Lauraine Snelling Read online

“Good. Who … ?”

  “Alphi. That’s all I know.”

  “Hmm. I’ll call you if we need more help.” She touched the walkie-talkie clipped to her belt. Dressed in khaki shorts and a scoop-neck red T-shirt, she looked about as fierce as a Lhasa apso, but even sweet dogs have teeth.

  Curiosity ate on her like a yellow jacket starving for protein, but Clarice forced herself to get back to work. The quarterly reports were already a month overdue, and if the grant application wasn’t turned in soon, Hope would not get all the funds she was entitled to.

  Running a nonprofit wasn’t a whole lot different from running a hopefully for-profit business. Both had paperwork that could sink the Bay Bridge.

  While she typed, Clarice kept one ear tuned to whatever was going on outside. No sirens, no gunshots, no screaming.

  When Alphi and Roger finally strolled through the door giving each other high-fives, she blew out a sigh of relief with a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

  “What was it?”

  “Pickpockets, and I saw them.” Alphi pumped the air, then glanced up at Roger, who gave the needed approbation.

  “He did at that. We shadowed them, and the cops caught them. Two young punks working as a team. They failed to explain in a satisfactory manner how they happened to have four watches, two pocket computers, three wallets—two with rather substantial amounts of money—a diamond tennis bracelet, and a diamond crusted lipstick case. Definitely not the normal paraphernalia of teen hoods.”

  “Don’t forget the credit cards.”

  “Right. That would have been the long-term scam.” Roger thumped Alphi on the shoulder. “Nothing better to catch a pickpocket than a reformed pickpocket.”

  “I was good.”

  Clarice kept her mouth closed, but only by a whisker. This child had been a pickpocket? This sweet child with the choirboys voice?

  “Not been for my friend Roger here, I’d a been stuck in juvie.” He shook his head. “Who knows how long.”

  Clarice caught the look of love Roger showered on the boy. Folks say Hope runs this place, but I’m thinking Roger is the backbone.

  “Wish a certain pickpocket I knew could be caught as easily.”

  “I’m working on it, Clarice. Now don’t you go giving up. Remember, God says He is the vindicator of widows and orphans. It’s not smart to invoke the wrath of the almighty God.”

  Clarice glanced up at the clock. One p.m. She planned on attending four o’clock mass at Saints Peter and Paul, on the other side of Washington Square. Today’s weather was perfect for the walk.

  If only she had money to stop by the Italian bakery and bring back macaroons for everyone. Perhaps selling her coat was the only option. Although Roger kept telling her to be patient.

  After mass, she thanked the priest for his homily and headed back toward the shelter. Dusk softened the outlines of buildings, and dampness not quite dense enough to be fog hazed the streetlights. She buttoned her coat, as much for safety’s sake as the chill. Interesting that her fur coat, Gucci bag, and matching shoes would brand her as wealthy, yet she had only five dollars left to her name.

  Herbert, what would you suggest? You always had a good head on your shoulders. What kind of work can I do that would make enough money for me to live on? You know I don’t ask for a lot, all that at the end, that wasn’t me. You just wanted to give me all the things you thought I wanted. And I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. But now everything is gone, and I need to depend on my wits again. Yes, I know, take stock. You were always taking stock, counting what you had and looking ahead.

  She stopped to look in the windows of a store. She could work retail, a nice dress shop, perhaps. Not a big store like Saks, but a small, intimate shop where one could know the customers and call them when something special came in they would like. She waited for the light to change. Of course, she could work in a bakery or even a restaurant, but could her feet take that kind of punishment? An office, like she was doing now, would be the best, but who would hire a sixty-seven-year-old woman?

  She started up Union to Casa de Jesus. Yes, indeed, the house of Jesus, and His arms encircled everyone who came there. With the new programs Julia was starting, a good office worker was needed all the more. Especially one who could organize things as she could. That brought up another thought. How to do what I do best without stepping on Celia’s toes? Her pointed remarks lately were about as subtle as her pointed shoes. I know—take time to build a friendship and get us working together as a team. It’s just that I get so involved and barrel ahead. I know, Herbert, I’ll do better, really I will.

  Back to living arrangements. Was living in the shelter a bad thing? No, other than it took a bed from someone who needed it worse. And they’d had to turn away a young woman who needed a bed.

  Herbert, if you tell me to eat crow and go back to stay with Nadia, I will, but if I can do more good here, then just let me know. But I don’t want to cost someone else something for me to stay. Got that? And you know something else? I really need a haircut. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the thing I took for granted.

  The view was even more incredible than she remembered.

  “Andy, where are you?”

  “Up here,” she called down. She stood leaning against one of several stacks of still-full moving boxes, looking out the bank of living room windows at a freighter passing under the Golden Gate Bridge. She was enthralled by the way the fog licked the tops of the towers and then devoured the remainder of the span.

  “Are you all right?” Martin stopped behind her and slid cool hands around her waist.

  “Yes. Of course. Why?”

  “You never stand still like this.”

  She could feel his warm breath on her neck. “I just can’t get over this view. It’s nothing short of spectacular.” She leaned her head back against his shoulder. “Who would have dreamed … ?”

  “That we would be standing in our own house enjoying a view like this?”

  That wasn’t what she’d been going to say, but it didn’t matter. She was happy that he was happy, that they weren’t arguing, and that things were working out. Martin had his new house, a house he could be proud of when he entertained, and she had her house and Lavender Meadows.

  It wasn’t a perfect situation, but it was workable, at least for now.

  Andy looked up at the clock. “It’s only five thirty. What are you doing here so early?”

  “Since I work in the main office, I leave when the others do.”

  Andy saw his briefcase and knew that even though he’d come home, he wasn’t through working. “I didn’t have time to get out to the grocery store,” she said. “Suzanne left us some takeout menus. What do you say we order in?”

  “Fine with me.”

  Andy turned and kissed Martin lightly on the cheek. “I’ll get the menus.” She headed for the kitchen. Her hurrying and scurrying the last few days had equaled higher winds than a class-four hurricane. From the signing of the contract with Mrs. Getz until now, it had been twelve days. In that time, Andy had flown home, hired a moving company, emptied the house of all the extra furniture and accessories, gone through every cupboard, drawer, and closet, and boxed up all the extra towels, sheets, and kitchen items.

  The process had opened her eyes to her buying habits and her saving habits. She had bought items she already had and didn’t need, and had saved items she should have donated to some worthy charity. The result was that she now had more than enough of everything to stock and furnish their San Francisco home.

  Sunday she would return to Medford, make up a schedule for Shari, and teach her how to update the Lavender Meadows Web site. Andy was pleased with Shari’s progress. She was proving to be just the kind of employee Andy had thought she would be, conscientious and hard-working.

  Now that the lavender beds and fields had been put to rest for the winter, the outdoor agenda would slow down, but the office work, the order taking, and the making of lavender sachets and other han
d-worked items would continue as before.

  Once she got the San Francisco house in order, she would set up an office in the loft, buy a laptop computer, and have it networked to the Lavender Meadows computers so she could do her bookkeeping and monitor her catalog and Internet business when she was in San Francisco.

  Dinner arrived forty-five minutes later. Coq au vin, marinated eggplant salad, fresh rolls, and apple crisp for dessert.

  “This sure beats eating in a hotel,” Martin said.

  Andy saw through his innuendo. “It’s still restaurant food.”

  “True, but I didn’t have to go out to a restaurant or eat alone.”

  “No, you didn’t,” she conceded. “When we’re through, do you think you could help me in the kitchen for a few minutes? I want to take off the cabinet doors so that when I’m here the next time, I can sand them down and paint them.”

  “The next time? When’s that?”

  Andy stared at him. “Next month.”

  “But I thought—” His expression grew hard and resentful.

  “You thought what?” she challenged. “That I’d changed my mind and decided to stay here and be a fall-time wife?” She saw him take a deep breath and knew he wouldn’t answer the question. “Never mind. I’ll take the cabinet doors off myself.” And here I thought he was happy and that things were working out. Call me a fool.

  Andy was up before sunrise. She wanted to get an early start on organizing the kitchen so she could spend the rest of the day stocking the cupboards with food and the bathrooms with their favorite personal grooming products. By seven o’clock, she was finished and had started breakfast.

  Martin came to the table with a sour expression that told her he was still brooding. It pained her to see him this way, but until he could get over being jealous and accept the compromise, she would pretend to ignore him.

  “I want to grocery shop today,” she said, smiling at him from across the small drop-leaf table that had been stored for more years than she could count in the attic in Medford. “Do you have any idea where I can find a grocery and a drugstore?”

  He took his electronic organizer out of his coat pocket and set it down on the table. “I saw some posters for a Saturday Market, which I assume is an outdoor produce market. But other than that … ” He shrugged, then turned on the organizer.

  With no small effort, Andy ignored his rudeness. “Did you happen to notice where the Saturday Market was located?” she persisted.

  He looked up and met her gaze. “Next door to Casa de Jesus—that building on Union that looks like an old church.”

  “Okay. I think I know where that is. Suzanne told me about it, but I’d forgotten.” He nodded, then took a bite of his eggs. “Would you like to go with me? It might be fun exploring the area together.” Shame on you, Andy You’re baiting him, and you know it. All that togetherness stuff he’d spouted was just lip service to lure you into moving here.

  “No thanks. I’m going to spend the day getting myself organized. I thought I’d set up an office upstairs in the loft.” He must have heard her quick intake of breath, because he looked at her strangely. “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said, lifting her shoulders and pasting on a bright smile. “That’s a perfect place for an office.”

  He finished his breakfast and pushed his plate back. “Isn’t someone supposed to bring Mrs. Getz’s cat today?”

  “Yes, around four, I think.” She gathered up the dirty dishes. “I should be back by then, but if I’m not, don’t let them go without making sure we have all his stuff.” She took a pad of paper off the counter. “Here, I’ve written down everything Mrs. Getz told me came with him.” Andy put away the butter and jam and tidied up the kitchen.

  She still had time before her first shopping expedition to wipe down the cabinet framework. She filled the sink with Simple Green, scrubbed down the framework, then rinsed the soapy residue away with vinegar and water.

  She didn’t hear Martin get up from the table, but she did hear him upstairs moving furniture around, the furniture she had intended to use to make up her office. Oh, well, if it made Martin happy, she could deal with it. One of the spare bedrooms downstairs would do for her office just fine, even though it didn’t have a view of the bay. The courtyard area would be lovely with some work. After all, she wouldn’t be here most of the time anyway.

  It was noon before she was ready to go shopping. Grabbing her purse, she yelled a quick good-bye to Martin from the door and ventured out. She climbed the stairs through the Grace Marchant’s Garden, noting her neighbors’ houses and even some of her neighbors. One day soon she would make the effort to meet them.

  The walk up Montgomery gave her a chance to admire an ancient pink and purple fuchsia, watch for the parrots, and wonder about a brown shingled building whose signage proclaimed it a restaurant. It appeared to be abandoned. Houses needed to be occupied, or they fell too soon into disrepair.

  She stopped to watch a photographer and his assistant shooting wedding photos with the Transamerica spire in the background. The bride’s veil fluttered in the breeze. The groom, dressed in a traditional black tux, laughed at something she said. Love glowed from the two of them. They would have wonderful pictures, Andy thought. She just hoped the happiness would last as long as the photos. She crossed the street and glanced into Speedy’s. Savory flavors of onion, garlic, and beef floated on the air. On the way home, maybe she’d buy a quart of the soup for dinner.

  Cars lined the street, forcing a bus to drive right up the middle. She could hear music ahead and saw shoppers loaded down with their purchases chases walking toward their cars. Obviously, she was nearing the outdoor market Martin and Suzanne had told her about. Leafy lettuce, long ears of corn, and carrot tops smiled at her as they peeked out of brown paper bags. She picked up her pace, eager to start shopping.

  Many vendors used the backs of trucks to display their produce. Others had set up tables. The vendors who had no shade brought their own: market umbrellas or tied-down canvas or plastic shelters. There was a variety of produce to choose from: tomatoes of every size and color from purple, striped green, and cherry to huge beefsteak; onions, green, purple, brown, and white; and leeks. On top of the produce were flowers: sunflowers, zinnias, and mums, both cut and potted. The array dazzled and intrigued. She followed her nose to the elephant ears cart and bought one, spread with melted butter and dusted with cinnamon and sugar.

  “I ain’t seen you here before. You new?” asked the woman behind the stand.

  “Yes,” Andy said, laughing. “Do you know everyone who comes?”

  “No, but most. My name’s Celia. Want some coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” Andy dusted sugar off her hand and reached for the steaming foam cup. She set both down and dug in her purse for her money. “We just moved into a house that borders Mrs. Marchant’s Garden.”

  “Great. See the parrots yet?” Celia counted out change.

  “No. Not yet, but hopefully soon.” Pocketing her money, Andy nodded toward the rest of the market. “Is it always this crowded?”

  “Nope, sometimes it’s worse.” Celia turned to wait on another customer. “Thanks.” She turned back to Andy. “Most of our vendors are pretty regular, depending on what they have in season.”

  “I see. Who would I talk to about the possibility of having a table with lavender products?”

  “You grow your own?”

  “Yep. Up in Oregon.”

  Celia pointed a long, shimmering, gold-flecked fingernail. “See that tall woman over there with the knitting? That’s Starshine, and she’s in charge of vendors.”

  “Thanks.” Andy raised her half-eaten treat. “And for this.”

  “See you ’round.”

  Andy ambled over to the knitting tables and drooled over the hats, scarves, vests, and accessories. She chose a matching beret and long scarf of fluffy turquoise with a thread of silver metallic running through it for Bria. Winters in Seattle could be bitter with the d
ampness. Then she found a brick-colored set for Morgan. Pacific Lutheran wasn’t that far from Seattle.

  “Welcome to the market. You must be new.” Starshine shook out a bag for Andy’s purchase.

  “I’m still trying to get moved in. This is beautiful work. Do you knit all these yourself?”

  “Got to have something to fill the long evenings. Did you see the mittens to match these?”

  “No, I didn’t.” She “oohed” and “aahed” when Starshine showed her the cable-knit mittens.

  “I’ll take those, too.” She patted other pieces while they chatted. The gorgeous yarns and patterns pleaded for her attention. “Celia said you’re in charge of the vendors.”

  “Sure am. What do you have?”

  “I raise lavender on our farm in Medford, Oregon, and I wholesale and retail a line of lavender products, including my own brand of lavender tea. I’d like to try selling them here, if you think there might be a market for them.”

  “Lavender? Oh, sure.”

  “Is the market open every Saturday?”

  “Up until Christmas, but you don’t need to show up all the time. Some come every other week, some just in the spring, others in the summer. The only rule is that whatever you’re selling has to be raised, grown, made, and/or produced by the seller.”

  “Is this typical weather for October?”

  Starshine nodded, setting her intricately beaded earrings to swinging. “October is our best month. Summer day fog is gone, winter rain not started. Good winds to blow away any smog, not that we get a lot ofthat.”

  Another customer held out a piece to be bagged, so Andy nodded her thanks and wandered on. She wished she’d brought a string bag like so many of the patrons had. Sooner or later the plastic bag handles would cut into her palms.

  Two small children chased each other through the crowd, their laughter blending in with the music of a string group on the front steps of the old church and a wood flute from out by the street.

  When she wandered by the elephant ears cart again, Celia called to her. “You met Hope yet?”

  “Hope? No. I found Starshine.” Andy motioned with her bag of purchases.