CHAPTER 50

C. J. was right. Mary Dell would dine at the Mansion again in later years, eventually becoming such a regular patron that waiters would bring her Dr Pepper without even bothering to ask for her order. But she would never forget that first visit, the exquisitely beautiful room, the starched tablecloths and sparkling cutlery, the delicious food, the kindness of her hosts, or what happened at dessert.

Mary Dell had just sampled the chocolate mousse and made a joke about being relieved not to find any antlers when Libby asked if she had any pictures of her family.

“As a matter of fact . . .” she said, quickly pulling out her wallet and passing around snapshots of Taffy and Dutch, Silky and Velvet, Lydia Dale and the children, and, finally, Howard.

Libby took the picture, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my Lord,” she murmured through the lattice of her fingers. “C. J., have you seen this?”

Up until then, C. J. had perused the photos politely but briefly, as most men would, but when Libby handed him the snapshot of Howard, he stared at it for a long while. His eyes filled with tears. Libby reached over and squeezed his arm.

“Your son has Down syndrome?” he asked. “So did my little brother. He was eight when he died. Heart.”

Mary Dell wasn’t sure what to say. She wanted to ask him about his brother, to know if they’d been close, if he’d lived at home or in an institution, if C. J. had been with him when he died, but she didn’t think it was her place to pry into a subject that was obviously still so painful.

“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly.

“And your son . . . Howard? Is he . . . ?”

“Doing real well,” she assured him. “Very healthy, and his heart is perfect. He can smile and lift his head on his own. When I get home, I’m going to teach him to roll over.”

“That’s good. Very good.”

C. J. crooked his index finger and touched his knuckle to the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat, regaining his composure.

“Mary Dell, there’s something I want to propose to you. I’d like you to carry White Star fabric in your shop.”

“Of course,” she replied. “I was going to do that anyway.”

“I’d like you to carry twenty-five hundred bolts.”

Mary Dell’s stomach lurched.

“But . . . I can’t. Not that I don’t want to, but . . . where would I get the money?”

“Yes, yes. I know,” C. J. said in a distracted voice and started patting the front of his jacket, trying to feel if there was another cigar inside. “But you’ve only got one chance to make a first impression. In a town as small as Too Much, you’re going to have to attract people from out of town to survive. The Patchwork Palace needs to become a destination. But people won’t drive out of their way to visit your shop if you don’t have an inventory that’s worth the trip.

“Here’s what I propose: You make White Star your exclusive wholesaler. In exchange, I will send you twenty-five hundred bolts of our best quilting fabric . . . ah, ah, ah!” He held up a cautioning finger as he saw Mary Dell’s mouth open to protest. “Let me finish.

“I will send you the fabric, but you don’t have to pay me for it—not up front. I’m going to supply it to you on commission. What you sell, you pay for. What you don’t sell, you can send back.”

“Without paying for it?” Mary Dell held up her hand. “No, C. J. Absolutely not. I can’t let you do me special favors just because I have a son with Down syndrome. It’s not fair to you. And it’s not good business.”

“How would you know?” he countered. “I’ve been at this for forty years. You haven’t even opened your doors yet. And since I own the company, I can do whatever I want.”

He frowned and pulled a cigar out of his pocket. Libby clutched at her husband’s sleeve and gave him a look. C. J. made a little growling sound. “I know, I know,” he said and clenched the unlit cigar between his teeth.

“Yes, Mary Dell. I lost a brother to Down syndrome. I couldn’t help him, so I’d like to help Howard, and you. Would that be bad business? No. Absolutely not.

“If your shop starts off on the right foot, I’ve gained a customer for life. I’ll make money, you’ll make money, and everyone will be happy. But,” he said, taking the unlit cigar from between his teeth and pointing it at her, “if your shop fails because your inventory is so small that people don’t come or don’t come back, I’ll have lost a customer and an opportunity.”

He picked up his cigar, wedged it back between his teeth, crossed his arms over his chest, and gave her a triumphant look, daring her to dispute his logic.

Mary Dell smiled. “You are a good salesman, C. J., but I’m not buying. I’m not going to take advantage of you just because of Howard. Nothing you can say will change my mind.”

 

In the end, in spite of her protestations, he wore her down. White Star Fabrics would be the exclusive supplier of the Patchwork Palace, and the Patchwork Palace would sell that fabric on commission, but only for the initial order of 2,500 bolts. After that, they’d have to pay up front, just like everybody else. On this point, Mary Dell was immovable. She and C. J. shook on it and that was that; the deal was sealed.

It was after eleven when the driver dropped her off at the hotel. She knew she should go to sleep, but she couldn’t. She felt like going dancing, or sliding down the big brass banister in the hotel lobby, or opening up the windows and hollering for pure joy. She wanted to call home and tell Lydia Dale about everything that had happened, but she didn’t know how to make a long-distance call on the hotel telephone, and anyway, it was too late to call.

Instead, she opened the minibar, pulled out a Dr Pepper, and poured it into a cut-crystal glass and carried it with her into the bathroom, then filled up the tub, using the entire bottle of bubble bath.

After abandoning her dress in a gold lamé heap on the marble floor, she slipped into the hot, sweet-smelling water, took a long drink from the crystal goblet of cherry-and-cola nectar, then settled back in the bathtub, wreathed by mounds of bubbles, an angel floating on a gardenia-scented cloud.

“I could get so used to this.”