"Of course not." Thomas closed Josh in a bear hug. "He's a Templeton."
"Not that we're not glad to see you." Kate brushed the hair back from Josh's face. "But when are they going to let us in to see Margo?"
"I don't know. In a minute, I guess. She had the nurse get her purse." His grin broke out fresh. "She wanted to fix her makeup."
"Typical." Kate turned and threw her arms around Byron. "That's just typical."
Chapter Eighteen
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The week following the appearance of J. T. Templeton was hectic and complicated. Laura's schedule didn't allow for more than a few hours at the shop. With Margo involved with her new son, Kate was left to deal with the results of a successful reception. Early delivery had thrown their vague plans for interviewing and hiring a part-time clerk out the window.
Kate was on her own.
She opened the shop every day, learned to control her impulses to hurry browsers along. Though she would never understand the appeal of dawdling in a store, she told herself to appreciate that others enjoyed it.
She studied the inventory lists and tried to recognize the more esoteric items in Pretenses' stock. But why anyone would feel the need to own a designer pillbox with pearl inlay remained beyond her.
Simple honesty was sometimes taken for a credit, sometimes an insult. For every woman who appreciated being told an outfit didn't suit her, there were two who bristled at the information.
She persevered by remembering that for at least one hour every day she could close herself in the back office and be alone, blissfully alone, with her ledgers.
They didn't talk back.
"The customer is always right," Kate muttered to herself. "The customer is always right—even when the customer is an asshole." She marched out of the wardrobe room where one particular customer had just informed her that the Donna Karan was mislabeled. It couldn't possibly be a size ten, as it was too snug at the hips.
"Too snug at the hips, my butt. The old bat couldn't get one thigh in a size ten if she greased it with motor oil."
"Miss, oh, miss." Another customer snapped her fingers, like a diner signaling a particularly slow waitress to bring more wine. Kate gritted her teeth into a smile.
"Yes, ma'am. Can I help you?"
"I want to see this bracelet. The Victorian slide. No, no. I said the Victorian slide, not the gold cuff."
"Sorry." Kate tried again, following the direction of the woman's pointing finger. "It's charming, isn't it?" Fussy and foolish. "Would you like to try it on?"
"How much is it?"
There's a tag right on it, isn't there? Still smiling, Kate turned the tag around, read off the price.
"And what are those stones?"
Oh, shit. She'd studied, hadn't she? "I believe there's garnet and… carnelian and…" What was that yellow one? Topaz? Amber? Citrine? "Citrine," she hazarded, because it sounded more Victorian to her.
As the customer studied the bracelet, Kate scanned the shop. Just her luck, she thought. It was packed, and Laura was gone for the day. She had three hours to go, and in three hours she judged that what was left of her mind would resemble a mass of cold rice.
The sound of the door jangling made her want to whimper.
When she saw who breezed in she wanted to scream.
Candy Litchfield. Her long-standing enemy. Candy Litchfield, whose bouncy stride and perky looks, tumbling red hair and perfect nose hid the heart of a spider.
And she'd brought pals, Kate noted as her heart sank. Perfectly groomed, canny-eyed society matrons in Italian shoes.
"I never find anything I like in here," Candy announced in her bright and far-reaching voice. "But Millicent told me she'd noticed a perfume atomizer that might fit in with my collection. Of course, they overprice everything."
She strolled through, envy packed solidly in ill will.