not even Pastor Gregg raised an eyebrow when we used that word in relation to that particular dog. Nervous little Genny had a spun-sugar heart. Her standard-issue Frett Steel Spine was bogged down in taffy. She was the pet of the family, if not the whole town, and any dog who didn’t like Genny was a bitch, and God already knew it, so there wasn’t much cause to ease up on the language.
Those dogs, the Bitch especially, more than didn’t like her. The Bitch wanted her dead.
The day the Bitch got out, Mama and Genny spent the morning on Between’s town square, up in Mama’s studio. The studio was on the second floor of a large Victorian house, the downstairs of which Bernese had turned into a museum featuring Mama’s dolls and her own prized caterpillars. The rest of the upstairs was storage where Mama kept her boxes and boxes of porcelain doll heads lined up neatly on bookshelves. Mama was in the storage room, running her fingers across the Braille labels, still trying to pick one. Genny was in her sewing area, getting fussier and hungrier by the minute.
Bernese had built that studio for Mama and Genny long before Ona Crabtree ever thought about owning guard dogs. At first Bernese had planned to tear out most of the wall that faced the landing and replace it with plate glass. That way, tourists who were visiting the dollhouse portion of the museum could come up the stairs and watch Mama work on the kind of outsize, tac-tile sculptures she currently favored. But the very idea had activated the fragment of Frett gumption at Genny’s core, and she’d put her little fat foot down.
“You’ve already got mile-high pictures of us downstairs, Bernese, and that’s about enough,” she said. Her voice got higher and higher as she spoke. “Stacia and I won’t sit in a cage and scratch like monkeys for whatever philistines come here to nose-pick and google.”
Genny signed rapidly into Stacia’s hands as she was speaking, and before she had gotten too wound up to stop herself, Stacia’s own hands were churning the air. Genny added, “And Stacia says if you put that window in, she and I won’t work here. Period.”
That ended it. The wall stayed a wall, and the staircases were roped off with velvet cord.
Now Genny was wishing there was a window. She’d been drooping around the studio all morning, and the air was beginning to taste stale and used. She went to the storage room and signed Lunch! Lunch! Lunch! until Stacia agreed to stop head-hunting. They gathered up their handbags, and Genny slipped her shoes back on. She had high blood pressure, and her feet tended to swell, but she wouldn’t give up her size-six shoes.
The front door of the museum was kept locked; tourists paid admission at the store, and Bernese personally took them over.
Genny and Stacia let themselves out onto the square, and Genny relocked the door behind them.
Between’s town square was the working definition of pictur-esque. It was so tidy and bright, with a burbling center fountain surrounded by riotously colored flower beds filled to bursting with seasonal blooms. Beyond that, a thick green lawn of preter-naturally healthy grass grew in cheerful spikes. A cobblestone walkway ran in front of all the shops and crossed to the fountain on the diagonal.
The square was lined on three sides by rows of connected shops, all fronted in warm, peachy brick with crisp white trim.
The First Baptist Church of Between sat on the corner closest to the highway. It was a textbook country Baptist church, with a tall steeple and bells that tolled the hour in happy tones.
The other three corners each sported a large Victorian house.
The first one contained Bernese’s museum, and next was the Marchants’ bed-and-breakfast. On the last corner, Isaac Davids lived in a buttery-yellow house with tons of gingerbread and pale lavender trim. His law offices were downstairs. Laughing gar-goyles peeked out over the eaves, and a tower on one side was topped by
Those dogs, the Bitch especially, more than didn’t like her. The Bitch wanted her dead.
The day the Bitch got out, Mama and Genny spent the morning on Between’s town square, up in Mama’s studio. The studio was on the second floor of a large Victorian house, the downstairs of which Bernese had turned into a museum featuring Mama’s dolls and her own prized caterpillars. The rest of the upstairs was storage where Mama kept her boxes and boxes of porcelain doll heads lined up neatly on bookshelves. Mama was in the storage room, running her fingers across the Braille labels, still trying to pick one. Genny was in her sewing area, getting fussier and hungrier by the minute.
Bernese had built that studio for Mama and Genny long before Ona Crabtree ever thought about owning guard dogs. At first Bernese had planned to tear out most of the wall that faced the landing and replace it with plate glass. That way, tourists who were visiting the dollhouse portion of the museum could come up the stairs and watch Mama work on the kind of outsize, tac-tile sculptures she currently favored. But the very idea had activated the fragment of Frett gumption at Genny’s core, and she’d put her little fat foot down.
“You’ve already got mile-high pictures of us downstairs, Bernese, and that’s about enough,” she said. Her voice got higher and higher as she spoke. “Stacia and I won’t sit in a cage and scratch like monkeys for whatever philistines come here to nose-pick and google.”
Genny signed rapidly into Stacia’s hands as she was speaking, and before she had gotten too wound up to stop herself, Stacia’s own hands were churning the air. Genny added, “And Stacia says if you put that window in, she and I won’t work here. Period.”
That ended it. The wall stayed a wall, and the staircases were roped off with velvet cord.
Now Genny was wishing there was a window. She’d been drooping around the studio all morning, and the air was beginning to taste stale and used. She went to the storage room and signed Lunch! Lunch! Lunch! until Stacia agreed to stop head-hunting. They gathered up their handbags, and Genny slipped her shoes back on. She had high blood pressure, and her feet tended to swell, but she wouldn’t give up her size-six shoes.
The front door of the museum was kept locked; tourists paid admission at the store, and Bernese personally took them over.
Genny and Stacia let themselves out onto the square, and Genny relocked the door behind them.
Between’s town square was the working definition of pictur-esque. It was so tidy and bright, with a burbling center fountain surrounded by riotously colored flower beds filled to bursting with seasonal blooms. Beyond that, a thick green lawn of preter-naturally healthy grass grew in cheerful spikes. A cobblestone walkway ran in front of all the shops and crossed to the fountain on the diagonal.
The square was lined on three sides by rows of connected shops, all fronted in warm, peachy brick with crisp white trim.
The First Baptist Church of Between sat on the corner closest to the highway. It was a textbook country Baptist church, with a tall steeple and bells that tolled the hour in happy tones.
The other three corners each sported a large Victorian house.
The first one contained Bernese’s museum, and next was the Marchants’ bed-and-breakfast. On the last corner, Isaac Davids lived in a buttery-yellow house with tons of gingerbread and pale lavender trim. His law offices were downstairs. Laughing gar-goyles peeked out over the eaves, and a tower on one side was topped by
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