Free Bygones by Lavyrle Spencer

knew enough about her history with Michael that Bess wasn't going to open that can of worms yet.
    â€œFine,” she answered. “She's turning out to be a very decent cook.”
    Heather's head appeared beyond the railing and her footsteps made the loft stairs creak. She stopped near the top of the stairs—a forty-five-year-old woman with strawberry blonde broom-cut hair glazed into fashionable disarray, stylish tortoiseshell glasses and sculptured garnet fingernails bearing tiny rhinestone nail ornaments that flashed as her hand rested on the railing. She had wide cheekbones, a pretty mouth and dressed with insouciant flair, creating a positive first impression when customers walked into the store.
    Bess employed three part-time clerks but Heather was her favorite as well as her most valued.
    â€œYou have a ten o'clock appointment, you know.”
    â€œYes, I know.” Bess checked her watch and began gathering her materials for the house call.
    â€œAnd a twelve-thirty and a three.”
    â€œI know, I know.”
    â€œOrders for today?”
    Bess handed Heather various notes, gave her instructions about ordering wallpaper and checking on incoming freight, and left the store confident that things would run smoothly while she was gone.
    It was a hectic day, as most were. Three house calls left her little time for lunch. She grabbed a tuna-salad sandwich at a sub shop between house calls and ate it in the car. She drove from Stillwater to Hudson, Wisconsin, to North St. Paul and got back to the Blue Iris just as Heather was locking up for the night.
    â€œYou had nine calls,” Heather said.
    â€œNine!”
    â€œFour of them were important.”
    Bess flopped onto a wicker settee, exhausted.
    â€œTell me.”
    â€œHirschfields, Sybil Archer, Warner Wallpaper and Lisa.”
    â€œWhat did Sybil Archer want?”
    â€œHer wallpaper.”
    Bess groaned. Sybil Archer was the wife of a 3M executive who believed Bess had a wallpaper press in her back room and could produce the stuff at the snap of a finger.
    â€œWhat did Lisa want?”
    â€œShe didn't say. Just said you should call her back.”
    â€œThanks, Heather.”
    â€œWell, I'm off to the bank before it closes.”
    â€œHow'd we do today?”
    â€œTerrible. A grand total of eight customers.”
    Bess made a face. The bulk of her business came from her design work; she kept the store chiefly as a consideration for her design customers. “Did any of them buy anything?”
    â€œA Cobblestone Way calendar, a few greeting cards and a couple of tea towels.”
    â€œHmph. Thank God for summer in a tourist town, huh?”
    â€œWell, I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”
    â€œThanks, Heather, and good night.”
    When Heather was gone, Bess pushed herself up, left her coat on the settee and headed for the loft. As usual, she hadn't spent nearly as much time as she had hoped on designing. It took an average of ten hours to design most jobs, and she'd barely put in three today.
    Upstairs, she kicked off her high heels and scraped back her hair as she dropped to her desk chair, opened a turkey-and-sprout sandwich she'd picked up at Cub supermarket and popped the top on her Diet Pepsi.
    Slowing down for the first time since morning, she realized how tired she was. She took a bite of her sandwich and stared at a stack of replacement pages that had been waiting well over two weeks to be inserted in one of the furniture catalogs.
    While she was still staring the phone rang.
    â€œGood evening, Blue Iris.”
    â€œMrs. Curran?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œThis is Hildy Padgett . . . Mark's mother?” A friendly voice, neither cultured nor crude.
    â€œOh, yes, hello, Mrs. Padgett. It's so nice to hear from you.”
    â€œI understand that Mark and Lisa had supper with you last night and broke the news.”
    â€œYes, they did.”
    â€œWell, it seems those two are getting set