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Liane sputtered. “I said, please.”
After breakfast, Stormy stood at the foot of the drive and waited with the children until their school buses came, wondering how often Nina and Tully had abandoned their parental responsibilities and left Liane to cope. It was just one more issue atop the others that would have to be addressed. Not to mention that until she could get up gas money, driving Liane to school and home was out of reach.
Tommy’s nursery school van collected him first.
Before Liane and Davie climbed aboard their bus, Liane reminded her mother. “Don’t forget to call Mrs. Byers.”
Back inside, Stormy made the call. Mrs. Byers’s voice was bubbly with infectious laughter. “Pooh! Call me Noreen,” she told Stormy. “Janelle’s got her overnight bag with her. I’m thrilled you want her. I’m having a garage sale this weekend, and Janelle would have been underfoot.Toohelpful, if you know what I mean.”
They chatted pleasantly about their girls, then Noreen said, “Janelle mentioned your troubles. If you ever want to talk…”
Stormy hesitated. “I’m trying to forget it ever happened.”
“I know the feeling, but sometimes things build up. Actually, a group of us meets once a week at I-HOP—you’re welcome to join us.”
“Group?”
“Women who’ve been in jail. We talk and listen, help one another get mainstreamed, pass on job tips, and so forth. We share what works, what doesn’t.” Noreen paused. “We’re not habitual criminals. If you come and listen, you’ll learn that most of us got into trouble because of the man in our lives at the time.”
“I can relate to that,” Stormy said with feeling.
“In that case, keep my number handy.”
“I will, thanks.”
Being able to talk with other women who shared the same frustrations appealed to Stormy, but at the moment, her deplorable finances needed her attention. And talking with Noreen had given her an idea.
Garage sales produced income but were hit or miss, only as successful as the traffic they drew. One place drew lots of foot traffic, rain or shine, and that was the flea market.
The more Stormy thought about having a table at a flea market, the more excited she became. St. Augustine, Jacksonville, and nearby Daytona Beach had permanent weekend marts.
She didn’t have to report to the parole office again for thirty days. If she spent a week getting up the products she wanted to sell, that would leave her three weekends for marketing. Arriving at her next meeting with a fait accompli, she could prove to Mrs. Lowery that she was earning her keep. Then she wouldn’t have to suffer the humiliation of having the parole officer approach her supervisor on a job. She’d be her own boss. She’d have her self-esteem back.
The problem was seed money. Instant cash. Not a lot—a thousand or so dollars, perhaps. Enough to rent a table. And she knew just how to get it.
She pulled her hair into a ponytail, changed into jeans and a flannel shirt, and went into the garage. She raised the double doors to allow in daylight.
Stored atop plywood sheets in the rafters were all the belongings she had carefully packed away for the day when she’d be out of prison and have her own life again: a flat-screen television, a microwave, a stereo system, a laptop, binoculars, a telescope to watch the stars, a few good pieces of crystal, two Coach purses she’d bought on sale with matching wallets—never used—and boxes of quality baby clothes Liane had long outgrown, and her share of her mother’s gold and diamond jewelry, which she would never part with. But some she could pawn, and the rest sell at the flea market. And after she’d made some money, she’d retrieve her things from the pawnshop. It was like investing in herself, giving herself a loan. She couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t thought of this before.
When she officially met Noreen, she’d give her a giant hug.
She took the aluminum extension ladder off its hooks on the wall and wrestled it upright against a rafter beam.
She’d go through all the boxes, sort everything out, and move those things she wanted to pawn to the edge of the plywood platforms. When Tully got up, he could help her load them into her car.
She was five rungs up when the ladder began to slide out from under her. She froze, too far up to jump and too far down to grab a beam. It flashed through her mind she was going to fall and probably break her neck.
Then the ladder rattled, jerked, and stopped sliding.
“I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress,” said Tyler. “What fairy tale are we playing?Rapunzel? The one where the princess lowers her hair out the window of the locked tower so the prince can climb up and seduce her?”
Stormy did not loosen her death grip on the ladder as she looked down at Tyler. His sneaker-clad feet were braced against the legs of the ladder, his hands holding each side of the extension to keep it from sliding.
Though breathless with arrested fear, she managed a fresh remark. “Awfully quick to the rescue, aren’t you? Were you, perhaps, spying on me from the bushes?”
“Nope, I was walking up the driveway like an ordinary human being. I was waiting out on the highway for you to leave this morning—you usually head out early. Since you didn’t, I came to beg a cup of coffee. If I’d known you weren’t going out at the crack of dawn, I could’ve slept in.”
“So sorry I’ve inconvenienced you.”
