Page 19 of Thistle Thorns

“Only that we’ll certainly be memorable to her and she’ll set the town gossip mill working overtime,” I answered. “You wanted us to be as unmemorable as possible, right? Then keep your head down.”

Ms. Harris paused at the checkout counter, seemingly bewildered that Emmett was not perched on his stool and polishing this or that and prepared to wait on her hand and foot. When she craned over the counter to see if he was sprawled on the floor, not a hair slipped out of place, though the fur collar at her throat rippled with the movement.

“I say, Mr. Trinket, where are you? You’ve not collapsed under one of these stacks, are you? That simply won’t do! Hurry now, Mr. Trinket.” She kept up with her half-hearted search, looking for him under a stack of newspapers set on the end of the counter, as she said loudly for anyone within range to hear, which was the entirety of the barn, “You have no idea the rush I’m in—I’ve been behind all morning. There are newcomers in town, yet again, and yet again, they are upsetting the natural order of things.

“One woman and her hippie son—though he could be her lover; she looks the cougar type, if you ask me, what with that gypsy shirt and tight leather pants—have been buying out all the before-noon deals at Galloway’s as if they were preparing food for an army! I almost lost a finger just getting a small pork loin for the bridge club’s Sunday luncheon. While in the checkout line, Millie Fairbanks told me that the hippie son/lover had already been to the Magic Brewery and had the indecency to purchase an entire keg, not to mention place an eight-drink order where none of them were the same, then had the audacity to ask the elder Lancaster boy if he wouldn’t mind delivering the keg to nowhere other than the cider farm on Apple Blossom Lane! If you ask me, that birdhouse-stealing hussy Misty Fields has brought more of her ilk to town. Or she’s hosting a kegger. Maybe an orgy. It’s impossible to tell.” With that, she’d run out of air and sucked in a massive gulp, only to trumpet once more, “Hang it all, Mr. Trinket! Where are you?”

Great, so now I was no longer a birdhouse-stealing hussy, but a boozed-up debauchee. Possibly a nymphomaniac. I rolled my eyes.

Frowning, Dad whispered to me, “Who is this woman?”

“The queen of Redbud, weren’t you listening?” I said it only half-jokingly. She was indeed the town matriarch, and no one crossed her unless they wanted to be the subject of her ire in her latest Talk of the Town issue.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Emmett called a moment later from somewhere in the back. “One moment, Ms. Harris.”

Ms. Charlotte Harris was not known to wait for anything, so she took off once again in the direction of his voice. Dad and I shifted our hiding spot from the green- and rose-colored glass to the racks of singing jewelry boxes, collectable beer steins, and decorative plates and watched as Emmett appeared with a mug of coffee.

Which he placed in front of Grandmother, who looked up from her gem inspection to give Ms. Harris one of her customary up-down glances. But Ms. Charlotte was the self-professed queen of Redbud, and knew how to give an assessing glance of her own. Especially since—to my limited knowledge—Emmett Trinket had never offered her a cup of coffee while she was perusing his wares.

They were on two opposite sides of the spectrum, at least in appearance. Grandmother was all in black, her shortened battle robes lending her a queenly air, her steel-gray hair streaked with brown in an immaculate bun on the top of her head. Though she had wrinkles, they were distinguishing like Daphne’s. Her eyes were bright, her tan cheeks tinged with rose from the chilly air. She was curvy and sensuous where Ms. Harris certainly was not. The human woman was a stick of wintery paper birch compared to my lively grandmother, pale and stiff and afraid to let her hips sway in any fashion.

And as always, the recipient of their twin evaluations was found wanting.

Maintaining her judgmental stare, Grandmother lifted the mug to her lips, blew off the steam, and took a nice deep sip. Then: “I’ll be happy to let Emmett assist you after I’m finished here.”

That was a loaded sentence. First was the let, which implied Emmett was at her express beck and call, then Emmett, the familiarity of his first name implying they went way, way back, and finally, the summation of the words conveyed that Grandmother was not going to let Ms. Harris get one look at those jewels until she had finished first. Which was an indefinite time frame. Which meant Ms. Harris would have to wait.

The Harris Harridan was not accustomed to waiting.

Her puckered lips took on a sour twist. “And you are? Some kind of dominatrix?”

“Irene Fields,” Grandmother answered smoothly, setting down her mug and flashing Ms. Charlotte Harris a lovely smile. Emmett Trinket broke out into a profuse sweat. “That birdhouse-stealing hussy’s grandmother.”

The elderly gentleman yanked out his handkerchief and started dabbing his face, neck, and behind his ears so forcefully I thought he’d bruise.

Ms. Harris straightened her spine and lifted her chin. She was one who stood by her words, whether they be verbal or printed.

“Thank you for the coffee, Emmett,” Grandmother said. “I think I’ve selected all the moonstones and opals I need.”

“Very good, Ms. Fields,” he said quickly, hastening to replace the rest of the pieces back into the display case. “If you’ll just follow me, I’ll—”

“Oh, I’m not done yet,” she interrupted, her voice as rich and luscious as vanilla ice cream melting into a slice of hot peach pie. “I’d like to see your entire diamond selection now. Especially the big ones.”

Emmett choked, and Ms. Charlotte Harris’s eyes flashed wide, her teeth clicking as her jaw clenched. But protesting Grandmother’s request would only make Ms. Harris wait that much longer, something that would undoubtedly haunt Emmett for the rest of his days… or until she found another older gentleman to berate with her strange brand of flirting. Apparently she hadn’t given up on Emmett even when her sights had turned to Axel the mechanic.

When he fumbled extracting the velvet tray from the case, Grandmother picked up her coffee mug and said soothingly, “Take your time, Emmett. I’ve got all day.”

Ms. Harris clearly did not, given the way she shifted her weight to take the pressure off one of her hips. But she stood as regally and impatiently as she could, gloved hands clasped in front of her, watching Grandmother nonchalantly sip her coffee, ivy-green eyes staring unblinkingly over the rim of her mug.

“Y-yes, Ms. Fields.” His thick fingers shook as he removed another tray of jewelry from the case.

“Call me Irene.”

Ms. Harris stiffened even more, if that were possible, since she was already straighter than a flagpole, at the wanton forwardness of my grandmother insisting the honorable gentleman call her by her birth name.

Emmett moped his face again and cleared his throat, only looking back and forth between the two women from under his long and lowered white eyelashes. “Miss Irene, h-here are the diamonds.”

Without taking her gaze off Ms. Harris, Grandmother asked, “Is that all of them?”

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