The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,55

. .”

“But it’s been going all right? The shop, I mean?”

Polly choked out a laugh. “Well. You don’t have a forty-percent-off sale if customers are streaming through the door. But . . . you know. I’ve only been open for five months and it takes time to build a customer base. Things will turn around.”

The way she said it, like repeating a mantra, made me think this was something she told herself on a regular basis but didn’t quite believe.

“So,” she said, clapping her hands together, “what can I help you with? We’ve got good deals on yarn.”

“I was thinking about signing up for a beginner knitting class.”

Polly’s face fell. “Sorry. I just wrapped up my spring class and won’t start a new one for a couple of months. But maybe I can help you. Have you ever knit anything before?”

“Only a pot holder. Back in college. But I never finished it,” I admitted.

“Okay, so you’re not a total beginner. Why don’t I set you up with some needles, yarn, and a simple scarf pattern? I’ll help you cast on and show you the knit and purl stitches. You’ll be able to take it from there.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “I don’t want to interrupt your work.”

“No worries,” Polly said. “Like I said, I’m not exactly overwhelmed with business. The way things have been going, you might be my only customer today. Let me get you a pattern.”

She started toward the file cabinet behind the counter and pointed to a glass fishbowl sitting next to a basket filled with yarn, knitting and crochet needles, and other supplies.

“Oh, and be sure to write down your name and phone number for the drawing. I pick a winner at the end of every month, a gift to my loyal customers.”

I smiled. “But I haven’t even bought anything yet. Are you sure I qualify?”

“Celia,” Polly said as she started riffling through the pattern files, “if you buy so much as one skein of really cheap yarn, you’ll be one of the most loyal customers I have. At this point, the threshold is very low.”

Chapter Eighteen

Pris showed up to work sneezing and hacking, so I sent her home. Around two o’clock, while sorting through a box of ugly, moth-eaten draperies that probably dated back to Reconstruction, my hand brushed against something that felt weird. I looked down and . . .

“Ahhhh! Ahhh! Ick! Ick! Ick!”

Yes, indeed, the day I had been dreading was living up to my most horrific expectations. My hand had touched a dead, disgusting, desiccated mouse. I had probably contracted bubonic plague.

My screams were followed by the sound of doors slamming open and big feet pounding up the stairs. Seconds later, Lorne appeared in the doorway. Red and Slip were right behind him. All three were panting and appeared surprised to see I was still alive and not bleeding from every pore. Lorne made a fist and looked frantically around the room, alert for intruders.

“What happened? Are you all right?”

“Yes, I just . . . I stubbed my toe.” He rolled his eyes. “It really hurt,” I said indignantly. “It might be broken!”

Lorne unclenched his fist. “Come on, guys. Let’s get back to work,” he said, then mumbled something about wimpy women as they made their exit.

It was embarrassing. But being thought a wimp wasn’t as bad as having him tease me about being afraid of mice until hell froze over. By this time, Lorne and I had settled into our roles. He thought I was a bossy female who probably voted the straight Democratic ticket and had no actual life skills or appreciation for country music. I thought he was a misogynistic redneck who hadn’t cracked a book since high school. But I respected his skills and determination to turn his life around, and he respected the fact that I signed his paycheck. Plus, each of us thought the other one was kind of funny, so it all worked. I didn’t want to mess with that.

Once the whine of a Skilsaw told me that Lorne and the crew were back at work, I got a broom and dustpan and disposed of the mouse carcass. Then I went into the bathroom and unswallowed my lunch.

Just another day in beautiful Charleston.

Oh, and I forgot to mention that all of this happened after we got a new building inspector. The one we’d had before, Carl, wasn’t exactly a pushover but he was reasonable. The new guy, Brett Fitzwaller, was younger and brand-new on the