Free Gourdfellas by Maggie Bruce

brother entertained,” I said as lightly as I could.
    “Ach, you forget so soon. A working woman can’t just pick up and go off on a whim. It’s a big responsibility, this new job. I love my old folks. My new lady thinks I’m her friend Tatiana from Moscow and she wants to play Russian rhyming games with me. I’m so lucky. The bills get paid, I get to paint, and then I work four days a week with Alzheimer’s patients who just want someone to come into their world and share it with them.”
    This time, I could picture her cheeks lifting in a real smile, her big brown eyes glinting with pleasure. “You know, I could see it in your face when you talked about those people last week.”
    “Can’t help it,” she said. “But how did you get Neil to go along with your plan?”
    “All he needed to hear was that I was uneasy because that rifle had fallen out of my ceiling and a murdered woman had been found a quarter mile away, and I was suddenly high on the list of suspects, in the pretty green eyes of the law. Told me that he’d get copies of his prescriptions and detailed instructions for the physical therapist from his doc, and then he’d be there to support me. Keep the suspect company.”
    “What about the Mets?” A note of worry crept into her voice. “Such gnarly timing.”
    “The Mets are being good to him, at least for now. His agent’s got them convinced that he’ll be back for the last quarter of the season. They’re even giving him a car and driver to bring him up here. ETA is noon on Monday.”
    “Which means that you can go to New Hampshire. That’s so perfect! You’ll have at least one less worry on your mind. And that will make the gallery opening even more fun. Besides, who can have a bad time drinking champagne, eating lovely cheese and grapes, and being surrounded by admirers who want to know everything about your gourds? May you sell all your wares to total strangers who then tell all their friends and increase your sales until you need to hire apprentices to do . . . whatever a gourd apprentice might do.”
    Even if she rolled her eyes whenever the G word came up, Karen knew how to celebrate, and for that I would always love her.
    My brother’s cheekbones were as prominent as a Russian Cossack’s and his dimple a little harder to see because he had less flesh than usual. But his spirits were good, and he managed on his crutches as though they’d become a part of his body.
    The driver who carried his bags into the living room looked around, his expression shifting from dismay to pity. I read volumes into that look. What was the newest second baseman of the Mets doing in a place like this when he could be getting home massages, takeout from Whole Foods, and visits from his mates? The driver set Neil’s bags in the corner, refused my offer of coffee, and hurried away from this luxury-free zone and headed back to his leather-seated, climate-controlled limo as quickly as he could.
    Neil wobbled as he made his way to the corner of the sofa. I’d arranged a few things on the end table to make him comfortable—a tray with a carafe of water and a glass, some grapes, a couple of Civil War histories I knew he hadn’t read, and a bell, which he jingled and then set back with an amused shake of his head.
    “I have to go over the rules with you. You’re not gonna hover. You’re not gonna ask me twelve times an hour how I’m feeling. And you absolutely will not listen in when I’m on the phone.” His grin lit up the whole living room as he propped his leg on the pillow I’d set on a chair in front of the sofa.
    “Wouldn’t have entered my mind. To listen in, I mean. But now I may have to. Does this mean someone special is going to call? Tell.”
    But he smiled his canary-eating smile and said, “How was the gallery opening?”
    “Better than I expected. I’ll show you the article when it comes out.” Not only had I sold nine pieces, I’d been interviewed by a reporter from the