In only a year and a half, Sometimes a Great Notion had become a well-known destination for collectors, interior designers, and antique dealers.
The doorbell rang again, and some live customers came in next looking for a quilt. There were several hanging on the walls, plus I showed them a few more on the second floor, where I had additional rooms for storage and repairs. They finally settled on a field-of-stars design fashioned from feed sacks in soft colors of mauve, pink, blue, and yellow. I wrapped it carefully in tissue paper and placed it in one of my signature shopping bags with its peacock blue grosgrain drawstring.
After they left, I clambered into the nook in one of the windows that jutted onto the porch of the former Victorian home to rearrange the display. Outside, the sky was darkening, and I hoped it wouldn’t rain. My husband and I had dinner reservations at the Bridgewater Inn out on River Road. I pictured us sitting on the veranda overlooking the falls, enjoying the last of the late summer evenings.
Across the main street from me was a shop called A Stitch Back in Time, owned by my friend Eleanor Reid, who restored and altered antique wedding gowns. A CLOSED sign hung on the door. Eleanor opened her store when she damn well felt like it, or had deigned to make an appointment with a client, blissfully immune to the burden of guilt and responsibility that propelled me through life.
Far from the customers always being right, with Eleanor they had to fall on their knees and grovel, but her work was so specialized and immaculate that she was always in high demand. No one was about to trust their grandmother’s treasured wedding dress to anything less than an expert.
It wasn’t until I was cleaning up the counter at the end of the day that I noticed Harriet Kunes had left her eyeglasses behind.
Great.
I rummaged through my well-worn box of customer index cards. Not very high-tech, I know, but hey, it’s what I was used to. I called the number on the card, but there was no answer and no voice mail for me to leave a message.
Joe Daly, my husband, walked through the door just as I was hanging up the phone. I’d kept my maiden name of Buchanan when we married, unable to deal with the concept of going through life as perky-sounding Daisy Daly. Tonight he wore a crisp white shirt, navy pants, and a sports jacket. At sixty-three, he was still a handsome man, tanned, gray-haired, and well-built. Since we’d retired, neither of us dressed up that often, and to see him decked out like this made my heart skip a beat.
I’d also switched my usual work uniform of T-shirt and jeans for a cocktail dress from my collection. A sexy 1950s Christian Dior black lace number that I paired with high-heeled pumps instead of my cowboy boots. I’d twisted my hair up into a decent impression of an elegant knot, although a few wayward brown strands escaped here and there.
Joe’s dark eyes took in my appearance. A smile curved his lips, and he pulled me into his arms. When he kissed me, the world spun away, as did the years, and I savored the feel of his firm mouth and the familiar rush of heat and dizzy longing.
I pulled away first, albeit with a smidgen of regret. It probably wouldn’t do for Millbury’s sewing notions proprietress to be seen making out through the large display windows.
“Do you mind if we make a stop on the way?” I murmured. “Harriet Kunes left her glasses in the store. I know I’d be lost without mine.”
“Sure.” He offered his arm as we walked down the three steps from the black-painted porch. I smiled at him, feeling the familiar strength beneath my fingers and loving the anticipation of a night out. A real date.
A soft raindrop touched my cheek, and I glanced up at the ominous sky. “Oh, I hope this rain holds off until after dinner.”
As we got into the car, I told him how Harriet had seemed desperate to buy my dollhouse. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very nice to her, Joe, but she simply wouldn’t take no for an answer.”