“I’m sorry we have to pull things apart like that, but—” Rich started.
“I know. It’s your job.” Nicole waved the sheaf of clippings. “This is a tragic story.”
“Very.” He didn’t add that the Ellings’ legacy of sorrow—mostly self-inflicted—seemed to be passed from one generation to the next.
“Looks like you decided those old records are of interest.” She nodded toward the two boxes he carried and the ones his deputies were loading in the back of the SUV.
“Just taking another long shot.” He smiled at her.
She smiled back. Not very wide and a bit ruefully, but the minor thaw sent his pulse trip-hammering. What might a full-blown grin from her do to his insides? As he stowed his boxes in the SUV, he prayed that he never had to arrest her grandmother and rob himself forever of the chance to find out.
“Over my dead body!” Nicole Mattson’s grandmother whirled away from the stove and planted wire-veined hands on plump hips. “Jan’s Sewing Room has sold fabric, patterns and sewing notions for sixty years. I’m not about to toss that heritage out the door to convert to this new-fangled machine embroidery.” She said the final words with a twist to her lips that suggested she’d tasted something nasty.
Nicole finished shredding lettuce into a bowl and turned from the counter, wiping her hands on a towel. Her gaze met her grandmother’s glare. Hopefully, her own eyes contained the winsome mix of firm reason and gentle persuasion she was striving for, rather than the frustration she was trying to hide.
“I’m not saying we should throw all the conventional sewing materials out,” she said, “but we need to pare that inventory down and make room for machines that will produce items people will buy in volume. We could market jackets and T-shirts and sweatshirts to schools, businesses, service organizations, churches…” She waved an expansive hand.
Her grandmother sniffed. “But what about the clientele I’ve built up over a lifetime? They want a quiet place to browse for creative projects—not mindless boilerplate logos and images.”
Gritting her teeth, Nicole began chopping fresh vegetables for the salad. Nothing she’d said so far had convinced Grandma Jan that computers and machines could mix with creativity. Maybe the financial approach would work.
“I’ve studied the shop’s books,” Nicole said. “J.S.R. hasn’t turned a profit in this century.” She stopped herself from adding that if the house and shop weren’t owned free and clear, and if Grandpa, former president of one of the two banks in town, hadn’t left his wife well-fixed, the stubborn woman might be out in the street. “Let the machine embroidery end of the business be my thing. If I’m going to live here, I need to support myself.”
A little of the stiffness drained from her grandmother’s posture. “Give yourself time to recover from the loss of your husband before you get all caught up in making a living, honey. It’s been barely six months since Glen was killed. I remember it took me more than a year to have a clear thought in my head after your grandpa passed. That’s why I invited you to come stay with me. We widows need to take care of each other, and the shop will take care of us. It always has.” She went back to tending the meat hissing in her frying pan. “Business will pick up. You’ll see. In this economy, more people will think about making their own clothes.”
Nicole swallowed a sharp answer. Grandma was living in ancient history if she thought many women were going to add sewing clothes for the family to their hectic schedule, especially when most needed to hold down jobs outside the home. Besides, handmade clothing wasn’t that much cheaper than store-bought anymore. Not that her grandmother would realize such a thing when she continued to sew her own slacks, blouses and dresses. No jeans or T-shirts for Janet Keller, though they were Nicole’s favorite garb.