The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club by Lexi Eddings Page A

the Green Apple from Arthur Quackenbush, part of the deal was that the wiry old fellow could come in and man the grill once a week for as long as he felt like doing it. Arthur had been cooking at the Green Apple since he’d opened it back in 1958. He wanted to keep his hand in the business and, Jake suspected, make sure the new owner knew his butt from a hole in the ground.
    Even after Jake passed muster, Arthur continued to come in. If he burned a few things now and again, old timers and regulars still loved to see him there. Jake had added a number of new dishes to the list of options that were a mystery to Arthur. So the grill had a special, limited “Quackenbush Menu” on Thursdays.
    â€œOh. Well, it’s good you have some time off,” Lacy said. “You need a day of rest.”
    â€œIs that what you think this is?” he said as he continued to unload his mother’s latest offerings. “Thursday usually turns into my day to finish all the things I didn’t get done the week before. I didn’t expect to run into . . .” He stopped himself before he said “a fancy-ass designer.” If she didn’t like being compared to a windup monkey, she’d really be insulted if he called her that. “. . . Into someone like you in a place called ‘the Junk-shun’ either.”
    â€œWhat do you mean by someone like me?”
    â€œDon’t get all touchy.” So what was she doing there? Had she come into the Secondhand Junk-shun looking for him? If so, that meant he hadn’t completely lost his touch where women were concerned. Something in his chest swelled a bit at the possibility. “I just meant I didn’t think you were into antiques.”
    â€œYou’re right. I’m usually not unless they’re European and a good deal older than anything here,” Lacy admitted. She picked up one of the soup bowls he’d set out on the shelves he’d built for his mom. Lacy inspected the piece, turning it this way and that. “Very mid-century modern.”
    â€œHmm. I’m sure that impresses the heck out of folks in Boston. Around here we just call them old bowls.”
    She rolled her eyes at him. He’d forgotten how blue they were. Then she turned her gaze to the red soup bowl in her hands again. The piece had little ceramic handles and what appeared to be a hand-turned foot on the bottom. “This Fiestaware is in terrific shape. Great color and near mint condition.”
    He nodded. “I like the blue one.”
    â€œYou mean cobalt.”
    â€œUh?”
    â€œThat’s the name of the color. I’m partial to the chartreuse myself.”
    Jake frowned at the bowls. “I’m not color-blind, so I must be color-ignorant. Which one is that?”
    â€œThe green one, of course.”
    â€œOh. Cobalt. Chartreuse. What do you call that one?” He pointed to the one she had in her hands.
    She blinked slowly at him. “Red. What do you call it?”
    He decided not to chance asking what she’d call the yellow bowl. It could act as camouflage for French’s mustard. The only thing he evidently knew about colors was which ones he liked. The blue of Lacy’s eyes sprang to mind, but he figured he’d better change the subject. He was hopelessly behind when it came to colors.
    â€œBlame the bowls’ good condition on my memaw Tyler. She didn’t believe in dishwashers.”
    â€œHow much are you asking for this set?”
    â€œNot me. My mom. This is her booth. I’m just the gofer on Thursdays,” Jake said as he wadded up the newspaper the crockery had been wrapped in and stuffed it back in the box. “She wants ten dollars a bowl.”
    â€œTen dollars a bowl!”
    â€œI imagine she’ll take less for each if someone buys the lot.”
    Lacy’s brows drew together as she studied the bowls. “I’ll have to do some research, but I’m pretty sure