She watched out the front window as her brother extended his hand to Boyd, and they shook. Johnny had a practical side that allowed him to smile when he was angry.
“What are you gawking at?” Mr. Sullivan asked.
Sadie turned slowly from the window decorated with the fake presents. Mr. Sullivan was a tall man with broad shoulders, but his frame had softened in his older age, with shoulders now hunched forward. He slicked back his salt-and-pepper hair with oil and parted it in the middle in a way that reminded her of a cartoon character.
“I’m not gawking,” she countered.
“You’ve always got your nose in someone else’s business.”
“My brother is my business.”
Even the store’s rich scents of spices and perfumes and the collection of bright labels on the tin cans did not distract her as she turned back toward the window. Boyd lifted a mason jar full of clear liquid and inspected it. He said something to Johnny that deepened that frown. Finally, Johnny nodded and handed over a third jar.
“Bastard,” she muttered.
Her brother had barely slept in the last two days, working on this latest batch in the evenings after tending the livestock and working extra hours in the McKenzies’ gardens.
Finally, Boyd walked back to his office, carrying his three jars. He glanced back toward the store, as if he was looking for her. When his gaze locked on hers, a smug smile tipped the edge of his lips before he turned and vanished inside.
“Thief,” she muttered.
“Does Johnny have my delivery?” Mr. Sullivan asked.
“Yes, sir,” Sadie said. “Johnny’s bringing in the honeysuckle flavor you like. Johnny made this batch with an extra kick, so be mindful.”
Mr. Sullivan glanced out the window as Johnny strode toward the store with the crate. “Remember, Mrs. Sullivan and my daughter, Ruth, don’t need to know about this arrangement.”
“Yes, sir. They won’t hear a word from me. I don’t suppose I can have a look inside the November Life magazine with Gene Tierney on the cover. It’ll keep my mind occupied and my mouth closed.”
He regarded her a moment and then pushed the magazine toward her. “Be careful with the pages. I can’t sell it if you mangle it.”
“I’ll be so gentle you won’t know I ever looked at it.” She tugged off her knit gloves and shoved them in her pocket.
As Gene Tierney stared off into the distance, her dark hair framed her serene face and tumbled over a dark V-necked dress. She wore a two-toned gossamer veil that draped over pale, slim shoulders. The ocean was behind her, and it looked like a gentle breeze was caressing her face.
Sadie had never been to the beach, but she had heard the air tasted like salt, and the water crashed on the shore all day and night. She was saving up her money and as of now had one dollar and ten cents. When she had enough, she was going to go to the beach just like Gene Tierney. That was, after she went to the picture show in Charlottesville.
She turned past the table of contents. She was fixing to go straight to the article on Miss Gene but stopped when she saw the headline Shooting War. President Roosevelt said that American ships had been damaged and sunk. More than 2,300 killed. He said America was all but at war with Japan and Germany. She thought about Danny. He had quit school in the fifth grade and did not write well, which was why she supposed he had not written in the last year.
The bells jingled in time to the clink of glass jars knocking against each other. She turned to see Johnny striding through the door. He set the crate of jars on the counter.
“Morning, Mr. Sullivan,” he said to the shopkeeper. “How are you doing this morning?”
“Can’t complain, Johnny.” Mr. Sullivan’s gaze lost its sour expression as he stared at the mason jars.
“Thank you for the order, sir.”
“Always brightens my holidays when the wife’s mother comes to visit. I’ll credit your account two dollars.”
“I appreciate that.”
Mr. Sullivan lifted a jar and let the clear liquid catch the light before placing it back in the crate. “That’s mighty nice.”
Sadie quickly turned the page, knowing if Johnny saw the war pictures, he would be worried. He was already fired up about the Japanese, and the news in Europe would make it all the worse.
She flipped to a page featuring the actress Rosalind Russell on her wedding day. She was marrying a fellow by the name of Frederick Brisson. Sadie had no idea who the groom was, but she recognized Cary Grant and Loretta Young, who were standing beside the couple. They were all smiling.
“Would you be interested in five more jars?” Johnny asked. “I made extra this year.”
“I can’t give you any more credit than I already have,” Mr. Sullivan said. “The missus will notice if I toy with the books too much.”
“I was thinking you might like to sell these. We’ll split the profits fifty-fifty.”
Mr. Sullivan peered inside the crate. “Taking a bit for myself is one thing, but selling is another. Boyd will have something to say about that.”
“I’ve given him extra, so he’ll look the other way for a few days. It’s the holidays, so there’ll be some looking for a little nip.”
Sullivan regarded the jars. He was smart enough to recognize that folks were looking for a little extra nip these days. He held out his hand. “It’s a deal, Johnny. Come see me in a few days to collect your half.”
Johnny shook his hand. “Yes, sir.”
Mr. Sullivan arranged the jars off to the side so that they could not be seen from the street window but would be noticed by his patrons who knew where to look.
Johnny fished a rumpled piece of paper from his pocket and squinted at the dark scrawl that passed for handwriting. “Mama is going to need three bags of flour, a can of lard, and salt.”
“That’s all?”
“For this time.”
The shopkeeper looked over at Sadie. “Go easy on those pages, Sadie Thompson.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you heard any more news about the war?” Johnny asked. “I heard that the National Guard has stepped up their drills. They’re likely to get called up any day.”
“Don’t be in a rush,” Mr. Sullivan said. “I was in France in 1918.”
“But we won,” Johnny said.
Mr. Sullivan slowly stacked the bags on the counter. “Nobody won, Johnny.”
“You make it sound like you lost, Mr. Sullivan,” Sadie said.
“It was bloody, Sadie. And war’s never as easy to win as the politicians want us to believe,” Mr. Sullivan said softly.
“Couldn’t be hard to shoot a gun,” Johnny said. “I been shooting squirrels since I was eight.”
“Never easy to shoot a man, Johnny.”
As their conversation drifted to the cost of grain and crops, Sadie stared at Gene Tierney’s soft curls and her dark eyes and full lashes. The photograph was in black and white, but she would bet her fingernails were painted a pretty shade of red.
“That reminds me,” Mr. Sullivan said. “The Carters are having a party tonight, and Dr. Carter said if I saw you for me to ask you to stop by Woodmont. They are celebrating the young Mr. Edward’s wedding to his new bride. It’s going to be a big shindig.”