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Again, a chorus of hellos went up and filled my soul.
“Who’s next?” Rose asked, jumping right into work, even as her hands were still tying the knot on her apron.
While Sienna ordered, Carmella motioned at me with her chin, nodding toward the back hallway. I followed her there, and as soon as I was within reach, she gently touched my arm.
“When was the last time you had a vacation, Maggie? You might be worried about your dad, but I’m worried about you. You look ready to snap in half. You’re always working or on the go, doing for others—never taking time for yourself to just be.”
“There’s no time for that,” I said, hating that I heard my doctor’s voice in my head, talking about slowing down. “Besides, it’s hard to think of myself when I’m so worried about Dad. You know him almost as well as I do, Carmella. You have to have seen that something isn’t right. If it’s not his mind, then maybe it’s his health? Do you think he got some terrible diagnosis? Is that why he’s pulling out all the stops to get healthy?” I straightened, feeling like I was onto something. “I can absolutely see him hiding health issues from me, wanting to protect me. Oh lord.”
Carmella grabbed hold of my hand, held it. “Stop, Maggie. Your blood pressure is going to go through the roof.”
Nearly six months ago, I’d had a transient ischemic attack, sometimes called a mini-stroke, due to untreated high blood pressure. Luckily, TIAs rarely left lasting damage, but the doctor had warned that I now had a one-in-three chance of having a major stroke if I didn’t make big changes in my life.
Changes like reducing stress.
“Dez isfine,” she said. “The very picture of vim and vigor. I promise you.”
I’d been well on my way to working myself into a fine frenzy,but her calm voice, her serene tone, pulled me back from the brink. She sounded sosure.
I eyed her. “You know something, don’t you?”
The bells on the door grated as Sam Kindell came inside. Rose welcomed him with a hearty “Good morning, Sam!” and started pulling together his usual order: an iced hazelnut latte and a whippy cup to go.
Carmella shifted her weight on her high-heeled sandals and wouldn’t meet my eye. “What?No.”
I laughed, but it sounded more like a cry to my ears. She might be the number-one real estate agent in these parts, but she was a lousy liar. “Tell me.Please.”
As she lifted her head, I saw resolve gleaming in her deep, dark eyes, and I held my breath, waiting, hoping, that I’d finally know the source of my father’s odd behavior, once and for all.
“Magdalena Mae Brightwell, a word?” Estrelle stomped toward me, the sequins on her gown glinting like moonlight on water.
“Can it wait a second?” I asked her.
“No, it most certainly cannot.”
Relief flooded Carmella’s face at the reprieve she’d been given. “I should be going, anyway. I have a showing at nine thirty.” She gave me a kiss on my cheek and practically ran to the door, shoving it open.
Sam soon followed her out, his order in his hands, the bells shredding my last nerve. I wondered why Dad, when he’d first taken over running Magpie’s, had even added the dang bells to the door in the first place. Mama would hate them.
Trying my best to ignore my troubles and my throbbing head, I forced my focus away from Carmella’s hasty retreat and onto the elderly woman standing in front of me.
Estrelle owned the fabric and notions shop next door, Stitchery, and also offered tailoring services and custom work. No one seemed to know her true age, but she had to be eighty if a day. Her thin, pale skin was practically translucent, a maze of blue veins easily visible. Her fingers were gnarled, her manicured nails painted hot pink. Her crystal-clear silvery stare wasunwavering behind the black netting of the veil on her pillbox hat. Her back was hunched, which pitched her head slightly forward, as if she was always leaning in to hear better, not that she seemed to have hearing issues. In fact, all her senses seemed as sharp as ever.
As the church bells began tolling the nine o’clock hour, Estrelle, her gravelly voice firm and strong, said, “Youwillhire her.”
CHAPTER 3MAGGIE
The hair stood at the back of my neck.
Estrelle had theknowing—the ability to know things about the past, present, and future that she shouldn’t. She’d known that Daisy Fern Jensen was expecting before Daisy did. Twins, at that. Estrelle’s baby gifts—two hand-stitched bibs and a warning to take bed rest seriously—had sent Daisy into a tizzy of excitement and worry. A few years back, Estrelle had brought a cane to Boomy Eldridge’s house a few daysbeforehe sprained his foot. Once, when I was in high school and had snuck out of the house to hang out with Donovan, the next day she’d asked, eyebrow raised as high as it could go, if I’d enjoyed my late-night lark. When Noah was in his early teens, she’d awoken me in the middle of the night with a phone call that he was in danger—a call that likely saved his life. Two years ago she’d somehow known that Kitty Bethune had badmouthed her at the town’s annual blueberry festival even though Estrelle hadn’t been standing anywhere nearby. The ensuing confrontation was legendary around these parts.
More often than not Estrelle offered advice or issued orders without asking, or caring, if the interference was welcome, but when she’d approached me just now, I’d beenhopingshe’d say something about my dad. Surely she had some insight into the matter.
Caught off guard by her demand tohiresomeone, I said, “Pardon?”
Estrelle lifted a thin eyebrow.“It has been said.”
Giving me a stiff nod, she then turned on her clunky heels.
