Page 15 of Trace of Doubt
My secrets lay buried, and there they’d stay.
I chained the bicycle to a bike stand outside Amy-Jo’s Café. A step under the green awning transported me back to the early twentieth century. I walked inside to the sound of a bell tinklingover the door. Tongue-and-groove hardwood floors and tin-and-wood ceilings reflected the original construction, a wall held antique kitchen utensils, and another wall exhibited framed depictions of what appeared to be historic Valleysburg. I asked if the owner was available.
A middle-aged woman with mango-colored hair, purple eye shadow, large-framed pink glasses, and ruby-red lipstick greeted me. I introduced myself.
“Honey, I’m Amy-Jo. Glad you stopped by so we could get acquainted. Can you come in at five thirty in the morning instead of six? One of the girls is down with the flu.”
“Must be going around. Pastor Emory and his family are fighting it.”
“Nasty stuff. Nothing bothers me.” She placed her hands on her ample hips. “Germs take one look at me and run screaming.”
“Thank you for this job opportunity.”
She smiled. “Nervous?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t be. The past is behind you. You paid your debt and now you have another chance at life.”
I blinked back the wetness filling my eyes. “Just what I needed to hear. Do you have time to tell me what I’ll be doing?”
“You’ll handle the bakery counter. I’ll be here in the morning to guide you through your duties.”
“I grew up with my elbows in flour.”
“Tell you what, when I retired from my old job, I weighed 108pounds. Every time I missed the fun, I’d either go to the shootin’ range or bake and eat. You’re too trim and pretty to make that mistake.” Amy-Jo walked to the glass bakery case and gestured at the pastry display. “This is a perfect fit for you.”
I bent to take in the pies, cakes, cookies, tarts, donuts, various pastries, and a gluten-free section. Oh, the hours I’d spent with my parents in their bakery. “If you need any help with the baking, I’m your gal.”
She laughed. “Best news I’ve heard since you agreed to come in early. I’m always looking for an extra hand and new recipes.”
“Most of mine are in my head, but I can write down my favorite ones I remember.” Dad had often talked about creating a cookbook, and I hoped he’d published one. “What else can you tell me?”
“The mornings are hectic with folks lined up for coffee and pastries before work and school. Around nine it slows down a bit. If I’m low on waitstaff, I may ask for your help. I provide two shirts, one to wear and an extra. You’re responsible to keep them clean.”
I glimpsed the two other women wearing jeans and red T-shirts withAmy-Jo’s Caféon the back. I could do this.
“Let me show you my boutique. We expanded last fall, and I’m tickled pink with the results.” She led me to a wide entrance on the right. An ornate chalkboard inscribed withAmy-Jo’s Giftswas mounted on an easel and pointed to another large, wood-floor room. The charm of the old building, probably built in 1932 like the one housing the parole office, complemented the homey displays of quality gifts, small furniture items, and decorating accessories.
“Edie tells me you design jewelry. I’ve been looking for a feminine line with flair. Would love to see what you have.”
Excitement rose inside me, along with a lump in my throat. “I have a few pieces in my backpack.”
“Let’s do it.” She patted a small oak table. “Right here.”
I fished out the tissue-wrapped jewelry and laid out the pieces. Amy-Jo touched a green-and-gold labradorite pendant with twisted antique brass wire. Her bubbling laughter showed her pleasure. She selected a few designs from my sketch pad to create. I had no clue why God was blessing me—a woman with a muddy past. But I loved His favor.
“Does your business have a name?”
“Yes, ma’am. Simply Shelby.”
She wagged her finger at me. “Simply Shelby, I’m Amy-Jo. Call mema’amwhen I’m a hundred.”
I completed my errands and took a look inside a secondhand store for a bicycle. The owner didn’t have a thing. Once I paid Pastor Emory, I’d purchase a new bike. Hope-filled dreams surrounded me as I pedaled home. Later I’d call Edie with a list of jewelry supplies I needed and tell her about today’s adventure. My fingers tingled with the expectation of creating new jewelry pieces.
Night came all too quickly. The headlights and roar of an advancing vehicle sent me hugging the grassy side of the road. I glanced back. A truck gained speed, closing in fast. I moved farther onto the grass near the ditch and took another look behind me.
The driver of a black pickup headed straight my way. Why? He had the whole road before him. Was the driver blind? On his phone? Drunk?
