Gifted: A Basket Weaver's Tale

By Valerie Banfield

When Alzheimer’s hijacked her father, disorder upended Connie’s world.

When a stranger uses her as a pawn, danger lurks and chaos simmers.

Evan Nichols has the evidence; an unsavory pair wants it back. If he’s caught? He hasn’t much at stake. He’s already lost his wife and kissed his home goodbye. He drives a disintegrating rattletrap; his business is on life support.

Since the Alzheimer’s diagnosis, confusion and turmoil override Connie Thompkins’ routine life as a CPA and part-time basket weaver. When Evan’s misdeeds spiral into Connie’s realm, his antics challenge her faith and steal her contentment.

The immediate distaste they hold for each other leaves them flailing in a tangled web of distrust and discord. He needs a willing accomplice. She wants the sneaky interloper to right his life’s ambitions and choose an honorable path. They can’t undo the past. Can they salvage their futures?

Approximate length: 364 pages

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valerie Banfield
• Release date: Apr 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781519980977

Book preview

In memory of my father, who wielded honor,

patriotism, and integrity with the same fierce determination

as he loved his family, his church, and his friends.

I cherish the gift of his love, his life.

.

May my prayer be counted as incense before You;

the lifting of my hands as the evening offering.

Psalm 141:2

Prologue

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Help me!

Frank Thompkins stood at the open front door, gripped his walker, and shuffled toward the driveway. His freshly ironed plaid shirt hung loosely on his gaunt form. Baggy sweatpants, a replacement for the crisp trousers he used to wear, bunched at his ankles. Soft suede moccasins, the trade-in for wingtip oxfords and golf shoes, padded against the hard concrete.

Soft rays of the distant sun warmed the thawed ground along Frank’s route and encouraged a cluster of crocuses to open their buttery yellow petals to a new spring. A watchful eye would encounter renewal and rebirth at every turn.

Sometimes, Frank seemed to know his own periods of anticipation, delight, and refreshment were over. His camera would never again capture the beauty and promise of changing seasons. Indeed, each day another memory failed, its details vanishing just as the passage of time faded his old black and white photographs.

When he spied the empty street, and when no one answered him, Frank’s shoulders drooped in resignation and his plea shriveled to a murmur.

Somebody . . . please. Please take me home.

As she hurried out of the house, Ida Thompkins wiped her sudsy hands on her apron.

Frank. I’m right here. It’s okay. You’re already home.

After she coaxed Frank and his walker in a 180-degree turn, she pointed to the house.

See? You’re home. Come on. You’re probably hungry.

I want ice cream.

Ida settled Frank at the table with his favorite food, walked to the front door, and studied the deadbolt lock—the one she didn’t think he could open any longer. The alarm system could alert her of Frank’s wanderings beyond the confines of the house, but the screech would send him over the edge. She’d have to come up with a better solution.

As Frank enjoyed his mid-morning treat, Ida sat at the table and watched him. This man owned the deep reaches of her heart, but if today was hard, how would she manage his tomorrows?

One

Something Woven

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Evan Nichols hit the brakes hard. With his eyes fixed on his rearview mirror, he almost slammed into the blue van when it stopped abruptly in front of his old coupe. The vehicle’s tired engine skipped in protest, forcing Evan to slip the transmission into neutral. With gentle pressure to the gas pedal, he coaxed the reluctant machine to stay in motion. When the tailpipe discharged a cloud of bitter metallic smoke, a cough rattled his chest. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and waited for traffic to move. The black car that trailed him off the highway, now partially hidden by a panel truck, waited at a red light two intersections back. Evan tapped his fingers on the old wooden gearshift, ready to grab and engage.

When the traffic lights behind him changed, a flicker of movement crossed the rearview mirror. The black car shot around the truck and advanced to the next light, having gained only two vehicle lengths in the early morning traffic jam. Evan cringed. Two was too many.

Evan stretched his neck while his eyes darted in every direction. He did not seek an explanation for the gridlock, but a means of escape. From the low perspective of his sedan, tall sport utility vehicles and vans obscured his view. Weak air emitted by the fan did little to clear the fogged windshield and his panting only contributed to the problem. If he thought his window would close again, he might open it long enough to equalize the air temperature in the car. With his luck? He held his breath until the urge passed, and settled for wiping the windows with a clammy hand.

He inched forward and hugged the rear of the blue van as it slipped into the left lane to join the only queue with any forward motion. When the van turned left, Evan saw the deputy directing traffic and obediently followed his waving arm into the church parking lot. Must be a funeral, and given the congestion, the deceased must have been someone important.

Evan glanced into the mirror; the black car was nowhere in sight. He slowed his respirations and willed his pounding heart to quiet. As he waited for the van to pull forward, he touched the small device safely tucked into his pocket and grimaced at the reminder. Next time someone asked for help—Next time? He’d have to survive this ordeal before worrying about a next time. If he didn’t ditch the evidence soon, his future might read just like a decedent’s eulogy.

~

Connie Tompkins surveyed the line of vehicles waiting for her to vacate the designated unloading area. A dozen sets of headlights reached through the lingering morning haze and an occasional screech of the windshield wipers belonging to a large van lifted a fine mist from the glass. Each swipe set her teeth on edge and contributed to the downward spin of her gloomy mood. She had worked too late and too long, slept too little, and rose too soon to a dull, overcast morning.

When a teenage boy wearing a wet sweatshirt, scruffy jeans, and expensive looking sneakers, offered his open arms, Connie plopped a large box into his hands. Two more teens, both wearing expressions as damp and dull as the weather, hefted the display racks and shelves leaning precariously against the bumper.

We’re in booth nineteen. Thanks.

Connie brushed strands of brown hair out of her eyes, grabbed another box from the back of her SUV, and handed the merchandise to her partner, Elaine Hollister. Connie wiped her dusty hands on her jacket. That’s the last of them. I need to move my car out of the loading zone before they tow it away.

When the waiting van’s windshield wipers screeched again, she turned and caught sight of the driver’s glare. In response, Connie glowered at Elaine. Why is everyone so impatient? Do we look like we’re dawdling here?

Elaine shrugged. Must be the weather. Even the volunteers are impatient. They look like they’ve had enough coffee to push the empty vehicles out of the way. Speaking of coffee, can you grab my mug? I left it in the cup holder. Elaine’s pleading look was so unnecessary.

Sure. Be right back.

Connie followed the directions of an overzealous man wearing a neon orange vest, to a parking place on the soggy soccer field. An obnoxious honk propelled her into her assigned spot. The irritated driver with the air horn almost clipped the SUV’s bumper when she ignored the attendant’s signals and made her own space. The offender, a short redhead with a nest of feral curls knotted haphazardly at the nape of her neck, flung her car door open as soon as the vehicle came to a stop. She held her cell phone to her ear as she traipsed past the orange-vested volunteer, whom she obviously considered as important as a mannequin. What was wrong with everyone this morning?

Stalling long enough to let the redhead enter the building well ahead of her, Connie slanted the rearview mirror for a partial reflection and deemed her appearance acceptable. She looked around the car, checked for anything the two artisans may have left behind, and gathered her moneybox, wallet, bottled water, Elaine’s half-empty travel mug, and a tablecloth.

Before she could exit, a man in an old coupe pulled into the no-longer-a-parking-space created by Feral Redhead. The coupe may have been a looker when it came off the showroom floor. Today the pale blue car was a dismal wreck.

Connie looked at her skinny frame and assessed the space between the two vehicles. How was she supposed to extract her long legs from her car? A body deserved more than a ten-inch space to exit.

As she nudged her door open, she gripped Elaine’s coffee mug and pushed one linen-covered arm out of the narrow gap. With her other hand, she held tight to the moneybox. She pulled in her abdomen and squeezed her body through the opening. The water would have to stay in the car.

Masking her irritation with an insincere smile, Connie allowed a glimpse at the offending driver. If levels of disdain were written on the Richter scale, with a measurement of nine or more resulting in mass destruction, the driver’s sneer weighed in at no less than eight and nine-tenths. Good thing he was cute; otherwise, she’d label him a jerk, instead of Cute Jerk.

A dismal gray cloud rested in the wide expanse separating the parking area and the building. The lot reserved for vendors was farthest from the structure, and her assigned parking space lay somewhere in the northernmost corner. Of course.

Connie hiked back to the building and when the soles of her shoes finally met pavement, her feet rocked unevenly with each step. Lovely. She stopped at a curb and scuffed the mass of mud and grass clippings that boosted her height by at least an inch.

A hesitant glimmer of sunshine peeking through the cloud cover lifted her pessimistic mood as she opened the door to the large gymnasium. She took in her surroundings, quite pleased. The building, part of a large church complex, boasted excellent indoor lighting, and the natural light, gaining confidence with each passing minute, lent a cheerful mood to the frenzied artisans setting up shop. A cheerful mood usually led to brisk sales.

As she rounded the corner, she spied their tiny, disorganized space. She could only shake her head at her predictable partner. Elaine sat on a chair, oblivious to the disarray piled in their allotted eighty square foot booth. A mass of baskets and folded shelving sat undisturbed behind their vendor table, but her partner’s ambivalent attitude wasn’t worth mentioning. With their established routine, she and Elaine could set up their space in ten minutes, tops. Good grief, they must have set up and torn down their miniature retail space forty times by now.

Connie emptied her arms and scanned the competition. Her eyes rested on the canine adoption booth. Good positioning. They were far enough away to avoid the doggy-drawn throngs, but near enough to attract the bystanders.

What’s with the scowl? Elaine didn’t make a move to get up.

Sorry. I meant to leave it in my car. I’m still miffed at the man who wedged his coupe so close that I had to become one-dimensional in order to get out.

Like Gumby? Elaine asked.

Who?

Gumby. You know. The green clay character from way back when.

If Connie had to be Gumby, Elaine had to be her sidekick. How apt, Pokey.

Elaine didn’t respond to the chiding, nor did she attempt to start assembling their space.

Connie narrowed her eyes. Did I miss some excitement here? So much for holding her tongue for those things not worth mentioning.

What excitement? I must have missed it. What did you hear?

I didn’t hear anything. Just wondered why you haven’t had a chance to unpack while I was hiking from the north forty. Connie bit her offending member as the sarcastic tone wriggled past her lips.

Oh, uh, I needed the tablecloth. Elaine reached for the ivory-colored covering, and as she unfurled the fabric and guided it to its proper place on the table, she grinned at her friend. I also needed my coffee mug. I’ll be a lot more helpful once I get a second dose of caffeine in my system.

Before Connie could protest yet another delay, Elaine retrieved her coffee mug and stepped away from their booth. Just as quickly, Elaine did an about-face, wrapped her arms around Connie’s shoulders, and gave her a hug.

Smile. Relax, even. Be right back. Elaine released her embrace and waved her fingers as she sped down the aisle.

Connie unfolded the display rack and slid the shelves into place. She picked up some of the smallest baskets and placed them on the top shelves. With her fingertip, she traced the intricate design gracing the front of a Nantucket candy dish. One of Elaine’s miniature masterpieces. The price tag carried a large number for such a tiny item, which reflected the weaver’s reluctance to say goodbye to the piece as much as it did the degree of talent required to produce it.

When Elaine returned with more coffee, the two weavers strategically arranged the rest of their goods. They sat on the cold metal folding chairs provided to vendors by the church and surveyed their space.

So what’s the real deal this morning? And, don’t blame it on the guy in the parking lot. You haven’t said a word since you picked me up at my house.

Connie looked away. If she tried to put it in words, she’d drown in her own puddle of tears. Elaine knew the answer—she knew Connie inside out.

Elaine leaned over and bumped her shoulder into Connie’s arm. Is your mom okay without you today?

Connie nodded. Yeah. I think so.

Okay, then. Get up. We need a buyer’s perspective. Elaine’s directive also injected a much-appreciated dose of cheerfulness.

Connie stood at the far side of the aisle, her left hand supporting her right elbow and fingers tapping her lips. Elaine joined her, with one hand on her waist and the other holding her permanently attached mug.

Looks great, Connie said.

Professional, Elaine agreed.

Tempting.

Irresistible.

Connie couldn’t stifle her yawn.

What? You give up on our adjectives already? Elaine’s Italian grandmother might as well have been doing the asking.

Sorry. Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.

What do you think of our next booth neighbors? Elaine whispered. Will they bring buyers or drive them away?

I think we’ll get along just fine.

Elaine leaned close, keeping her voice low. How old do you think the artsy potters are? My guess is thirty-ish. Are they married?

What do you care? You’re married.

Ah, but I’m looking out for you.

Me? He’s too artsy for me. Besides, they look like a couple, Connie said.

Elaine gestured to the table to their left where two young women, probably college students, were hanging beaded jewelry. The beaders were in step with current trends: skintight jeans, boots, tight T-shirts, straight blonde hair layered over their shoulders. What about them?

They’re cute, Connie answered.

Yeah. Elaine’s response wasn’t upbeat.

She and Elaine sure didn’t look artsy, and both of them were too old to compete with the college girls. Her partner’s attire never varied from show to show: comfortable navy blue cropped pants, blue crocs, T-shirt printed with butterflies, and a blue chambray shirt, unbuttoned and untucked. Connie glanced at her own outfit: black jeans, lavender blouse, black flats. Nothing special. She touched her hair, smiling at the little lift she’d shoved into place with a wad of mousse. With just one forgetful run of fingers through the mass, her locks would compete with the coeds’ straight hair. Regrettably, that’s about all that would compete.

Connie leaned into Elaine. We are not coed cutesy and we’re not artsy. I think we fall under the craftsy label.

I don’t think that’s a word.

It is today.

You know, Elaine interjected, I read that the difference between the terms art and craft generally dictates pricing. Art produces nice profits; crafts might bring enough cash to replace inventory so we passionate crafters can afford to feed our addiction.

I know. Sometimes I feel as if I’m giving my baskets away.

But, we can’t keep all of them, Elaine said. Daniel already complains about my taking over one of the bedrooms and his basement. I’d rather accept a crafter’s fee than have to quit weaving.

I’d rather accept an artisan’s fee and keep weaving.

You’re a dreamer, Thompkins.

When they returned to their seats, Elaine reached into a large fabric tote and extracted an unfinished Nantucket basket. The staves stuck irreverently above the wood mold, and a piece of unwoven cane hung loosely from the UFO, basket weaver-ese for unfinished object. Which was not to be confused with an MNM basket, one so difficult or painstaking to weave—or accompanied by instructions so pathetic they needed a decoder ring—and determined to be one of a kind, a make no more.

She knew Elaine had no intention of working on her UFO while she peddled her goods. She kept it out as a prop for the unbelieving shopper who insisted, You mean you weave these? Oh, I thought they were imported. That comment, in spite of the fact the show dictated all work be original, always made them crazy. What’s original about selling an imported product?

Do you mind if I walk around? Elaine asked. I like getting first choice—not that I intend to buy anything. Just looking.

Go ahead. I’ll traipse around after you get back.

Uh, hi.

Connie turned to see one of the beaders looking at her anxiously.

Hi.

I’m Traci. This is Beth. This is our first show. We’re kind of nervous.

You’ll do fine. I’m Connie. My absent partner is Elaine. Connie walked over to the adjacent booth and picked up a charm bracelet. This is really nice.

Thanks, Traci said. These earrings, on the display over here, go with the bracelet you’re holding. Over there is a matching necklace.

Very nice, Connie replied. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding someone who wants all three pieces. You might want to keep them together, though. I didn’t know the bracelet was anything but a single piece.

Beth exchanged a startled glance with Connie. What a good idea. Showing sets makes a lot of sense. Beth looked at Traci and asked, Can you help me find the other sets? I know we have at least a dozen of them.

Connie turned back to her table, regretting that her advice caused a last-minute scramble for the beaders. Still, better to sell three items than one.

When she glanced down the aisle, she saw Elaine talking with the canine booth coordinator. A little white tail, the only part of the dog visible from Connie’s observation point, started wagging when Elaine bent down to give the pup a pep talk. It probably sounded something like, Now, you just wag like crazy when someone reaches down to pet you, and keep a smile on your pretty little face. That’s right . . . just like that. The two humans shared a laugh before the preview shopper returned to her seat.

I thought you were just looking.

Ha. Me, too. Elaine sat down and opened a white paper bag to reveal some handmade soaps. My mom loves this stuff. Look. Lavender, lemon, patchouli. She hefted the bag up to Connie’s nose. Smell.

Connie almost gagged. Each little bar might have a lovely scent, but as a combo, they dispensed a jolt. The soap vender might do well to spend a few more bucks on packaging and bag them separately. When Elaine plopped the soaps under the table, Connie said, Let’s put them out of the way.

She wrinkled her nose while she picked up the bag with her fingertips and placed it in the bottom of an empty box. She kicked the box as far to the back of the space as it would go. If she saw potential customers crinkling their noses, she would make Elaine walk the soap to the car.

I hope your mother enjoys them. Connie coughed. Did you see any other weavers?

Not a one. We’re in good shape in that regard, but we have competition, nonetheless. Some of the work on display is gorgeous. Look at our neighbor’s pottery. Very nice, reasonably priced. And don’t forget the competition on the other side.

The girls? Connie asked.

Yeah, any men who are dragged in here by their women will be stopping by to check out their wares.

Elaine.

The jewelry. The jewelry. Elaine turned and peered over her shoulder. What are you looking at?

A nicely built man with square shoulders and trim waist walked toward their booth. The show hadn’t opened yet. Was he a vendor? He looked like a man on a mission and—he looked familiar. Connie groaned. His target? Their table.

You’re the owner of the silver SUV, right? His accusing voice overpowered his intense, dark brown eyes.

Yes. Connie countered his testy mood with a stare intended to deliver its own dose of arrogance. He was still cute, even out of the car. His dark hair was short on the sides but a little long on top, and his rough beard carried a hint of red.

Connie’s eyes flared, but Elaine ignored the warning and offered him a flirty smile.

The interloper ignored Elaine and stepped right into his attack. I would have come in here as soon as you slammed your car door against my coupe, but I was on a business call I needed to finish.

Slammed my car door? She folded her arms across her chest and lifted her shoulders.

Oh, please. You slam my car, put a dent in the passenger door, and then just walk away. Pretty bold, since you saw me sitting inside.

I did not hit your car, although your amateurish parking made my exit a challenge. Connie turned back to the table and started rearranging baskets.

Hey, you can’t just ignore me.

His voice was low, but not low enough. The eyes of the potters and beaders turned toward the simmering fray. Cute Jerk’s timing couldn’t have been worse. The doors were just about to open for the first customers of the day. The weavers did not need this type of business promotion.

I’m not ignoring you. I answered your claim. I did not hurt your car. She lowered her voice to a whisper and stared into his you-could-get-lost-in-me eyes. Too bad he was such a creep.

The man snatched a business card from their table, stuffed it into the front pocket of his well-fitting jeans, and glared. I’ll be in touch. He waved his cell phone at her. I’ve got the pictures to send to my attorney, so don’t even try to mess with me.

Connie stared daggers as he walked away.

What did you do? Elaine was too busy enjoying Cute Jerk’s slightly bow-legged saunter to give her full attention to the response.

I already told you. I squeezed out of the car. I didn’t touch my door to his precious car. I’d better not find a scratch on my SUV.

Maybe we should be happy we aren’t doing a show in Bernsville; he can keep his temper here in his own town. Elaine seemed disappointed when he disappeared from view.

He took my business card. It doesn’t have my address, but it’s got the business phone number, which shows we’re out-of-towners, and it’s got our email address, Connie said.

"Honey, he’s got your home address if he’s smart enough to look at our website and check out the Contact Us tab. Or, maybe I should say, he has my home address. Elaine sat back in her seat and added an unwelcome, Oh. Her forehead grew deep furrows when she said, I think I’d better tell Daniel about this. We should probably update the website to delete our address."

What were we thinking when we included that tidbit of information? Connie already knew the answer. We were thinking we needed to share the shipping address for the business. I’m really sorry.

Elaine relaxed the furrows and tsk’d. He was just blowing hot air. Right?

Connie squinted at Elaine. She could only hope she was right. Sure, but we ought to update the website anyway. Can Daniel do it himself?

I think so. I’ll ask him as soon as I get home. Right now, we have customers.

The gymnasium doors opened, and a crowd surged through the narrow aisles. The first gleeful cries of children arriving at the canine adoption booth reached the ears of the basket weavers. Elaine looked knowingly at Connie. Yep, we’re far enough away from the puppies.

So, how long does it take to make a basket? A tall, perfectly coiffed woman of about thirty lifted and inspected a small tray woven in natural and pumpkin colors.

Connie stifled a moan as she fielded the silliest, yet most common question. The baskets on display varied from minute to large, from simple to tediously complex, and each required different commitments of time. Wasn’t it obvious? Instead of offering an explanation, she simply replied, Oh, anywhere from an hour to sixty.

Sixty hours?

Well, yes, but that would be for a very complicated piece—like a Nantucket pocketbook.

Oh, do you have one here? Her eyes scanned the shelves.

No, we don’t bring those to our shows. They run around a thousand dollars. They might sell well in Nantucket, but we don’t expect to find buyers for such a pricey item at a craft show.

The woman’s eyes widened at the mention of the price. Do you take orders for them?

Really? Would this woman order one? Here? Today? Connie squelched her ready sarcasm and answered, We do special orders, but, still, we don’t really have a market for Nantucket pocketbooks. I was just answering your question about the time it takes to weave a basket.

Nodding at the too-much-information response, the buyer picked up a small, simple basket. How would you use this one?

It’s perfect for tea bags or business cards.

How about this one? The woman pointed to a round basket decorated with caned Xs across the middle and covered by a wood lid with a white knob.

It’s a coffee filter basket. It holds twelve-cup filters perfectly. It’s nice to hide them, yet make them easily accessible by leaving them on the kitchen counter.

The shopper immediately turned her attention to other offerings. Oh, well, I have one of those single-serve coffee makers. I have no need for this.

Oh, I see. Well, it could be used for many other purposes. Connie stopped her sales pitch as she watched the lady’s backside continue down the aisle.

Elaine?

Although Elaine pursed her lips, the curled up edges gave her away. Yes?

I am, admittedly, not a sales person. What did I do wrong?

Elaine, the woman who had a habit of chatting up total strangers shopping in her proximity at any retail venue, and talking them into making purchases—whatever the product—dismissed the question. Like Connie should know the obvious. Sadly, she didn’t.

Another shopper stopped by and studied the same round basket. This is cute. What’s it for?

Connie stepped back from the table, folded her arms, and studied the exchange.

"Oh, this little thing? Isn’t it sweet? Especially with Xs all over the middle. I just love the texture and detail, don’t you?" Elaine placed the basket in the woman’s hands.

Oh, it has a wood bottom. I didn’t notice.

It makes it even prettier, doesn’t it? Well, the original idea for this basket was to hold coffee filters.

Just like Connie’s customer, the woman backed up and started to withdraw. Elaine was quick as an eagle, though, and intercepted her move with words.

But, what with the change in popularity from round filters to funnel filters, the purpose kind of faded away. And, I suspect you probably have one of those fancy new single-serve machines.

I do. The woman regarded Elaine intently.

Yeah, I’d really like to buy one of those someday. Elaine’s eyes looked wistful. Most people who have those new appliances display their coffee varieties right on the counter, next to the coffee maker. You know, in those shiny stainless steel racks.

The woman replied, I do, again.

Don’t you think your family, and your guests, especially, would like to have all the add-ins for their coffee right next to the coffee selections?

Well, yes. I guess it would be more convenient.

And, certainly more hospitable for company.

The woman had a hook in her mouth. Connie bit the inside of her cheek and glanced away just long enough to erase her humor.

Well, this basket is the perfect holder for sugar packets, non-dairy creamers, stir sticks, and all those sugar substitutes people like so much.

Elaine tugged on the fishing line.

Don’t you think this little cutie would look nice on your counter next to your coffee maker and all those pretty single-serving cups?

"Why,