack Brody. Worriedly, at first, but after a few hours in the shop, she began to see things from a different perspective. A buoyant, emboldened one.

      And why not? She was attractive enough. She was intelligent. She was capable.

      Upon realizing how dissatisfied she’d become with her humdrum life as an accounts supervisor for a small advertising firm in Virginia Beach, she’d single-handedly researched, plotted and executed a successful escape. She’d ditched the job, cashed out her savings and moved cross-country to turn Kay’s Krafts into the storybook arts and gift shop she’d long dreamed of.

      Such drastic change took courage. Ergo, she’d already proved that she could handle anything.

      Even, perhaps, the legendary Heartbreak.

      Humming beneath her breath, Cathy rummaged through an old sea chest of fabric remnants. Zack had nearly caught her that morning when she’d scurried from the house to her car, wearing dark glasses and a scarf knotted over her hair like a celebrity dodging the paparazzi.

      He’d stepped onto his porch and shouted a neighborly hello; she’d been reversing out of the driveway and had pretended not to notice. All she’d seen was a quick glimpse of him in her rearview mirror. Upraised hand, fading smile. Thick brown hair. Lots of shoulder.

      Imminent Heartbreak.

      Cathy pulled out a piece of gingham, then discarded it. Whether or not anything developed between her and Zack, she was willing to be a martyr for the cause.

      Unfolding a length of dotted swiss, she thought of his engaging smile, the light in his eyes. Her stomach did a slow roll of sensuous proportions. Yum. There were worse fates.

      At one o’clock, Kay Estress arrived for the shift she put in four days a week. As the store’s previous proprietor, Kay had agreed to stay on part-time during the changeover of ownership. Seven months later, though appreciative of the practical advice Kay freely—and frequently—offered, Cathy was ready for the arrangement to end. She hadn’t yet figured out how to ease Kay out the door in a properly respectful manner.

      The tall, raw-boned woman gave the new baby-bootie-and-receiving-blanket display a once-over. Cathy had gone a little wild with the dotted swiss and trailing yellow ribbons.

      Kay, whose style was relentlessly straightforward, even militant, sniffed. “Cute,” she conceded, her dark brows rising to meet the fluff of silvery-white bangs that were the only soft thing about her. “But it doesn’t pay to overstock on these type of knitting patterns. The profit margin is minimal.”

      Cathy took off her apron, wadded it up and stowed it on one of the shelves beneath the checkout counter. “A person who buys the patterns will need needles, ribbon and two kinds of yarn,” she pointed out. “We—I’ll see a decent return.”

      Kay shrugged her wide, bony shoulders. “It’s your funeral.” She slipped a pristine apron over the neat silver cap of her hair, straightening her starched collar with a tug. Her displays had been practical, not imaginative. Her shelves had been stocked on schedule, not on whim.

      Cathy smiled at Kay. Nicely. She understood that it was difficult for the older woman to adjust to a more creative way of doing things. Having grown up under the watch of Admiral Wallace Winston Bell, Cathy had plenty of experience dealing with rigidity. Her father was career Navy—he’d run the proverbial tight ship. His awkward, bookish, imaginative daughter had baffled him to no end. He’d never completely succeeded in shaping her up, which was perhaps the one failure in his illustrious career.

      “I’ll be gone for at least an hour,” Cathy said, tightening at the thought of her impending makeover. “Maybe two.”

      Kay took out a bottle of Zap, her favorite spray cleaner. “No problem.”

      Cathy waved from the door. “There haven’t been many customers, so you should do fine alone. I’ll be next door at Laurel’s if you need me.”

      Kay doffed the bottle as Cathy departed. Looking back, she saw that her employee had yanked the apron out from beneath the counter and was whipping it into a tidy package like a color guard folding a flag. A woman after her father’s heart. Banish the thought.

      Outside, the June sunshine was glorious; it made the pavement shine and the parking meters sparkle. Quimby was as quaint as Cathy had remembered from her yearlong stay as a child. Beneath mature sugar maples and grand old elms, the residential streets were cozy with modest Queen Anne cottages, Craftsman bungalows and wood-frame houses with wide front porches. The downtown business district thrived on what passed for bustle in the small town. Cathy did not regret her move, even though it had meant leaving several good friends СКАЧАТЬ