Even thinking this, I took the chance of taking the call, putting my phone to my ear and saying a cautious, “Hello.”
“Hello. Is this Amelia?” a woman (not Robin, thankfully) asked.
“Yes,” I answered, pushing through the door from the garage that led into the dining area portion of the landing of the open-space great room.
“This is Josephine Spear,” she announced and I stopped, eyes unfocused on the blue sea beyond my windows, my mind on the fact that Jake hadn’t lied. His wife must be a dog with a bone because, as he predicted, I’d barely made it home before she contacted me. “You met my husband at the gym. Jake Spear?”
“I did, Josephine,” I confirmed. “And I’m pleased you phoned.”
“Head gear is crucial in boxing,” she declared strangely. “We have thirty-seven boys in the league and only gear enough to fit twelve boys appropriately.” Her voice started filling with excitement. “Jake told me what you were wishing to do and a house sale is just the thing! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.”
I almost had the opportunity to agree as I heard her pull in a quick breath, but I didn’t get that chance when she went on.
“Now, I don’t want to pressure you but the season will be on us before we know it and our bake sales and magazine subscription efforts are not exactly thriving. But everyone has items in their homes they no longer want that another will want. So, if you’re amenable, I’ll call Alyssa. She’s my friend and a fighter mom. We’ll activate the mom phone tree. We’ll get more items donated and make plans to get the word out, far and wide.”
“That’s wonderful, Josephine, I think the bigger this is the better it can be. But just to warn you, I do have a great deal of stuff I’ll be needing to sell,” I told her. “I’ve also got a plan of designing fliers, putting an ad in the paper, going to local businesses and asking if I can put notices up on public bulletin boards and in staff rooms—”
I wasn’t quite finished when she declared, “Excellent! And I’ll speak with the schools. They email newsletters to parents, even in the summer. They can add that as a news item. We’ll also need volunteers…” She hesitated before she said, “There’s a good deal to go over. Perhaps we should meet. Iron all this out face to face. I’ll ask Alyssa to join us. Do you work? Should this be lunch or dinner or coffee?”
Yes, Jake had not lied. His wife was very keen.
“I…don’t work,” I admitted, feeling another new feeling, that being ashamed of that fact, not to mention the fact that I never had worked. Ever. Not in my life. I pushed past that and finished, “So, I could do anything at your schedule.”
“Fabulous. I’ll speak with Alyssa and phone you back. How does that sound?”
I started moving toward the kitchen to dump my purse on the counter and replied, “Sounds great.”
“Jake says you’re new to Magdalene?” she remarked.
“I’ve been here just under a week,” I shared.
“Well then, welcome to our home that is now your home and I look forward to meeting you.”
“Same, Josephine.”
“Josie,” she said. “Please, call me Josie.”
“All right, Josie.”
“I’ll phone shortly after I speak with Alyssa.”
“Wonderful.”
“Take care, Amelia.”
“You too, Josie.”
She rang off and I dumped my purse and phone on the counter. I went to the fridge, opened it, stared in and, even though I’d skipped breakfast, forgot about lunch and had a fully loaded fridge since the kids had been there that weekend, I couldn’t see anything in it that interested me.
So I closed the door to the fridge and jumped when my phone rang.
I grabbed it from the counter, saw the same number on the screen and took the call.
“Josie?” I asked as greeting.
“Is Wednesday at lunchtime good for you?” she asked back.
I stared at the counter thinking she wasn’t keen, she was raring.
“Yes, that’s fine,” I told her.
“Excellent. Noon. Weatherby’s Diner. We’ll be the two blondes in a window booth.”
“Well, if there are two other blondes, so you know me, I’ll be the short, middle-aged brunette,” I informed her.
“Petite,” she stated as reply.
“I’m sorry?” I asked.
“Women are not short. They’re petite. They also are never middle-aged. They’re mature.”
I didn’t know how to reply to that true but firmly declared statement except to say, “Oh. Right.”
She sounded vaguely flustered when she backtracked, “You can, of course, refer to yourself however you wish.”
I felt the need to smooth her fluster and did this saying, “Petite is a nicer word. So is mature.”
“They are, indeed,” she agreed. “Though I also am not overly fond of mature. Why a woman needs to qualify that, I cannot fathom.”
I couldn’t help but agree.