I slipped a finger under his collar and gently brought him to his feet.
“I don’t care. He hates me. If you weren’t around, he’d bite off my ankle.”
“No, he wouldn’t. He hardly has any teeth left.” But there was no point in explaining that to Libby, who’d been cleaning my house for fifteen years—about as long as we’d had Jasper. She hated all dogs, and all dogs hated her. If Vivian hadn’t fetched me, she would have doused the old boy in pepper spray and probably given him a heart attack.
I put Jasper in the garage and closed the door. Sorry , I mouthed to him.
“By the way,” she said, biting the cigarette as she fetched her mop and pail from the back of her truck,“I went shopping with my group this morning and picked up a few things on sale for your party.”
By “group,” Libby meant the Penny Pinchers, a bunch of super savers like her who met in the basement of the Rocky River Public Library once a week to swap coupons and trade tips. You’d have thought the Penny Pinchers were A-list celebrities the way she was forever going on about their crazy antics, recounting their great finds at yard sales and their coups at the grocery store beating the system, ticking off the store managers and filling their shopping carts with loads of free stuff.
She tried to get me to come to a couple of meetings, but so far I’d managed to duck her. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to learn how to save, it was just that I wasn’t sure I could . My few attempts at living by a budget in the past had been utter, costly failures.
Take coupons, for example. I’d usually start off gung ho, buying a bunch of Sunday newspapers and cutting out each coupon, filing them by category in long white envelopes. Inevitably, though, I’d forget the envelopes when I went grocery shopping or I’d hold on to the coupons too long. They’d expire and fall to the bottom of my purse, where they’d become ripped or crumpled until I used them to hold spit-out gum or to pat my lipstick. Not to pun, but some of us were just not cut out for coupons.
Libby handed me a dozen used Ball jelly jars and a bag of tiny votive candles.
“Thank you,” I said, grateful, if slightly confused. Along with not clipping coupons, I wasn’t a canner, either.
“Lights for the patio. Very pretty with the glass quilting.” She exhaled her cigarette triumphantly. “I got them at a yard sale this morning. Guess how much.”
Libby loved to play the home version of The Price Is Right .
“Five dollars.”
“For free!” She pumped her fist. “It was the end of the sale and they couldn’t get rid of them, so they threw them in when I bought a towel rack for thirty-five cents. The candles were left over from Christmas last year. I picked them up at a post-holiday steal down at the drugstore for a buck a bag. Now you won’t have to go out and drop a Ulysses S. Grant on lanterns.”
She opened the candles and plopped one into a jar, lighting it with her cigarette. Although it was still daylight, I could see the candle’s potential as the flame danced in the puckered glass.
“Hey. That’s very pretty!”
“Isn’t it?” She gazed at the jar with pride until her hand began to shake. “And . . . hot. Ohmigod. ”
Quickly, I snatched it from her hand and blew out the flame while Libby waved her red palm in the cooling air. “I thought they’d be insulated,” she said.
“I don’t think that’s what quilting means.”
I took the Ball jars and candles to the patio. Then I dumped Griff ’s shirts in the backseat of the Lexus, started the car, and headed toward Chloe’s office, though it was Saturday and the day of the anniversary party. When Chloe summons, one comes.
Griff calls Rocky River “New Jersey’s Brigadoon” because it’s hidden between New Brunswick and Princeton, off Route 27, in the valley marked by a wooden bridge. It was love at first sight when Griff and I, house hunting, stumbled upon this community with its
“I don’t care. He hates me. If you weren’t around, he’d bite off my ankle.”
“No, he wouldn’t. He hardly has any teeth left.” But there was no point in explaining that to Libby, who’d been cleaning my house for fifteen years—about as long as we’d had Jasper. She hated all dogs, and all dogs hated her. If Vivian hadn’t fetched me, she would have doused the old boy in pepper spray and probably given him a heart attack.
I put Jasper in the garage and closed the door. Sorry , I mouthed to him.
“By the way,” she said, biting the cigarette as she fetched her mop and pail from the back of her truck,“I went shopping with my group this morning and picked up a few things on sale for your party.”
By “group,” Libby meant the Penny Pinchers, a bunch of super savers like her who met in the basement of the Rocky River Public Library once a week to swap coupons and trade tips. You’d have thought the Penny Pinchers were A-list celebrities the way she was forever going on about their crazy antics, recounting their great finds at yard sales and their coups at the grocery store beating the system, ticking off the store managers and filling their shopping carts with loads of free stuff.
She tried to get me to come to a couple of meetings, but so far I’d managed to duck her. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to learn how to save, it was just that I wasn’t sure I could . My few attempts at living by a budget in the past had been utter, costly failures.
Take coupons, for example. I’d usually start off gung ho, buying a bunch of Sunday newspapers and cutting out each coupon, filing them by category in long white envelopes. Inevitably, though, I’d forget the envelopes when I went grocery shopping or I’d hold on to the coupons too long. They’d expire and fall to the bottom of my purse, where they’d become ripped or crumpled until I used them to hold spit-out gum or to pat my lipstick. Not to pun, but some of us were just not cut out for coupons.
Libby handed me a dozen used Ball jelly jars and a bag of tiny votive candles.
“Thank you,” I said, grateful, if slightly confused. Along with not clipping coupons, I wasn’t a canner, either.
“Lights for the patio. Very pretty with the glass quilting.” She exhaled her cigarette triumphantly. “I got them at a yard sale this morning. Guess how much.”
Libby loved to play the home version of The Price Is Right .
“Five dollars.”
“For free!” She pumped her fist. “It was the end of the sale and they couldn’t get rid of them, so they threw them in when I bought a towel rack for thirty-five cents. The candles were left over from Christmas last year. I picked them up at a post-holiday steal down at the drugstore for a buck a bag. Now you won’t have to go out and drop a Ulysses S. Grant on lanterns.”
She opened the candles and plopped one into a jar, lighting it with her cigarette. Although it was still daylight, I could see the candle’s potential as the flame danced in the puckered glass.
“Hey. That’s very pretty!”
“Isn’t it?” She gazed at the jar with pride until her hand began to shake. “And . . . hot. Ohmigod. ”
Quickly, I snatched it from her hand and blew out the flame while Libby waved her red palm in the cooling air. “I thought they’d be insulated,” she said.
“I don’t think that’s what quilting means.”
I took the Ball jars and candles to the patio. Then I dumped Griff ’s shirts in the backseat of the Lexus, started the car, and headed toward Chloe’s office, though it was Saturday and the day of the anniversary party. When Chloe summons, one comes.
Griff calls Rocky River “New Jersey’s Brigadoon” because it’s hidden between New Brunswick and Princeton, off Route 27, in the valley marked by a wooden bridge. It was love at first sight when Griff and I, house hunting, stumbled upon this community with its
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