tonight, China.”
Violett leaned forward. “Maybe we
could get together,” she said. “I mink we have some catching up to do. Don’t
you?”
Roz’s nod was almost chilly. “But I
don’t have time to do it now,” she said. “I need to do some shopping. We can
talk at the service this afternoon.” With a wave to me, she left.
For a moment, Violett stood there,
frowning past me as if she didn’t see me. “Is there anything else I can get
you?” I asked.
“What?” She started. “No, this is
fine,” she said, taking Gretel’s lavender oil. She paused. “Is Miss Kotner
staying in your cottage again?”
I nodded. She paid me for the oil
and left, looking slightly troubled.
The next hour was busy. I had a big
order of books to check in and a solid stream of customers to tend to. One of
the TV cooks was doing a show called “The Herbal Gourmet,” and it was inspiring
people to stock up on dried seasonings they hadn’t any idea how to use, as well
as pots of fresh basil, parsley, oregano, and marjoram. With almost every
order, I sold a copy of It’s About Thyme!, a great book by Marge Clark.
I had worked halfway through the box
of books when somebody else came in. I looked up. The woman was tall, almost as
tall as Ruby, her dark hair pulled back into a sleek, no-nonsense chignon at
the nape of her neck, lips and nails a rich plum. She wore an elegant gray
gabardine suit, a softly tailored and tucked gray silk blouse, and gray leather
pumps. She carried a gray suede briefcase, monogrammed with a gold JD. When she
saw me on my knees in front of the bookshelf, one eyebrow arched. “Hello,
China,” she said.
I stood up, uncomfortably aware that
my jeans were dusty, my green spice-it-up-with-herbs tee had a coffee stain on the front, and my hair was hanging in my
eyes. “Hello, Jane,” I said. Her gray suit reminded me of one I’d paid a
fortune for a few years back at Neiman-Marcus. I felt like a scullery maid.
Jane Dorman is Roz Kotner’s agent.
She’s in her late forties, brusque and wittily articulate in the New York
style, and impressively competent where money is concerned, at least according
to People magazine. Apparently, Jane was the financial wizard behind
Roz’s toy empire. I’d met her once at a barbecue in Jo’s backyard, when she
came for a visit with Roz. Only once. Jane was friendly enough and she seemed
to be enjoying herself, even though she was dressed to the teeth and the rest
of us were wearing jeans and sneakers. She was as out of place in Pecan Springs
as Maria Callas at the First Baptist choir picnic.
Jane gave me a slight smile. “I was
in San Antonio on business when Roz’s producer called about the renewal of her
TV contract. Since I wasn’t sure when Roz would be in New York, I thought I’d
catch her here. I phoned her secretary this morning and learned that she’s
staying in your cottage.”
“Sure,” I said, blowing the hair out
of my eyes. “Just follow the path through the herb garden.”
Jane glanced around and curled the
corners of her lips in a smile. “Your shop is so charmingly rustic,” she said.
“And profitable,” I replied, stung.
But that was dumb. Jane’s idea of profit is more along the lines of the Fortune
500.
She smiled again. “I’m sure,” she
said, and left me seedling, wishing I’d had the sense to keep my mouth shut. I’ve
never been very good with the withering rebuttals that the Perry Masons of the
world produce spontaneously. And Jane gets to me. I have the feeling that she
basically dislikes all women but herself, and that she doesn’t really think of
herself as a woman.
Ten minutes and two customers later,
I was putting the last book on the shelf. Ruby poked her head through the door
that separates Thyme and Seasons and The Crystal Cave. She was wearing a beige
safari-style shirt and a denim skirt, with a red silk scarf tied around her
head, red hoop earrings, and Birkenstocks. “Hey, it’s twelve-thirty. I’m
Violett leaned forward. “Maybe we
could get together,” she said. “I mink we have some catching up to do. Don’t
you?”
Roz’s nod was almost chilly. “But I
don’t have time to do it now,” she said. “I need to do some shopping. We can
talk at the service this afternoon.” With a wave to me, she left.
For a moment, Violett stood there,
frowning past me as if she didn’t see me. “Is there anything else I can get
you?” I asked.
“What?” She started. “No, this is
fine,” she said, taking Gretel’s lavender oil. She paused. “Is Miss Kotner
staying in your cottage again?”
I nodded. She paid me for the oil
and left, looking slightly troubled.
The next hour was busy. I had a big
order of books to check in and a solid stream of customers to tend to. One of
the TV cooks was doing a show called “The Herbal Gourmet,” and it was inspiring
people to stock up on dried seasonings they hadn’t any idea how to use, as well
as pots of fresh basil, parsley, oregano, and marjoram. With almost every
order, I sold a copy of It’s About Thyme!, a great book by Marge Clark.
I had worked halfway through the box
of books when somebody else came in. I looked up. The woman was tall, almost as
tall as Ruby, her dark hair pulled back into a sleek, no-nonsense chignon at
the nape of her neck, lips and nails a rich plum. She wore an elegant gray
gabardine suit, a softly tailored and tucked gray silk blouse, and gray leather
pumps. She carried a gray suede briefcase, monogrammed with a gold JD. When she
saw me on my knees in front of the bookshelf, one eyebrow arched. “Hello,
China,” she said.
I stood up, uncomfortably aware that
my jeans were dusty, my green spice-it-up-with-herbs tee had a coffee stain on the front, and my hair was hanging in my
eyes. “Hello, Jane,” I said. Her gray suit reminded me of one I’d paid a
fortune for a few years back at Neiman-Marcus. I felt like a scullery maid.
Jane Dorman is Roz Kotner’s agent.
She’s in her late forties, brusque and wittily articulate in the New York
style, and impressively competent where money is concerned, at least according
to People magazine. Apparently, Jane was the financial wizard behind
Roz’s toy empire. I’d met her once at a barbecue in Jo’s backyard, when she
came for a visit with Roz. Only once. Jane was friendly enough and she seemed
to be enjoying herself, even though she was dressed to the teeth and the rest
of us were wearing jeans and sneakers. She was as out of place in Pecan Springs
as Maria Callas at the First Baptist choir picnic.
Jane gave me a slight smile. “I was
in San Antonio on business when Roz’s producer called about the renewal of her
TV contract. Since I wasn’t sure when Roz would be in New York, I thought I’d
catch her here. I phoned her secretary this morning and learned that she’s
staying in your cottage.”
“Sure,” I said, blowing the hair out
of my eyes. “Just follow the path through the herb garden.”
Jane glanced around and curled the
corners of her lips in a smile. “Your shop is so charmingly rustic,” she said.
“And profitable,” I replied, stung.
But that was dumb. Jane’s idea of profit is more along the lines of the Fortune
500.
She smiled again. “I’m sure,” she
said, and left me seedling, wishing I’d had the sense to keep my mouth shut. I’ve
never been very good with the withering rebuttals that the Perry Masons of the
world produce spontaneously. And Jane gets to me. I have the feeling that she
basically dislikes all women but herself, and that she doesn’t really think of
herself as a woman.
Ten minutes and two customers later,
I was putting the last book on the shelf. Ruby poked her head through the door
that separates Thyme and Seasons and The Crystal Cave. She was wearing a beige
safari-style shirt and a denim skirt, with a red silk scarf tied around her
head, red hoop earrings, and Birkenstocks. “Hey, it’s twelve-thirty. I’m
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