High Noon

than the word project. Duncan stretched out his legs, prepared for a cozy chat. “What’s the project?”
    “Oh, I do needlework.” Essie waved a hand toward the foyer, where the shipping box waited for pickup. “Finished up a bedspread—wedding gift—last night.”
    “Who’s getting married?”
    “Oh, a sometime customer of mine’s goddaughter. I sell some of my pieces locally and over the Internet here and there.”
    “No kidding?” Enterprising projects doubled the interest. “You’ve got a cottage industry?”
    “More like a sitting-room interest,” she said with a laugh. “It’s just a way to pay for my hobby, earn a little pin money.”
    While he sat, at ease, his mind calculated: handmade. Customized. One of a kind. “What kind of needlework?”
    “I crochet. My mother taught me, her mother taught her. It was a keen disappointment I could never get Phoebe to sit still long enough to teach her. But Carly’s getting a hand at it.”
    He scanned the room, homed in on the deep blue throw with its pattern of showy pink cabbage roses. Rising, he moved over to pick up an edge, study it.
    Oh yeah, add in intricate and unique.
    “Is this your work?”
    “It is.”
    “It’s nice. It’s really nice. Looks like something maybe your grandma made over lots of quiet nights, then passed down to you.”
    Pleasure shone like sunshine on Essie’s face. “Why, isn’t that the best of compliments?”
    “So, what, do you make specific pieces from, like, what, patterns, or tailor to clients?”
    “Oh, it depends. Why don’t I get you that coffee?”
    “I’ve got to head out in a minute. Have you ever thought of…Hey.”
    It was the way his face lit up that had Essie pursing her lips, even before she turned and saw Phoebe in the parlor doorway.
    “Now, what are you doing up and coming downstairs by yourself?” In full scold, Essie hurried over to her daughter’s side. “Didn’t I put that bell right on your nightstand so you could ring if you wanted anything?”
    “I needed to get out of that bed. I’m not going to lie there Cousin Bessing it all damn day.”
    Duncan saw the look, the quick flash of maternal disapproval before Essie turned back to him. “You’ll have to excuse her, Duncan. Feeling poorly brings out the sass in her. I’ll go make us that coffee.”
    “Mama.” Phoebe brushed a hand over Essie’s arm. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
    “You get a pass on that, due to being hurt. Talk to Duncan awhile. He’s come out on this rainy day just to see how you’re feeling.”
    Phoebe only frowned at him as her mother left the room. “Yes, I know I look worse than I did yesterday.”
    “Then I don’t have to mention it. Do you feel worse?”
    “Some parts of me do. Including my temper.” She glanced back toward the foyer, sighed. “Being fussed over makes me irritable.”
    “I’ll try to restrain myself, then. And I should probably take these back.” He picked up the shopping bag he’d brought in. “As it hits on two points—not wanting to lie around, and being fussed over. I assume bringing by a gift is fussing.”
    “Depends on the gift. Oh, sit down, Duncan. I’m irritating myself with my bad mood.”
    “I really have to go. I have a couple of things.” He held up the bag, shook it lightly. “You want?”
    “How do I know when I don’t know what’s in it?” She limped her way over, peered into the bag. “DVDs? God, there must be two dozen.”
    “I like to read or watch movies when I’m laid up. And I thought reading might be tough with the bum wing, so I went for movies. Chick flicks. I lean toward the oeuvre of The Three Stooges, but figured it would be wasted around here.”
    “You figured correctly.”
    “I don’t know if you go for that type or if you like slasher films or watching stuff blow up, but I figured in a household of four women, this was the best bet.”
    “I like chick flicks, and slasher films and watching things blow up.” Intrigued, she poked in the bag. “Since when is The Blues Brothers a chick flick?”
    “It’s not, I just happen to like it. It’s the only one I picked out, actually. Marcie at the video store handled the rest. She assured me that they’re all appropriate for a kid Carly’s age, unless her mother’s a real tight-ass. She didn’t say tight-ass,” he added, when Phoebe narrowed her eyes at him. “I inferred.”
    “It’s very thoughtful of you. And Marcie. And when these help stave off