Emily pushed away the bowl of chicken soup with homemade noodles. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Maybe you’d like something with a little more flavor? I have some tom yum soup in the freezer.”
Emily groaned. “Nothing Thai. I’ll never eat Thai again without thinking about how I brought Matt in here. How I set you up to ruin your career.”
Her mother made a rude noise. “It would take more than one aggressive businessman to ruin my career. Now, if he managed to destroy the entire year’s crop of gourds…”
Emily sighed. “Don’t say that anywhere he can hear. He’ll figure out a way to do it just to spite me.”
Mom shook her head and pushed back from the table. She dug around in the drawer beneath the telephone to find a massive black marking pen. She turned to the over-size calendar on the whiteboard beside the refrigerator and inked a giant X across Friday. She added one to the current day, to Saturday.
“What are those for?” Emily asked.
“I’m counting off the days you get to sulk.”
“Mom!”
“You saw him for what? Six weeks? I’ll give you six days to pout. But then it’s time to get your head on straight and figure out what you’re going to do with the rest of your life.”
“I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to stay at Harmony Skeins and sell yarn.”
Her mother gave her a skeptical look.
“What? It’s a good job. I can support myself. The apartment is perfect. Theresa will eventually sell me the store.”
“You’re bored to tears. You’ve been ready to move on for months. Don’t chicken out now.”
And that did bring tears to her eyes. It hurt that her mother knew her so well. Knew what made her afraid.
Mom sat back at the table. “I know he hurt you. And I know that terrifies you because you took a risk. But if you give up now, that’s when Matt will truly have destroyed something. I can find another gallery space. Harmony Springs can grapple with a discount store next to the town hall. But if you settle for a job that bores you, if you stay at Harmony Skeins because of an apartment then we’ll all have lost something special.”
Emily waited for the fizz of competition to ignite across the back of her throat, for the familiar Purr to replace the ache she felt beneath her breastbone. But despite her mother’s expectant glance, she came up with nothing.
“Four more days,” Mom said with equanimity.
Emily sniffed and climbed to her feet. “I love you, Mom.”
“Not as much as I love you. You know you’re my favorite.”
Emily laughed. “You say that to all your kids.”
Mom just hummed a little tuneless song. Emily hugged her hard and headed out to her car. Heavy clouds were low in the sky, hinting at snow before the day was over. She was ready to go home, to huddle on the couch with a comforter and a bag of Oreos. But then she saw the craft bag on the seat beside her.
“Damn!” Joyce Horton had phoned the store yesterday, asking if Emily could bring over a skein of tangerine-colored yarn. She’d nearly finished her cabled sweater; she only needed to add cuffs to the sleeves, but she wanted a little something that would make it pop.
It was unfair to make the poor woman wait, just because Emily was depressed. She put the car in gear and made it to Jefferson Manor as the first flakes of snow began to fall.
She found Joyce and Dolores in their customary corner of the sunroom. “There you are!” Joyce exclaimed, as if Emily had just returned from an epic journey. “We’ve missed you so much!”
“She was here last weekend,” Dolores said. Which was accurate, if a little unkind. But Dolores added, “Thank you for coming out in this weather.” Which was about as effusive as Dolores ever got.
“I brought yarn,” Emily said, passing a cake of bright orange to Joyce. “And this one’s for you, Miss Dolores.” Charcoal, so dark it was almost black.
“You wound it, dear!” Joyce exclaimed, as if the thoughtfulness was the best gift she’d ever received.
“Shouldn’t have bothered,” Dolores said. “I’ll only need twenty yards or so, for the cuffs.
Emily had picked up her own project bag as she headed out of her apartment. The first thing she’d grabbed was the qiviut; she was almost through with the warmest scarf she’d ever made. But just touching the yarn had made her think of Matt. She’d never finish the project now. She should frog the entire thing, rip out all the stitches. Find someone who would appreciate the valuable yarn and get it out of her life.
Instead, she’d grabbed her grey heather sweater. It was perfect for her current state of mind. The cables forced her to think about what she was doing, to concentrate just enough that she couldn’t let her mind wander back to the SOS meeting, back to the shouting match that had followed in the children’s reading room.
But in the winter light of the sunroom, Emily began to doubt her choice of yarn. The grey was gorgeous; there was no doubt about it. But it made her own pale hands look sickly. The yarn’s tiny tufts of blue and lavender only heightened the problem, emphasizing the fine veins in her wrists.
She should frog this too.
But what was she going to pick up then? She had over a dozen projects stashed in her closet, all in various stages of completion. Was she going to work her way from bag to bag, ripping out every last stitch she’d ever made?
She might as well stick with the sweater. The same way she’d stick with working at Harmony Skeins. She didn’t need any more disruption in her life. She didn’t want any more stress.
“So, dear,” Joyce said, after Emily had completed an entire row. “It sounds as if you had quite an interesting meeting at the library last week.”
“I heard that baseball player got a fast one over the plate.”
Emily looked at Dolores, surprised.
“What?” the old woman said. “I’ve watched a game or two in my time!”
“Of course you have,” Emily said. “And yes, the meeting was something of a surprise.”
“So what are you going to do, dear?” Joyce was placid as she worked her orange yarn into a stripe of blinding fuchsia.
“Do?” Emily asked, blinking hard to make her eyes focus on her own boring grey.
“You’re the president of your little association,” Dolores snapped. “People are going to expect leadership, not some lollygagging about!”
Emily didn’t bother taking offense. Being offended by Dolores Horton could be a full-time occupation. Instead, she said, “I don’t think anyone’s up for much right now. Sales will stay slow until spring. We’ll piece something together then.”
“Why that’s just poppycock!” Joyce shouted as she threw her knitting into her lap.
Emily was shocked. She’d never heard Joyce raise her voice before, not once in almost thirty years. “E—excuse me?”
“If you say business is slow and you don’t do a single thing to change that, then you’ll prove yourself right. I thought your valedictorian trophy meant you were smarter than that, Miss Emily Barton.”
“I—”
“Certainly you decided not to go to college. But your brains didn’t drip out of your head the day you picked up your high school diploma.”
“Miss Joyce—”
“And don’t you dare tell me no one else is up for a bit of hard work. There were twenty-five people who voted to put you in charge of Save Our Stores.”
“And thirteen people who didn’t!” Emily lashed out, still stung by the tally.
“Don’t you get smart with me, young lady.” Joyce adopted the strictest no-nonsense tone Emily had ever heard her use. “The vote was more than two to one in your favor, young lady. And once you show everyone a bit of profit for those winter months they budgeted for shortfalls, you’ll bring back the others.”
“I just asked people to trust me at the Christmas Fête. We can’t do anything big like that again.”
“Then do something small.”
“What?” Now Emily was completely confused.
“Your young man is part of the Central Business District now, isn’t he?”
It wasn’t like the Horton sisters to have missed that bit of trivia. “Matt’s not my young man,” Emily said. “Not anymore.”
“Never you mind the details,” Joyce said. “He’s joined Save Our Stores. You tell him he needs to help out on a city-wide promotion. He has to donate chocolate candy. Those cheap candy hearts they sell for Valentine’s, the ones wrapped in colored foil.”
“No one will eat that stuff! It’s more than half wax.”
But Dolores seemed to have caught on too. She patted at her sister’s arm, putting her grim dark sweater at risk of slipping off its needles. “You’ll have to have three levels,” she said. “Better yet, four. Make people work for it.”
Emily looked at the grey sweater she’d brought, wondering if it was laced with something that had made both women take leave of their senses. “I don’t understand what—” she started to say, but Dolores cut her off.
“Oh, for the everlasting love of Pete. Trade up! Make them trade up!”
Somehow, Emily was beginning to get the gist of what the Horton sisters were suggesting. “People spend money in town, and they turn in their receipts for crappy chocolate hearts. Say, ten dollars of purchases gets you one heart.”
“Exactly!” Joyce exulted.
“And then we exchange ten hearts for a letterpress Valentine card from Peterman’s Card Emporium.”
“Not a card,” Dolores snorted. “A certificate for a card. No reason to let people ruin the stock with their grubby little hands.”
Emily nodded. “Ten hearts get a certificate for a card. And ten card certificates get you…” She paused to think of something else that seemed like Valentine’s Day.
Joyce filled the gap. “Ten card certificates equal one bottle of French hand lotion from Body Beautiful. Rose-scented lotion. Everyone loves roses!”
“Not everyone,” Dolores squabbled. “But some damn fool will collect ten lotion certificates for a dozen red roses from Kitty Moran.”
“It’s brilliant!” Joyce clapped her withered hands together. “Just think of the shopping people will do!”
And it was brilliant. People loved schemes, loved participating in community activities. The Valentine’s exchange was like the passport scheme, but even larger, with better prizes.
There was only one problem. Emily would have to ask Matt to donate the candy. “No,” she said. “I won’t do it.”
Joyce clucked her tongue. “Just take an evening to think about it. You’ll see things differently in the morning.”
Emily shook her head. “I’ve had two mornings since Matt executed his little coup. I can promise you, nothing will be different.”
Dolores scowled. “Of all the pig-headed, inflexible, narrow-minded things to say—”
“That’s all right,” Joyce interrupted. “That’s why Save Our Stores elected a vice president. Tammy Yeager can ask Matt.”
“And if he’s inclined to say no,” Dolores said, “She can just flash her hoohah at Matt. Say it’s one of those Oriental tricks her first husband taught her.”
“Dolores!” Joyce remonstrated.
“She would!”
But Emily knew Tammy wouldn’t. Because none of the women at Yoga Night was ever going to give Matt Dawson the time of day again. Emily was certain of that.
Joyce shook her head, clearly exasperated by her sister’s inappropriate suggestion. “So, dear. What do you say? Do you think our Valentine’s promotion could work?”
Emily sighed. People would get fired up by the spirit of competition, by the trading up for more valuable prizes. But the entire process seemed too complicated for Emily to plan. It would take too much energy. Still, if Tammy wanted to do it…
“I’ll call for volunteers,” Emily said at last. “If people step forward, that’s fine. But if not, we’ll just wait until summer to do…something.”
The snow was falling harder now. She’d better get started back, if she wanted to avoid icy roads. She collected her knitting and stood up, kissing first Joyce and then Dolores on the cheek.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Joyce said. “Things are always darkest before the dawn.”
Dolores grunted in disapproval. “That may be the most foolish thing I’ve ever heard you say. You know as well as I do that the sky gets lighter before the dawn. You’re up early enough each morning to see it, aren’t you?”
Emily left them to their bickering. Out on the county road, her headlights seemed to excavate a tunnel beneath the trees. She took the drive slowly, gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles turned as white as the snow.
She was trembling with exhaustion by the time she got home. She considered opening up a can of soup, but that took too much effort. Instead, she grabbed her blanket and huddled on her couch, staring at the TV for hours without changing the channel. It didn’t matter what she watched.
Nothing mattered at all.
~~~
Matt inked in the final word of the crossword puzzle: Love.
The clue was “zero.” As in tennis. But it might as well be as in life.
Shit. He might as well cut off his own balls right then and there.
But that’s what this was all about, right? Don Armstrong had held the knife. Had told him what to do and how to do it. And the asshole from American Discount Corporate didn’t have any idea what he’d set in motion.
Matt stared at the phone on his desk. Fuck. It was better to ask forgiveness than permission—that’s the code he’d lived by as a pitcher. If he had to protect one of his teammates, if he had to throw at another team’s star hitter, he’d make the decision on his own. Make it an off-speed pitch, throw for the meaty part of the thigh, but he was the one who chose what to do.
That’s when he’d been Raleigh’s lead ace.
But he wasn’t anyone’s ace now. Now, he was a Star Partner with American Discount. He was a wet-behind-the-ears rookie who’d just had his ass handed to him two weeks before. It rankled, but asking permission was necessary if he was going to keep his business afloat.
And right about now, keeping the American Discount moving forward was the only thing he had going for him. In the week and half since his showdown with Emily at the library, Matt realized just how small a town Harmony Springs was. When he stopped for groceries at the Smart Shopper, the sudden silence pressed in around him like a physical thing. When he filled up his truck with gas, Joe Henderson didn’t bother to come out and shoot the shit beside the pumps.
He didn’t even try to go into the Orchard Diner.
That wasn’t the worst part of it, of course. The worst part was that he caught himself walking toward Harmony Skeins, already planning the story he was going to tell Emily, about the cidiot family he’d overheard in the store that morning. He worked a crossword puzzle and he reached for the phone to tell Emily the clue was “Wuthering Heights author,” so he’d thought of her. He rolled over in the night, and found nothing but cold sheets on the other half of the bed.
But he couldn’t figure out how to fix those things. She’d basically told him he had no soul, and she’d shit on his entire career with the Rockets too. She’d had the last word. And he’d be damned before he admitted she was right, that there was a difference between baseball and whatever it was he’d had with her.
Shit. Rehashing the fight wasn’t getting him anywhere. It never did. He had a job to do, and he’d damn well better start getting it done. If he didn’t, he’d end up a failure at work too.
He punched in the familiar Raleigh area code, followed by the seven digits he’d memorized back when he’d started down the American Discount road. A chipper voice answered on the first ring. “Donald Armstrong’s office.”
“Is Don in?”
“Whom may I say is calling?”
“Matt Dawson.”
He waited. And waited some more. And still more.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dawson. Mr. Armstrong isn’t available right now. May I have him return your call at his earliest convenience?”
His earliest convenience, my ass. Armstrong was playing power games, making sure Matt knew he was sitting in his office on the thirtieth floor, probably with his feet up, with his hands behind his head. But Matt wasn’t in a position to force the issue. “He’s got my number.”
So Matt was forced to wait by his phone. He tried to use the time wisely. But there were only so many ways to configure a computer, monitor, phone, and bag of heart-shaped candy. He’s already tested the ink in his seven black pens. He’d stacked his two pads of paper, one on top of the other, then laid them side by side. He’d be damned if he’d be reduced to counting his paper clips.
Armstrong called back at 12:15, interrupting any lunch plans Matt might have had before they started this bullshit game of oneupmanship. “Matt! Sorry I couldn’t take your call earlier. Meeting with International.”
Matt didn’t believe that for a second. But he let the lie stand so he could move on to what he really needed. “I wanted to fill you in on some changes I’ve made in the past couple of weeks, Don.”
“Good, good.”
“First, I let Caden Harper go.”
“Who?”
Matt stifled a shout. “The young man I had working for me. The minor.”
“Hmm. I don’t remember who you had on payroll, but if you had a problem employee, better to get him out sooner rather than later. HR can help if there’s any pushback.”
Matt ran his hand down his face, trying to keep his ultimate prize in mind. He needed American Discount. Harmony Springs needed American Discount. “I also wanted to let you know I’ve secured a new location. Three blocks closer to the heart of town. Twice the floor space I have now. I bought it outright, so there won’t be any delay in making the move.”
“I’m sorry to hear you say that.”
“Excuse me?” Matt clutched the phone tighter.
“We require all Star Partners to submit relocation plans to a Partner Review Board.”
“And what exactly does a Partner Review Board do?”
“Board members are some of our most experienced Star Partners. They have a real feel for the American Discount way. They come out and visit, do a complete site review. That way, you can make any changes before we get legal involved. We have to keep our lawyers happy.”
“My new property meets every one of the specs you gave me in that binder, one week ago.”
“Then I’m sure the Partner Review Board won’t have any problem with it. No problem at all. Well, Matt, it’s been wonderful catching up, but I have a meeting I have to get to.”
“Wait!” Matt hated himself for shouting, hated the curling feeling of gratitude when the phone didn’t click in his ear. “I wanted to run a promotion by you. You know, make sure it doesn’t have any of the…rough edges that were around our Christmas promotion.”
“Go ahead.”
Hating himself for buckling under to corporate control, Matt told Armstrong about the plan Tammy had presented that morning, the loss leader of the chocolate hearts, the trade-in for prizes of greater value.
“Let me get this straight,” Armstrong said. “You’re setting up a pyramid scheme, with American Discount candy as the bait.”
“I wouldn’t call it a scheme—”
“And you’re doing this for Valentine’s Day. The candy’ll be what? Pink? Red?”
Matt stared at the bag he’d centered on his desk. “And white. A sort of silvery white.”
Armstrong sighed. “I am damn sure we went over the trademark problem when you were down here. What part of green don’t you understand, Matt?”
The part where Valentine’s Day is about pink and red.
Before Matt could crawl on his belly, though, Armstrong said, “I’ve got to tell you, this conversation has me concerned. When you left here two weeks ago, I thought we understood each other. I thought you were ready to do things the American Discount way.”
“I am,” Matt said, the words sawing away at his sternum.
“Well it doesn’t sound that way to me. Not if you’re bringing us this dumb-shit Valentine’s Day promotion.”
It wasn’t dumb-shit. It was a decent plan. One that Emily had clearly spent a lot of time thinking about, even if she’d needed to go through Tammy to bring him into the loop.
But Matt made himself say, “You’re making too much out of this. Your lawyers aren’t going to care about one little promotion—”
“Who the hell are you, to tell me what my lawyers are going to care about?”
“I’m just saying my plan isn’t a threat to American Discount.”
“You’re not really in the best position to judge that, are you?”
“Don—”
“How long have you been a Star Partner?”
“Three mo—”
“And how many franchise stores have you owned and operated before that?”
“None, but—”
“If you’re screwing around with trademark violations, how can we be sure you aren’t undercutting American Discount in other ways?”
“Your own team just—”
“My own team just looked at the tip of the fucking iceberg. Screw it. We’re sending a Platinum Quality Control Team up there tomorrow.”
“What the hell, Don? I only asked—”
“You only showed you don’t understand the first thing about your contractual obligation to American Discount. So newsflash, Dawson. You’re contractually bound to cover the cost of the Platinum QCT.”
“I’ve read my contract,” Matt said, refusing to let Don bull over him this time. “You presented your goddamn list of demands at my three-month review. And I acted on every single one of them. I secured a new store space, larger and closer to downtown. I fired Caden Harper. You don’t get to send your Platinum thugs now.”
Armstrong spluttered, “I’ll do whatever I damn well please, Dawson. And you’re going to open your door to our Platinum team tomorrow.”
Make me.
But that was a taunt for the playground. Matt’s body got very still as he said, “I’m terminating my agreement with American Discount.”
“You can’t do that!”
But the instant the words were out of his mouth, Matt felt a thousand times better than he had in weeks. His head was clear, like he’d finally solved the last crossword clue in a Sunday Times puzzle. His body felt light, relaxed, like he was taking the mound on a perfect summer day.
He’d told himself he needed American Discount. He’d told himself Harmony Springs needed American Discount. But there had to be another way. A better way. He’d find it. He’d build it. He would make it happen.
And so he said into the phone, “I can. And I will. You’ll get my official notice by close of business today.”
Armstrong shouted, “You can’t terminate your agreement! We’re cutting you off today!”
Matt laughed. The words were so much like the ones Caden had said when Matt let him go: You can’t fire me. I quit. They’d been pitiful, coming from a child. They were absurd, coming from a grown businessman. He said, “Have a great day, Don.”
“Don’t hang up that phone!” Armstrong’s shout was sharp enough to freeze Matt’s hand. “You say you’ve read your contract. Then you know you’re on the hook for special damages. If we terminate your contract for cause within the first year of operations, you’ll pay us one million dollars for every violation our Platinum QCT finds. And you, personally, will be barred from working in any retail business related to the sale of any item carried in American Discount inventory for a period of five years.”
“That will never stand up in a court of law.”
“How much are you willing to pay to test it, Dawson?”
“My lawyers will be in touch by close of business today.”
Matt slammed the phone down, but not before he heard Armstrong swear: “Goddamn dumb-fuck jocks!”