Elm Creek Quilts [06] The Master Quilter (14 page)

“Where do you shower and shave?” she asked him.

“I don’t,” he said, as if it were obvious. “The guys don’t care.”

On the day of the meeting, Bonnie went to Grandma’s Attic carefully attired in her one suit rather than a quilted jacket, determined to make a strong, businesslike impression. The shop was remarkably busy that morning, so that when a man in a black wool coat arrived promptly at ten forty-five, a group of cheerful, well-satisfied customers passed him on the way out. “You must be Mr. Krolich,” Bonnie greeted him, pleased that his first impression of Grandma’s Attic was that of a lively, thriving business.

“Please call me Greg,” he said, removing a leather glove and shaking her hand. “Are you Ms. Markham?”

“Bonnie. Yes.”

He glanced around the room, but Bonnie suspected his quick glance took in much more than it appeared. “Is there somewhere we could talk undisturbed?”

The shop was now empty, but Bonnie led him into the back office and offered him the best chair. He removed his coat and sat down, smiling all the while. “Based upon my conversations with other tenants, my guess is this sale came as something of a surprise.”

“Shock is the word I would use,” said Bonnie, managing a laugh. She seated herself, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

“I trust you began considering your options when you received our letter.”

“Well—” What options? “I think I’ll be more able to make an informed decision once I see the rental agreement.”

“Of course.” He opened his briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of paper in a clear plastic binder. “We have several attractive properties in the downtown area, some within walking distance of your current location. However, I’ve taken the liberty of highlighting one I think you’ll find ideal.” He opened the binder and placed it on the desk before her.

At the top of the page was a color photocopied picture of a store in a strip mall.
BUTTONS AND BOWS
was painted in blue and pink on a window that displayed frilly lace frocks and blue sailor suits. Beneath the picture was a detailed description of the property—square footage, available utilities, address—which Bonnie skimmed before realizing what Greg had assumed.

“Thank you, but I don’t intend to move,” said Bonnie, smiling apologetically and closing the binder. “I want to see your rental agreement for this location.”

“Oh.” Greg’s expression turned puzzled and alarmed. “You want to stay.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Basically, you’re the first of our tenants who wasn’t grateful for the opportunity to find a more suitable location.” He turned a winsome smile on her and opened the binder again to the correct page without glancing at it. “I understand change can be difficult, but if you drive out and inspect this property, all you’ll want to know is how soon you can move in. That’s immediately, by the way. The current tenant is retiring.”

“I don’t need to drive out and see it. I don’t want to move Grandma’s Attic away from downtown, especially not there. That’s right next door to our biggest competitor.”

“Exactly. Traffic into the Fabric Warehouse would naturally drift over to you, and if you don’t mind my saying so, you look like you could use more business.”

More likely Bonnie would lose even more customers to the chain store, but she kept her voice even and asked, “May I please see the new lease for this shop?”

Greg frowned and dug in his briefcase. “Here,” he said, slapping it down on the table.

Bonnie skimmed the first page before she stopped, aghast. “This increase in the rent—it must be close to seventy percent!”

“Seventy-five, to be exact.” He smiled, and for the first time, Bonnie detected a smug satisfaction in his manner. “Please also note that our leases are for six months and the rent may increase semiannually. It’s safe to assume that it will.”

Bonnie returned to the document, afraid to ask if seventy-five percent was the standard increment. Some clauses sounded similar to those in her current lease; others seemed to tack on fees for everything from late payment of rent to improper use of the trash receptacles to new distribution of parking in the back alley. She tried to absorb it all, but her mind was fixed on the rent, that outrageous, impossible rent.

“I can’t afford this,” she finally said, returning the lease. “I suspect none of my neighbors can, either, and that’s why they’re leaving. I used to serve on the Waterford Zoning Commission and I can tell you these rates are unreasonable for this area in this economic climate. You’re going to end up with an empty building and a lot of angry business owners, who might have something to say at the next public review of your business license.”

He blinked, clearly unprepared for a challenge from a nice little middle-aged quilt lady. He recovered quickly, but all pretense of helpfulness vanished. “An empty building would be ideal,” he said. “We already have plenty of commercial properties. What we need are more student rentals.”

Bonnie stared at him. Other buildings on her street had been transformed from offices into apartments, but her building would require extensive remodeling for such a drastic change in purpose. Except for the condos. Suddenly Bonnie pictured her home surrounded by wild undergraduates, the shop, her haven, thrust into the middle of a twenty-four-hour fraternity party.

“You’d be amazed at what students are willing to pay for housing directly across the street from campus,” remarked Greg. “Or, rather, what their parents are willing to pay.”

“I have no intention of moving,” Bonnie said, but less firmly than before. “From the shop or from my home.”

His perplexed frown deepened into a scowl as he made the connection. “You’ve already admitted you can’t afford the rent,” he said, rising. “Your husband might not find living among college kids as appealing as you do.”

“My husband and I stand together on this.”

“We’ll see.” He put on his coat and nodded toward the binder. “Keep that. Like it or not, you’re going to need a new location. If you don’t like the one I picked, choose for yourself, but choose fast. All of the other tenants have the same binder.”

“I already said I’m not moving.” She thrust the binder at him. “And if I were to move, I would never rent from you.”

“We would have offered you a good price for the condo and an excellent rent in another building.” He returned the binder to his briefcase, shaking his head. “Now you’ll have to take what you can get.”

He picked up his briefcase and strode from the office. “I’ll do just fine, thank you,” she said, but he ignored her. Beyond him she saw Sarah standing in the middle of the store.

Sarah turned to watch Greg leave, then spun back around to face Bonnie, eyes wide. “Wasn’t that Gregory Krolich?”

Bonnie nodded, drained, and sank onto a stool behind the cutting table. What was she going to do? What could she do? She could not have afforded that outrageous rent even in the shop’s best days.

“I knew it,” declared Sarah. “The real estate business must be treating him well. He’s driving an even more expensive car than the last time I saw him.”

Suddenly it registered that Sarah had identified him by name. “You know him?”

“Barely. I haven’t seen him in years, not since I first moved to Waterford. He wanted to buy Elm Creek Manor and raze it so he could build a few hundred student apartments on the property.”

“Obviously he didn’t. So he’s just a lot of threats and bluster in a nice suit?”

“On the contrary, I’m sure he would have gone through with it if Sylvia hadn’t found out about his plan. She refused to sell to him once she learned the truth.”

“Oh.” Bonnie dropped her gaze and tried to compose herself, her momentary hopes swiftly fading. She would have to come up with a plan, and Craig would have to help her. Even if he did want to move, even if he was no longer in love with her, surely pride would compel him to intercede when someone tried to intimidate his wife and drive them from their home.

But that evening Craig did not come home, nor did he call. The next morning Bonnie phoned his office from Grandma’s Attic, but his assistant said his morning was booked solid with staff meetings and maintenance on campus to supervise, and that he would probably not return until lunch. “Should I have him call you before he leaves for his appointment?” she asked.

“What appointment?”

“I don’t know. He just told me he has to leave for an appointment at four.” His assistant chuckled. “Maybe he’s planning a big surprise for Valentine’s Day.”

If he was, it was not for Bonnie. She hung up and eyed the store’s displays of pink, red, and white fabric and ribbon with distaste. They should have reminded her, but she had forgotten today was the fourteenth. She had probably blocked it out. Craig seemed to every year.

She searched the storage room for their St. Patrick’s Day decorations and selected green and white fabrics from the shelves so that she could expunge all signs of the romantic holiday from her shop first thing the next day. As she worked, pausing to assist the occasional customer, the idea that Craig might be planning a Valentine’s surprise for someone else gnawed at her. He was obviously up to something. A man didn’t stay away from his wife that long without cause. While she longed to believe he had been staying up nights planning that second honeymoon in Paris they once talked about, she knew they had moved well beyond any chance of that. It was a bitter truth to accept, but she forced herself to be realistic.

He had planned to cheat on her once. He might have cheated on her since.

She had to know what this appointment was about.

When Diane came in at two, Bonnie made an excuse about needing to leave early. Diane assured her she would be happy to close the shop alone, so at three-forty, Bonnie bid her good-bye and hurried across campus on foot. She wished she had departed earlier. If his appointment was far away, he might have left already. Then another realization stopped her in her tracks: He might have already returned home for his car. He never drove to work; the employee parking lot was farther from his building than their home. She had not checked for his car before leaving.

She would just have to wait outside the Physical Plant building and hope for the best, she told herself, and resumed walking at a brisker pace. She rounded a copse of snow-shrouded evergreens and nearly crashed into a couple engrossed in an intense discussion.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled, hurrying on.

“Bonnie?”

Bonnie stopped short and whirled around. She recognized Judy before her friend lowered her scarf. “Oh, hi. Hi, Steve.”

“Hi,” said Judy’s husband, smiling. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“Oh, well—” Bonnie fumbled for an excuse before realizing she didn’t need one. “I’m going to see if I can catch Craig before he leaves work. You didn’t happen to see him pass this way?”

They shook their heads. “If we do, should we tell him to meet you somewhere?” asked Steve.

“No, that’s all right.” Bonnie forced a smile and backed away. “I’d better hurry.”

“See you tonight at the business meeting,” said Judy. As Bonnie turned to go, she heard her ask Steve, “Do you think she overheard?”

Bonnie understood at once that she had interrupted an argument and wished with all her heart she had not. If the happiest married couple she knew argued, what chance did she and Craig have if he made her resort to spying?

She reached Craig’s building with ten minutes to spare and brushed snow off a bench partially concealed from the front entrance behind the bare limbs of a lilac bush. She sat down and waited, mittened hands clutching the tote bag on her lap. Students passed on their way to and from classes, but just then she glimpsed a familiar burly figure in a blue Penn State coat and blaze-orange knit hat exiting by a side door. Bonnie tracked him with her eyes as he hurried across the quad toward downtown, but not in the direction of home.

She waited as long as she thought she could afford before pursuing him. She almost lost him trying to cross Main Street, but his blaze-orange hat stood out among the crowd on the other side. Once across, she had to run to close the distance between them. When she was within two blocks, Craig turned down an alley lined with bookstores and coffeeshops, then headed south. He was on his way to the residential area, Bonnie guessed, but he turned again and climbed the stairs of a three-story Victorian, one of the many former private homes on that street converted to offices. Outside, a steel blue-and-gray sign read
UNIVERSITY REALTY
.

Out of breath from the chase, Bonnie gasped and ducked behind a street sign. Her heart pounded; her face burned. What was Craig doing here? He must be meeting with Krolich, and not to demand an apology for the way Krolich had treated Bonnie.

Bonnie pulled up her hood and hurried away before either man chanced to step outside. Craig could have come to find out what University Realty was prepared to offer for the condo, but a phone call would have sufficed for that information. Bonnie paused, glanced back at the office, then crossed the street and entered a coffee shop. She ordered a mocha latte and found a seat by the front window with a decent view of University Realty. Her cup was empty by the time Craig emerged. He descended the steps with a jaunty gait. He appeared to be whistling.

Sick at heart, Bonnie gathered her coat and purse and left.

She took the long way home, longing for the comfort of Grandma’s Attic but too stricken to face Diane, too distracted to think of an explanation for her unexpected return. Exhaustion weighted her footsteps as she climbed the stairs to the condo. Craig was not there.