Snuffed Out - Tim Myers [64]
Celeste picked out a nice array of things, from some beeswax blocks I’d just got to a Christmas-tree mold that I’d been wanting to try myself. I totaled her purchases up, then gave her a ten-percent discount.
“Why the price break?” she asked as she saw the minus sign on the register.
“Didn’t I tell you? It’s chocolate-cake day. Hey, they’re a lot better than coupons.”
She thanked me, then walked out just as it was time to officially open up. “Come back soon, Celeste, and you don’t have to bring a cake with you next time.”
“Don’t tell me, you’d like an apple pie next, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say no to one, but you don’t have to bake something every time you come.”
“Come on, Harrison, don’t let me down and start getting normal on me. My friends back home are going to howl about this.”
I shuddered when I thought about what new stereotypes about the South I was setting, but let them think we were all a bunch of eccentrics. It was my bit as goodwill ambassador for the land below the Mason-Dixon line.
I’d nearly forgotten about my next session with Mrs. Jorgenson when Eve came in at noon and reminded me. She said, “Are you ready?”
“Ready for what?” I asked. “I’m not going to lunch today.” I’d had another piece of cake midmorning, despite my good intentions, and I was still pretty full.
“Good, you could probably use the practice. She’s due here in less than an hour.”
Then it hit me. “Thanks, I forgot all about it. Don’t worry, I’ll be ready.”
I left Eve to manage the front and started making preparations for my next lesson in candlemaking. If Mrs. Jorgenson arrived promptly, which I had no doubt she would, I’d have just enough time to dip the demonstration candles for today’s lesson. That was the thing with Mrs. Jorgenson; she always wanted to start from the ground up, but once she’d mastered a technique, she was perfectly happy to let me do the grunt work in preparation. And why not? She was paying handsomely for the privilege, money the candleshop could ill afford to lose.
We’d done translucent candles during our last session, so I decided on a nice, warm red for our candles today. On a lark, I set up two double-boilers with melting wax, then changed the hue just enough to see the difference between the two pots.
I knew I could set my watch by her. Just as the first batch of candles were cooling from their dips, Mrs. Jorgenson rushed into the room.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said.
I glanced at the clock and realized that she was two minutes past due. “I was about to give up on you,” I said with a smile.
She didn’t notice. “I don’t expect you to extend the lesson on my account.”
“Hey, it’s on the house. I’ll even throw in a piece of chocolate cake at the end.”
“I don’t eat chocolate, and I haven’t had cake since my seventh birthday.”
I should have known better than try to tease with her. Though she’d warmed up to me since we’d started our lessons, we weren’t exactly at the “buddy” stage.
She looked disappointed when she saw the dipped pairs of candles on the racks. “I thought I’d be doing that today.”
“I figured if I skipped the first few steps we could get right on it. After all, you’ve mastered dipping.”
She nodded, then said, “Yes, I suppose you’re right, but I do enjoy it so. Will we be twisting tapers again today?”
“No, ma’am, we’re going to the next stage and start braiding candles. It’s great fun.”
“What do we do first?” she said, eager to get started.
“It’s the same basic technique, we just add one more candle and braid the three together.”
She selected two of the darker red tapers and one of the lighter, then braided them with expert skill. “You’ve been practicing,” I said.
“I may have made a twist or two since our last lesson.”
“No braiding?” I asked.
She said, “Not candles, at any rate.”
“Let me guess, you used to braid your sister’s hair.” No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t see Mrs. Jorgenson as a little girl. Some people were just born middle aged.
“No, but the