Free A Lie for a Lie by Emilie Richards Page A

where Fred had been or how much of a pattern this was. Maybe Grady had a right to be annoyed.
    Grady turned on the charm once more and aimed it at me. “Fred’s so nearly perfect at what he does that any lapse is all too obvious. Fred, be a good boy and get me a drink, would you?” Fred shot off to the bar and left me alone with the great one.
    I was trying to make sense of this split personality when the mood swung once more. One of the caterer’s staff arrived with a tray of gorgeously arranged appetizers. He held them in front of Grady, offering a napkin with his other hand.
    Grady shook his head. The young man didn’t see the signal and moved a little closer.
    “No,” Grady said sharply. Then, when the young man didn’t move back quickly enough, Grady shoved the tray, nearly upending it on Veronica’s priceless carpet. This was unnecessary rudeness, the action of a man who expected everything to happen exactly when he wanted it to. Unfortunately two cheese puffs made the dive and landed just in front of him.
    I debated cleaning up the mess, but darned if I was going to kneel at this man’s feet after that misplaced display of temper. I needn’t have debated. Winona, who had been ushering in a new wave of guests, saw what had happened, strode over, grabbed a napkin from the server who was now a good four feet away, and squatted to remove the evidence.
    She stood and gazed at Grady for a long moment, then she squared her shoulders, turned, and left.
    Everything had happened so quickly, not a ripple swept the room. But I felt the entire episode right down to the marrow of my bones. I had more than a week ahead to deal with Grady Barber. I wondered if I knew anybody in a foreign country who would take me in for the duration.

4
    Every time I walk into Junie’s quilt shop, I’m amazed at the way she’s transformed the space Lucy and I renovated for her. Feeling Quilty was once a run-down Stick Victorian, hidden by overgrown shrubs and pottery gnomes. Lucy and I had seen the potential for a quick flip. Brighter paint, a little plumbing, a few swipes of the old chain saw and voila, instant sale.
    We’d expected to be in and out quickly, but Junie had seen the house and fallen in love. Suddenly the house on Bunting Street had become a long-term project. Now the Victorian is a mellow mauve, with accents of rose, spruce green, black, and cream. The oak floors glow; the walls are a variety of soft pastels that won’t detract from the vibrant bolts of fabric nestled floor to ceiling. Notions reside in baskets and vintage boxes in what was once a gentleman’s study. Books and patterns live happily where meals were once prepared. The walkout basement has been turned into two bright classrooms, and the second floor is Junie’s apartment, all sunshine, splashes of brilliance, and welcoming open spaces.
    My mother defies description. Although she’s been married five times, she never took a husband’s name. Nor did she keep the one—Kowalski—that her parents bequeathed her. Sometime before I was old enough to know better, she became Junie Bluebird. And although she claims that at least one of the reasons she took the name was because she wanted to be the bluebird of happiness, I’m not sure she’s joking. Few people dislike Junie, and they are all suspect. She is some multigenerational amalgam of apple-cheeked grandma, all-knowing earth mother, and free-spirited nature child.
    Junie is happy anywhere she goes. The craft show circuit was an endless source of pleasure, new people, new towns, new husbands. In a matter of hours she could take the dumpiest apartment and make it feel like home. But even though she genuinely loved traveling across the country, I think she’s thrilled to be settled at last in Emerald Springs where she can watch her granddaughters grow, share her love of quilting, and make friends who will still be here when she wakes up every morning.
    And she seems to be making a lot of those.
    “I do