Page 8 of More Than Meets the Eye

Then I heard the metallic clatter of pots and pans. “And let me tell you something else! That floozy Nancy Joy Neederhouser never in her life made cookies as good as these!”

On second thought, maybe I had time to mow the lawn at Tess’s house before the barbecue.

I was quietly closing the door when Mrs. Frost toddled out of the kitchen, swinging a skillet around. “Have nothing to say to that, do you? Oh! Jack! What are you doing here? Where’s that husband of mine?”

She peered around the room suspiciously, as if poor Mr. Frost might be hiding behind their ancient beagle. Mr. Rogers was sleeping on his cushion in his “dead dog pose,” with all four feet in the air, tongue hanging out of the side of his graying muzzle. When I looked at him, I was glad to see his tail twitch. You had to root for the old guy. He was anywhere from eighteen to a hundred years old, from the look of him.

“He said he was going to buy you baking supplies.”

She snorted. “The least he can do after dancing with that hussy.”

“Um, how long ago was that, exactly?”

She squinted, looking back into her memory, then thumped her hand against the bottom of the skillet. “1958.”

There’s holding a grudge, and then there’s holding a grudge. If Nancy Joy Neederhouser was even still among the living, she should be glad she wasn’t standing within range of the deadly kitchen pan held by a woman who was still mad about a dance that happenedalmost seventy years ago.

That old saying about discretion and valor popped into my head, and I edged toward the door. “I don’t want to bother you. I’ll just?—”

“Don’t be silly, young man. I’m just finishing up the second batch of those cookies you like so well.”

Discretion is overrated.

“Mrs. Frost, there isn’t a person in all of Dead End who doesn’t love those cookies,” I said sincerely.

She sat me down at the table with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk, like I was five years old. Then she bustled about, taking trays out of the oven and putting others in. I offered to help several times, but she shooed me away, saying she was the only one who cooked in her kitchen.

Feeling like I’d given it my best valiant effort, I heroically contented myself with eating a few—okay, a dozen—of the best walnut-chocolate-chip cookies ever baked.

“Well, let me see it,” she demanded after she finished up with cookie tray duty.

“What?”

She held out her hand. “Let me see the ring. I’ve known Tess longer than you’ve been alive. I need to approve the ring before you can propose.”

That didn’t make sense, since Tess was six years younger than me, but I let it go, thinking of Nancy Jo and the skillet.

“I don’t have a ring,” I said apologetically. “Not yet.”

Shock spread over her tiny wizened-apple face. “No ring? How are you going to propose, boy?”

Feeling uncomfortably like I needed to defend myself, I put my hand around the sapphire, but I didn’t pull it out of my pocket just yet. “I’ll show you what I have, and I’d love your advice, but can we please keep this just between you and me for now?”

Plain as day, I could see the two warring emotions fighting inside her: she wanted to be the one who told everybody else in town, but she also wanted to hold it over everybody else’s head, especially her bingo club, that I’d come to her for advice first.

I thought of Tess’s Aunt Ruby’s reaction when she heard either version and mentally groaned. I was in so much trouble.

“I promise. I didn’t tell Mr. Frost, because I was so mad at him,” she finally says. “But you’d better ask her soon, or I’m likely to burst wide open with the news. Now, show me.”

I pulled the gem out of my pocket and put it in her outstretched hand.

She whistled—a surprisingly sharp and loud whistle coming from such a tiny person. “Jack. That’s beautiful! Such a vivid blue, too. But it’s huge! That must be three carats!”

“Four,” I mumbled. “My jeweler friend?—”

“Oh, good. You know a person. My third cousin, once removed, is a jeweler, too, if you want a second opinion. Do you know the source? I once saw a Kashmir sapphire from high in the Himalayas.” She sighed. “So beautiful. Nobody can afford those, though.”

“This one is from Atlantis.”

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