buy something, and I slipped out, happy for an opportunity to gaze at the display window of Aquarius Rising, the next shop north. Aquarius is a marvelous pastiche of crystals, gemstones, hand-crafted jewelry, essential oils, New Age literature, and the occasional odd sculpture that left little to the imagination. A geode of blue crystal called to me from the center of window. Eagerly, I reached for the door, paused, then turned away. Aquarius was nearly as crowded as The Second Chance Boutique. I waved to Amy and Sloane and passed on by. No time for questions, but I’d be back. That blue crystal was mine .
I skipped Carolee’s Fabrics, my home-away-from-home, and peeked through the window of Nature’s Foods. Oops. Almost every last person in Golden Beach must be partying tonight. From the gourmet cheese counter and olive bar to artistically arranged organic fruit and take-out meals, the place was sizzling. Not for the first time I wondered if I was in the wrong business. I turned back toward Carolee’s Fabrics and one of my favorite people, the manager, Alyce Jahnke.
Alyce, who proved that last was best. Five minutes later she was giving me an indignant earful.
Chapter 5
I hadn’t known Alyce well when we were in high school. She was two years ahead of me, with all the golden aura of a cheerleader going steady since ninth grade with the sure-footed left end who caught Chad Yarnell’s passes. They’d married right out of high school, and by the time I came home from my freshman year at college, she was a mother. And twice again since. Alyce joked that at the rate her oldest daughter was growing, she might make Alyce a grandmother by the time she was forty.
I shuddered. Not that I didn’t consider Alyce my second-best friend (after Crystal), but the thought of teenage children made me add a mental dead bolt to that niche where I’d consigned Chief Boone Talbot.
I suppose some would say it’s sad that my two best friends are business-related. And maybe it is. But it’s tough to start a small business, even tougher to keep it going. If you want to survive, there’s not much time for social life. Particularly when you’ve crashed and burned as badly as I had in New York. Crystal was my right arm, and Alyce? Well, Alyce was manager of Carolee’s Fabrics, a national chain, and since I probably bought enough fabric to support the store’s electric bill, we inevitably saw a lot of each other.
Alyce was smart, competent, spunky, and endowed with enough down-to-earth common sense to give an artistic temperament like mine a swift kick in the pants when necessary. Tall and still lean after three children, she had the athletic build of a long-distance runner. Even her face was thin, only her pert brown curls and a light in her matching brown eyes revealing her good humor and good heart.
Alyce was at the register when I stepped through the door, with two assistants working the cutting tables. She bagged the customer’s fabric, thread, and zipper, handed her the receipt regurgitated by her state-of-the-art cash register, and wished her a good day. As soon as the customer headed for the door, Alyce called for one of the assistants to take over the register, glanced at me, and jerked her head toward the backroom.
“I’ve got those doohickeys you ordered,” she said as I followed her down the narrow aisle between towering rolls of drapery fabric. “Came in this morning, though what you want them for I can’t imagine.”
Sometimes I wondered the same. But without the scantywear designs by Randi Wolff—a secret a.k.a. known only to Crystal and myself—DreamWear might have folded long since. Fortunately for the shop’s initial start-up, my mother had inherited money from all those orange groves, plus she didn’t become top dog in Golden Beach real estate by sitting on her nicely rounded derrière. Mom invested heavily in DreamWear and was my silent partner. She’d even protested when I started paying her
I skipped Carolee’s Fabrics, my home-away-from-home, and peeked through the window of Nature’s Foods. Oops. Almost every last person in Golden Beach must be partying tonight. From the gourmet cheese counter and olive bar to artistically arranged organic fruit and take-out meals, the place was sizzling. Not for the first time I wondered if I was in the wrong business. I turned back toward Carolee’s Fabrics and one of my favorite people, the manager, Alyce Jahnke.
Alyce, who proved that last was best. Five minutes later she was giving me an indignant earful.
Chapter 5
I hadn’t known Alyce well when we were in high school. She was two years ahead of me, with all the golden aura of a cheerleader going steady since ninth grade with the sure-footed left end who caught Chad Yarnell’s passes. They’d married right out of high school, and by the time I came home from my freshman year at college, she was a mother. And twice again since. Alyce joked that at the rate her oldest daughter was growing, she might make Alyce a grandmother by the time she was forty.
I shuddered. Not that I didn’t consider Alyce my second-best friend (after Crystal), but the thought of teenage children made me add a mental dead bolt to that niche where I’d consigned Chief Boone Talbot.
I suppose some would say it’s sad that my two best friends are business-related. And maybe it is. But it’s tough to start a small business, even tougher to keep it going. If you want to survive, there’s not much time for social life. Particularly when you’ve crashed and burned as badly as I had in New York. Crystal was my right arm, and Alyce? Well, Alyce was manager of Carolee’s Fabrics, a national chain, and since I probably bought enough fabric to support the store’s electric bill, we inevitably saw a lot of each other.
Alyce was smart, competent, spunky, and endowed with enough down-to-earth common sense to give an artistic temperament like mine a swift kick in the pants when necessary. Tall and still lean after three children, she had the athletic build of a long-distance runner. Even her face was thin, only her pert brown curls and a light in her matching brown eyes revealing her good humor and good heart.
Alyce was at the register when I stepped through the door, with two assistants working the cutting tables. She bagged the customer’s fabric, thread, and zipper, handed her the receipt regurgitated by her state-of-the-art cash register, and wished her a good day. As soon as the customer headed for the door, Alyce called for one of the assistants to take over the register, glanced at me, and jerked her head toward the backroom.
“I’ve got those doohickeys you ordered,” she said as I followed her down the narrow aisle between towering rolls of drapery fabric. “Came in this morning, though what you want them for I can’t imagine.”
Sometimes I wondered the same. But without the scantywear designs by Randi Wolff—a secret a.k.a. known only to Crystal and myself—DreamWear might have folded long since. Fortunately for the shop’s initial start-up, my mother had inherited money from all those orange groves, plus she didn’t become top dog in Golden Beach real estate by sitting on her nicely rounded derrière. Mom invested heavily in DreamWear and was my silent partner. She’d even protested when I started paying her
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