From Bags to Riches. Sandra D. Bricker
the floor, and a wave of Amber’s honey-blonde hair stuck to Jessie’s lip gloss as they did.
“I can’t believe we get to open this place again,” Amber said as they parted. “Hey there,” she added as Piper emerged from the office hallway. “The gang’s all here.”
Piper rubbed her hands together. “What do we do first?”
“I’ve got some inventory that came back from the dry cleaners the day we closed,” Amber announced. “I’ll get it catalogued and out on the floor.”
“Let’s grab some cleaning supplies,” Jessie suggested, and Piper nodded. “What’s your pleasure? Pledge or Windex?”
“Hmm,” she playfully considered with a full pout. “A little lemony freshness sounds just dandy.”
Jessie chuckled and headed back to the supply room for paper towels, rags, and cleaners.
Wiping away dust particles and streaks from the glass cases felt cathartic somehow for Jessie—like ridding herself of the final dregs of her nightmarish (so-called) marriage in order to clear the road ahead. The jewelry on display looked to her as if it had been cleaned as well just by the simple act of wiping the glass around it. When she finished the cases, Jessie smiled at Piper—meticulously polishing the shelves and cubbies—and moved to the front of the store to start in on the windows and door.
The fragrance of cleaning products tickled her nose and took her back to earlier days—happy ones in her grandfather’s house when her Saturday morning chores paved the way for an afternoon lounging on the banks of Lake Pontchartrain or in the woodworking shed out back. She loved those days—so simple and pure—at least until she got the notion in her head that an exciting and glamorous life beckoned from far beyond the confines of Slidell, Louisiana.
An invisible fist tightened around her heart at the thought of Grampy. She could hardly bear the thought of losing him, but the doctors had indicated she had no choice in the matter.
“Looks like I got cancer, baby girl,” he’d stated matter-of-factly, and the words left a sour taste in the hollow of her throat as she recalled that day out on the sunporch, the bitter scent of Grampy’s chicory coffee wafting up her nose.
“What?” she whimpered. Slipping her hand from Danny’s, she rushed to her grandfather’s chair, knelt in front of him, and took his hand inside both of hers just the way Danny had done. “Are you sure?”
“Yeh. It’s fer sure.”
“How bad is it?” she asked him.
“Purdy bad. By the time I figgered out somethin’ weren’t right, the catfish was nearly cooked in the skillet.”
Jessie set the towels and glass cleaner on the floor and marched across the store in search of her phone. Perching on the stool behind the counter, she pressed the speed dial that would bridge the large gap between Santa Monica and Slidell.
He answered on the first ring. “Grampy?” She imagined him sitting next to the phone, unable to be outside where he’d rather be, possibly weak or too tired to even watch television. “How are you feeling today?”
“Ah, Jessie-girl, I was just thinkin’ ’bout you. You get yer name back, didja?”
“I am officially Jessie Hart.”
“Not that ya ever wasn’t. Glad yer free o’ that varmint. He givin’ you any more grief?”
She chuckled. “I think Jack has a lot more than me to think about right now.”
“Ehh.” It sounded like he’d spit something out. “Might strain somethin’ tryin’ to think too hard. Never did know whether to check his butt or scratch his watch. You just keep yer distance from that ’n.”
“No worries, Grampy. Piper and Amber are here at the store with me to get things ready to open our doors again tomorrow.”
“How ’bout Danny? Where’s he?”
“I’ll see him later today.” She didn’t want to talk about Danny quite yet. Grampy would hear something in her voice. He’d know. “Tell me how you’re feeling. Are you eating and keeping up your strength?”
“I’m right as rain, child. The witch next door come over and gimme a good supper last night—”
“Grampy!” she chastised. “Don’t call Miss Maizie a witch.”
“—’n I had some brekkers down at Tilley’s just this mornin’.”
She closed her eyes, seeing him there at his regular table by the window, a chipped white cup holding strong black coffee gripped with both hands, ham and eggs, biscuits and grits on two separate plates. Predictable . . . and comforting.
“That’s good,” she said. “And you took your medication?”
“Yah. Now stop interrogatin’ or I’ll quit answerin’ yer calls.”
“Sorry.” She smiled. “You know what I was thinking about this morning, Grampy?”
“What’s ’at?”
“As I was shining up the front windows of the store, I remembered how I’d hurry through my Saturday morning chores so we could get on to spending the afternoon together. Remember that day you were building the table for the sunporch and you taught me how to use the little bubble thingie?”
“Ain’t no bubbles in my shed, girl.”
“You know. You set it down and the bubble tells you if something’s straight?”
Her grandfather let out a hearty laugh—and her body surged with joy at the sound of it.
“The level,” he said. “Called a level. Ain’t no bubble thing.”
Jessie bit down on her smile. “Whatever. I loved those Saturday afternoons when we’d go crabbing or fishing, or you’d let me come into the woodworking shed with you.”
“Happy days,” he remarked softly.
“I’m so sorry I left Slidell the way I did, Grampy. I feel like I wasted so much time I could have spent with you.”
“Enough o’ that. You go mind your p’s and q’s fer tomorrah. Send my best to Danny and the girls.”
“Okay.” She sighed. “I love you.”
“Love you back.”
And with that, he abruptly severed the connection.
***
Funny how a doc handin’ a fella an egg timer on his life can bring up the memories like it do.
Days been runnin’ together some, time tickin’ away faster ’n a dog shot through a barn. I figger Jessie knowed it too with all her ruminatin’ ’bout days in the shed and out on the banks o’ Pontchartrain while she was knee-high to a grasshopper. But that’s the way this thing works I guess.
I been rememberin’ some, too. ’Bout Jessie’s mama—my girl April. Cancer stole her, too. Simple, sweet girl, my April was. She didn’t care two hoots and a holler ’bout frilly dresses ’n shiny shoes ’n such. Used to wonder how she birthed a child like our Jessie.
“She’s an original, Daddy,” she used to say. “Don’t know how I’m gonna be what she needs in a mama.”
Knew she’d do just fine, just like she did. And when she couldn’t do it no more, it was my turn to pick up the reins and steer a spell. Musta done somethin’ right, the two of us, ’cause Jessie turned out purdy good. A little slow on the uptake with that varmint she married, but she’s come around, thank the Lord. A boy like that Danny Callahan, that’s who I been prayin’ for lot longer ’n he been in Jessie’s life.
Just hope I live long enough to see ’er make an honest man outta him.
Chapter