in her office, paging through a slew of vendor catalogs, getting ready to place an order for rubber stamps. There were some wonderful new ones available—antique engravings of botanical prints, carriage lanterns, ornate pillars, even French bistro tables. They had a slight Courier & Ives look, without being too New Englandy.
“You ask about the grant like it might be a problem,” Wren said to Carmela. “Is it?”
“I honestly don’t know,” she said, emerging from her office.
“But you’ve got that worried look on your face,” said Gabby, suddenly nervous.
“Sorry,” said Carmela.
“And you know about grants and things,” persisted Gabby. “You’ve served on committees.”
“Arts committees and a Concert in the Parks committee a couple years ago,” said Carmela. “Never anything to do with architectural preservation or renovation.” She remembered that particular home on Julia Street as one that had been used as a Benedictine convent for just a few years. Mostly it was a big stone building that had been in a state of disrepair since time immemorial.
“You think the Preservation Foundation is going to want their money back if the work wasn’t completed?” asked Gabby.
“No idea,” said Carmela, sincerely regretting she’d raised the question.
But Wren was suddenly galvanized by what she perceived as a new threat. “You think I’ll get kicked out?” she cried. “It’s my home. The only place I’ve got!”
“Honey,” said Carmela, “do you know if the mortgage is in your name, too, or just Jamie’s?”
Tears oozed from Wren’s eyes. “Not sure. I know I signed something .”
“Well,” said Carmela, “I just happen to have an acquaintance in banking who’d probably be willing to do a little pro bono investigating.”
Put that good-for-nothing Shamus to work, she thought to herself. Although, if the grant had been awarded to Jamie, it might put Wren in a difficult, disputed position. To say nothing of the ownership of the home .
Gabby gathered together the stencils Wren had sorted. “You look tired,” she told her cousin.
“I didn’t sleep very well last night,” said Wren. “I kept hearing weird noises.”
“Those big old homes are awfully creaky,” said Tandy. “Or maybe it’s just plain haunted.”
“Please don’t say that,” cried Wren. “I’m terrified as it is to stay there all by myself.”
“What if I came over and stayed with you tonight?” asked Gabby.
“Would you really?” said Wren, brightening. “That’d be great.”
“We could . . .” began Gabby, then stopped abruptly. “Darn. I can’t. Stuart’s taking his sales managers and their wives out for dinner tonight. He for sure wants me to go along.” Stuart Mercer-Morris, Gabby’s husband, was the self-proclaimed Toyota King of New Orleans. In fact, Stuart proudly bragged that he owned dealerships in all four parishes that made up the New Orleans metro area: Orleans, Jefferson, St. Bernard, and St. Tammany.
As Carmela watched Wren’s face fall, she thought: It’s Friday, and once again, loser that I am, I don’t have a date. Or even a semblance of a plan for tonight .
“Wren,” she said. “How about if I came over and stayed with you?”
“Would you really?” squealed Wren. “That’d be great!” The girl did sound delighted.
Maybe I’ll even invite Ava, decided Carmela. Try to get an impromptu slumber party going. Maybe do a quick check of Jamie’s home office and see if we can find any papers. See if he put his property in Wren’s name, too.
“Holy smokes,” said Gabby, scrambling to her feet. “I’ve got to get our ‘make and takes’ ready for Scrap Fest tomorrow.” Scrap Fest was a one-day scrapbook event sponsored by a local scrapbook club. Memory Mine was going to have a booth there along with quite a few other vendors. Scrap Fest would also be sponsoring scrapbook classes as well as an all-night crop.
“Aren’t you happy you don’t have to man the
“You ask about the grant like it might be a problem,” Wren said to Carmela. “Is it?”
“I honestly don’t know,” she said, emerging from her office.
“But you’ve got that worried look on your face,” said Gabby, suddenly nervous.
“Sorry,” said Carmela.
“And you know about grants and things,” persisted Gabby. “You’ve served on committees.”
“Arts committees and a Concert in the Parks committee a couple years ago,” said Carmela. “Never anything to do with architectural preservation or renovation.” She remembered that particular home on Julia Street as one that had been used as a Benedictine convent for just a few years. Mostly it was a big stone building that had been in a state of disrepair since time immemorial.
“You think the Preservation Foundation is going to want their money back if the work wasn’t completed?” asked Gabby.
“No idea,” said Carmela, sincerely regretting she’d raised the question.
But Wren was suddenly galvanized by what she perceived as a new threat. “You think I’ll get kicked out?” she cried. “It’s my home. The only place I’ve got!”
“Honey,” said Carmela, “do you know if the mortgage is in your name, too, or just Jamie’s?”
Tears oozed from Wren’s eyes. “Not sure. I know I signed something .”
“Well,” said Carmela, “I just happen to have an acquaintance in banking who’d probably be willing to do a little pro bono investigating.”
Put that good-for-nothing Shamus to work, she thought to herself. Although, if the grant had been awarded to Jamie, it might put Wren in a difficult, disputed position. To say nothing of the ownership of the home .
Gabby gathered together the stencils Wren had sorted. “You look tired,” she told her cousin.
“I didn’t sleep very well last night,” said Wren. “I kept hearing weird noises.”
“Those big old homes are awfully creaky,” said Tandy. “Or maybe it’s just plain haunted.”
“Please don’t say that,” cried Wren. “I’m terrified as it is to stay there all by myself.”
“What if I came over and stayed with you tonight?” asked Gabby.
“Would you really?” said Wren, brightening. “That’d be great.”
“We could . . .” began Gabby, then stopped abruptly. “Darn. I can’t. Stuart’s taking his sales managers and their wives out for dinner tonight. He for sure wants me to go along.” Stuart Mercer-Morris, Gabby’s husband, was the self-proclaimed Toyota King of New Orleans. In fact, Stuart proudly bragged that he owned dealerships in all four parishes that made up the New Orleans metro area: Orleans, Jefferson, St. Bernard, and St. Tammany.
As Carmela watched Wren’s face fall, she thought: It’s Friday, and once again, loser that I am, I don’t have a date. Or even a semblance of a plan for tonight .
“Wren,” she said. “How about if I came over and stayed with you?”
“Would you really?” squealed Wren. “That’d be great!” The girl did sound delighted.
Maybe I’ll even invite Ava, decided Carmela. Try to get an impromptu slumber party going. Maybe do a quick check of Jamie’s home office and see if we can find any papers. See if he put his property in Wren’s name, too.
“Holy smokes,” said Gabby, scrambling to her feet. “I’ve got to get our ‘make and takes’ ready for Scrap Fest tomorrow.” Scrap Fest was a one-day scrapbook event sponsored by a local scrapbook club. Memory Mine was going to have a booth there along with quite a few other vendors. Scrap Fest would also be sponsoring scrapbook classes as well as an all-night crop.
“Aren’t you happy you don’t have to man the
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