The Lost Girls of Johnson's Bayou. Jana DeLeon
Ginny smiled. “Then we’re even, because I might have a matching necklace tucked under my table for you.”
Mrs. Foster’s face lit up and she clapped her hands. “That old biddy Adelaide will never get over it. You’ve made my day, Ginny.”
Mrs. Foster’s gaze shifted past Ginny and she pointed. “Got a new customer. Nice-looking one, too.”
Ginny looked back at her table, then froze. It was him.
She supposed Mrs. Foster was right. He was good-looking, when she could manage to separate the man standing at her booth from the man who’d scared her half to death the night before. He studied the jewelry with more interest than she would have expected from a guy, but she immediately chided herself for such a sexist thought. For all she knew, he may have a wife or girlfriend at home whom he was purchasing for. She knew she should go back to her table, but she hesitated. He made her uneasy in a way she’d never felt before.
Finally, she took a deep breath and began to cross the walkway. Suddenly, he stiffened, then reached for a custom metal necklace at the end of her table. He stared at the piece, his expression a mixture of surprise and confusion.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
He whirled around to face her and shoved the necklace at her. “Where did you get this design?”
Surprised by his obvious agitation, she took a step back. “I…I didn’t get it anywhere.”
He waved one hand at her table, his frustration apparent. “You used it in half of your jewelry. Why? What does it mean to you?”
Ginny stared, not certain what answer he was looking for, but clearly she didn’t have the right one. “It doesn’t mean anything to me. It’s just a design I thought of. It was popular with the customers, so I adopted it as a sort of signature.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “You just thought of the design? Just like that?”
Ginny bristled, done with his attitude. “Yes, that’s what artists do. They just think of things then create them. If you’re not interested in purchasing that necklace, please return it to the table and be on your way, Mr....” She trailed off, realizing that he’d never given her his name.
“Stanton. Paul Stanton.”
He studied her face with an intensity that was almost alarming. Ginny got the distinct impression he was trying to decide if she was lying, although about what she had absolutely no idea.
“I’ll take this necklace,” he said and pulled out his wallet. “How much?”
Ginny’s initial instinct was to refuse to sell him the necklace and demand that Paul Stanton leave her table, but she was afraid he wouldn’t be put off that easily. More than anything, she wanted this angry, suspicious man out of her personal space. “Twenty dollars.”
He pulled a twenty out of his wallet and handed it to her. “You’re certain you’ve never seen this design somewhere before?”
“What do you want me to say—that I stole the design from someone? Well, I didn’t. I had that image in my mind years before I began designing jewelry.” Since the day I walked out of the swamp and into Johnson’s Bayou.
“How long?”
Ginny frowned. “How long have I been designing jewelry?”
“No. How long have you had that image in your mind?”
“I don’t see—”
“Just tell me.”
His voice had a desperate edge to it, and Ginny began to see something behind the frustration in his expression. Fear?
“Sixteen years,” Ginny replied. As long as I can remember.
He stared at the swirl of metal that lay on his palm. “Sixteen years,” he whispered and clutched his hand around the necklace before he turned and walked away.
What in the world? Ginny stared at his retreating figure, at a complete loss over their exchange. She didn’t think the design was stolen. Surely, she’d have seen it before now if that was the case, but Paul Stanton had acted as if he’d seen the pattern before. Seeing the design on her jewelry had clearly bothered him.
But why?
She watched as he disappeared into the festival crowd, somehow knowing she hadn’t seen the last of him. Turning to her table, she looked at the rows of metal pieces, many fashioned in the same swirl of circles with one circle in the middle, giving the design a flower-like appearance. She’d never questioned where the design had come from. It had always been there.
Even though it was at least eighty degrees outside, she felt a chill run over her. Was the design part of her past? The single item she’d brought out of the woods with her?
And if so, what did it mean to Paul Stanton?
Chapter Four
Ginny placed what remained of her jewelry in the plastic storage container and strapped it on the dolly she’d borrowed from the café. It had been a good day for sales, and despite her somewhat unnerving run-in with Paul Stanton, she felt upbeat as she pulled her purse strap over her shoulder.
“Need any help?” Madelaine’s voice sounded behind her, and she turned to smile at her mother, who was laden down with bags.
“Looks like I should be asking you that question.” She pulled the top off her storage container and collected some of her mother’s shopping bags, dropping them inside. Her mother unwound more bags from her other arm and continued adding to the container until it was full. She was still clutching two more bags.
“Whew, that’s a relief,” Madelaine said, rubbing her forearm with her free hand.
Ginny secured the top on the container, shaking her head. “What in the world did you buy? You live here year-round with everyone selling their wares. You don’t have to buy everything at one time.”
“Carol’s aunt was here—the one I told you about, remember?”
“The seamstress?”
“That’s the one. When we chatted at Carol and Glenn’s anniversary party, I mentioned wanting new tablecloths and such for the café but not being able to find what I was looking for premade. I was going to call her to get some pricing, but one thing led to another, and well, you know how it is.”
Ginny swung the dolly around behind her and they started walking down Main Street toward the café. “You forgot.”
“Exactly.”
“So what’s with all the packages?”
“The aunt had an idea for the café based on what I’d described and made up some tablecloths and napkins, figuring if I wasn’t interested, she’d sell them at her shop in New Orleans.”
Madelaine dug in one of her bags and pulled out a napkin fashioned from patches of bright patterned materials in turquoise, pink, green and yellow. She handed the napkin to Ginny. “How perfect is that?”
Ginny looked down at the splash of colorful fabrics and smiled. “It is perfect and totally you.” She handed the napkin back to Madelaine. “What about valances? That blue gingham with the sunflowers has been hanging there since I was a little girl.”
“She’s coming by tomorrow to measure the windows. I’m also thinking it’s time for a fresh coat of paint, maybe a sunny yellow to match that color in the napkins. What do you think?”
“I think it sounds like a lot of work…but nice.”
Madelaine waved a hand in dismissal. “I’ll hire Saul Pritchard to do the painting. He finished up Carol’s bedroom last week, so I know he’s got the time. So I guess the almost-empty container means you