Wicked Stitch by Amanda Lee Read Free Book Online

going to call you in a little while to tell you I might be running late.”
    “Oh . . . Well, that works out, then.”
    “Don’t worry about this meeting,” he said. “You’ll have a lot of friends there.”
    “Plus two enemies,” I said.
    “You have way more friends than enemies. Look, I’ll stop by after my conference to see how everything went, all right?”
    “Oh, sweetheart, I’m only kidding.” I laughed. “You don’t really think I’m worried about two little old ladies, do you?”
    “Good try,” he said. “I
know
you are. You want everyone to like you, and it drives you up the wall when someone doesn’t.”
    “True. But those two are a lost cause. I hope your meeting with the arson investigator is productive.”
    “That makes two of us, Inch-High. I love you, and I’ll touch base with you soon.”
    After talking with Ted, Angus and I went to the Seven-Year Stitch. On the way, I reflected on what Ted had told me: I
would
have a lot of friends at the Ren Faire merchants’ meeting. I was looking forward to seeing Captain Moe, Todd, and, of course, Sadie and Blake. And, surely, Clara and Nellie wouldn’t choose such a public forum to air their complaints against me . . . would they? Of course not. This lunch would be fun.
    Oh, how I ate those words with my Caesar salad a mere two hours later.
    When I first walked in, my optimism was in full bloom. There were hugs from Todd and Captain Moe. One of Blake and Sadie’s waitresses told me she’d heard about some of the things I was making for the Ren Faire and that she could hardly wait to visit my booth. One of my blackwork students was there, and she started talking with me about how much she was enjoying the class. Yep, it was all sunshine, flowers, and rainbows—a virtual Marcy Singer lovefest.
    And then
they
walked in.
    Had we been starring in an old B movie Western, I’d have been wearing a white hat, while thesisters would’ve been in black. Tumbleweeds would have blown across the coffee shop’s polished hardwood floor between us.
    Crazy Clara would’ve moved her piece of dirty yellow straw from one corner of her mouth to the other before telling me that Tallulah Falls wasn’t big enough for the both of us.
    Her cohort, Neurotic Nellie, would have spit on the floor as a sign of disgust and disrespect.
    Then, since it was high noon, we’d have gone out into the street. Doves would have cooed and a child would’ve asked, “What’s going on, Mama?” as we took ten paces in opposite directions, turned, and drew our guns.
    I’d have been quicker on the draw, but Crazy Clara would have left nothing to chance. She was ruthless—she’d never fight fair.
    Before I could fire off a round from my six-shooter, Neurotic Nellie would take me down with a shot to the back from behind a barrel in front of the saloon—in this case, the Brew Crew.
    The townspeople would gather around and mourn my unjust passing. They’d turn on Crazy Clara and Neurotic Nellie, but those two hooligans would threaten the good folks of Tallulah Falls with gunfire and maybe even dynamite until they could make their escape.
    My dying words would be, “Well . . . at least, they won’t hurt y’all anymore.”
    No, actually, my last words would be, “Take care of Angus . . . and make sure Ted grieves forme and doesn’t find another woman to take my place too soon.”
    Okay, that last part sounded selfish, so I deleted it from the script.
    Of course, none of that happened. It was just part of the elaborate daydreams that are a product of growing up with a Hollywood costumer for a mom.
    What
really
happened was that I merely stopped and stared at the two women when they walked into MacKenzies’ Mochas—spurs a-jangling. All right . . . there were no spurs, except in my imagination. I hadn’t quite kicked the Old West scenario out of my head yet.
    “What’re you looking at?” asked Neurotic Nellie . . . er, Nellie.
    Determined to put my best boot