“Girlied up? What does that mean?”
“You know what it means. Every woman in the world knows what it means.”
“I’m not soliciting at Lefty’s.”
“All’s I’m saying is, you might want to throw away those baggy old shirts of Derby’s and fix yourself up to be more…girlified.”
She’d spent that evening taking in the waistlines of garments that she’d let out during her pregnancy. As an afterthought, she’d also taken up the hemlines an inch and a half. She’d ironed a blouse with a front placket flanked by strips of lace, and had dusted off her best hat.
She’d timed her arrival at the café during the lull between the midday meal and dinner. She gave the busboy her name and asked to see Mr. Martin. After getting clearance, he’d escorted her to a cramped office off the kitchen.
When she’d walked in, Clyde Martin had been standing behind his desk, looking the picture of benevolence. “Mrs. Plummer. I’d like to express my sincere condolences for your—”
She’d cut him off. “You’re losing money, Mr. Martin.”
“I…I beg your pardon.”
“Try this.” She’d taken a mason jar of moonshine from her tote bag, strode forward, and set it on the paper-littered desk.
“And this.” Also from the tote, she’d produced a slice of apple pie wrapped in wax paper and set it beside the jar. “You need to be offering both in your café. I’ll come back tomorrow to work out the particulars of a deal. Have a pleasant afternoon.” She’d left him with his mouth agape.
When she’d returned the following day, Mr. Martin had been eager to negotiate terms. He’d soon learned that she was no shrinking violet, further weakened by grief. Settling on a price, he’d placed an initial order for two pies and 4 jars of moonshine. “I’ll come by twice weekly to deliver the products and take your next order,” she’d told him.
As they shook hands on the deal, he’d said, “I thought you were going to apply for a waitress job.”
“This pays better.”
Initially, Irv had kept up his route and the handyman cover, but once the new still was in operation, she’d suggested that she take over his deliveries. “I could drive your route on the days I don’t bake.”
“You can’t drive my truck.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a truck.”
She’d given him a roll of her eyes. “I could drive it, but you make a valid point. It would attract unwanted curiosity. Instead, what if you built some kind of false floor in my car, the way you did in your truck?”
He’d fashioned a false bottom in her trunk, creating a hidey-hole underneath, which she padded with an old quilt. Thus outfitted, she’d begun driving his route. As she became better acquainted with the roads and back roads in the area, she’d gone further afield, scouting for new opportunities.
She’d picked up two cafés in two different towns, both of which had been customers of Irv’s before becoming gun shy of the Prohibition law. In addition to delicious pies, cobblers, and corn whiskey, she’d promised her customers utmost discretion.
As Irv was leaving one evening to work at the still, she’d approached him with another idea. “What about Logan’s Grocery?”
“What about it?”
“As a possible broker.”
“Hell’d freeze over first. A nicer man you’ll never meet. Logan extends credit even to folks he knows will take a long time paying. But he’s a staunch teetotaler. His wife was the standard bearer for the local temperance society.”
“Does he sell fresh baked goods in his store?”
“Not that I know of.”
“He should, don’t you think? I’ll pay him a call and take samples.”
“I just told you, Laurel, he—”
“I saw a notice in his window that he offers delivery service for a small charge.”