Lie of the Needle(39)

            “I’ll walk you home.”

            “You don’t have to do that. I’m fine.”

            I put an arm around her. “Jasper needs a walk, anyway. Come on.”

            Joe hugged Martha good-bye and handed her a bag with a Tupperware container. “Take some pot roast home with you. Maybe you’ll be hungry later.”

            “Darling, Joe.” She looked at me sadly. “Daisy, you have no idea how lucky you are.”





Chapter Seven




                         On Saturday, it turned even colder, and the wind kicked up as I hopped out of the car at the salvage yard, hoping to see my irascible friend standing on the stoop of the trailer in his sweatpants, his long gray hair brushing the shoulders of his white T-shirt, ready to give me an earful.

            But the trailer was empty, except for the tiny black cat curled up on the recliner. He jumped down and came into the kitchen at the sight of me. After I filled up his bowl, he even let me brush my hand briefly against his fur before he bent his head to eat.

            Progress.

            At some point I might try to pick him up and take him home with me, but I wasn’t sure how that would work out with Jasper. Besides, he seemed fairly content here.

            “But I’m sure you miss Cyril, too. Right, buddy?”

            He surveyed me with dark yellow eyes before he bent down again and lapped at the water.

            I sat on the floor next to him, closed my eyes, and fancied I could almost smell the familiar scent of slightly burnt toast in the air. I squeezed my eyes tightly, and it was as if Cyril was at the stove, making his usual cups of tea. He’d hand me a cup of the strong, sweet, delicious brew that he called “builder’s grade” and say, “There, lass. That’ll put hairs on yer chest.”

            Whenever something was bothering me, or I wanted an unvarnished opinion, or just a fresh view on the world, I came down to this rusty paradise, counting on Cyril to give it to me straight.

            Well, now I had a real problem, but the problem was, the problem was him.

            I got up with some effort. “Well, ah’d better get cracking,” I said to the cat, in what I hoped was a reasonable imitation of Cyril’s accent.

            The cat didn’t deign to favor me with a backward glance as he turned away and sprang back into his position in the recliner.

            “Okay, okay. Give me a break. I’m trying.”

            Before I headed over to open Sometimes a Great Notion, I had another errand to run. During most of the year, the store was open from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. during the week and Saturdays only by appointment. In the winter, with slower traffic, I modified the hours from noon to 5 p.m., but included Saturdays, when some brave souls ventured out for a drive in the country.

            I’d heard that Dottie Brown held a needlework class in her yarn store on Thursday and Saturday mornings, and I wanted to ask her advice on some samplers I’d recently purchased at an estate sale. I had a rough idea of their value from my own experience and the research I’d done on the Internet, but it would be nice to have confirmation.

            Dottie was ringing up a customer, and I waited until she was free, smiling as I saw the stack of my business cards on her counter. We attracted some of the same clientele, and we were each other’s best cheerleaders.

            “Hi, Dottie. I was wondering if I could pick your brain to price these antique samplers I bought last week.” I held up the tote bag I carried.

            “Oh, you should talk to Althea, over there, teaching the class.” Dottie nodded her head toward the back of the store where I saw a group of women. “She’s the real expert.”