A Regular Joe. Jennifer Drew

then replacing decorations several times throughout the year. It was the variety that kept life new and interesting.

      Twice during the day, the husbands of female shoppers had looked Joe up and down, then muttered “twinkie” half under their breaths. Joe probably should have been offended that he’d been categorized as effeminate because he actually liked creating knickknacks in the workshop and didn’t mind selling them. Once, however, he’d had to bite his tongue when a grumpy old man scowled and referred to the inventory at Hobby Hut as “sissy stuff no man would be caught dead selling, unless it was a last resort to keep the wolves from the door.”

      Joe’s thoughts scattered like a flock of geese going airborne when Mattie scrunched in front of him at the cash register. “Here come the Zimmers for a refund,” she murmured confidentially. “Better let me handle them this first time so you’ll know how to deal with them. Lovable as they are, they get their kicks from trying to pull a fast one every now and then.”

      Joe stepped aside, frowning curiously at the harmless-looking elderly couple who hobbled down the center aisle, a quart of paint clamped in each gnarled hand.

      “Changed our minds about the accent colors in the bedrooms and living room,” Coreen Zimmer announced as she set the cans on the counter, then produced her receipt. “Just want our money back until we can agree on which colors to put where.”

      Sounded reasonable enough to Joe. He couldn’t fathom why Mattie thought she needed to handle this simple transaction. But to his surprise, Mattie grabbed a flathead screwdriver from beneath the counter and opened the paint. To his horror, she dipped her finger into the can to taste the contents.

      “Colored water,” she said, smiling wryly at her customers. “Pretty sneaky of you two, but no dice. You really are going to have to get up a few hours earlier to outfox me.”

      Homer Zimmer shot Mattie a disgruntled glance, then flicked his attention to Joe. “Could’ve pulled it off if you would’ve let him wait on us, I’d bet. We heard there was a new assistant at the store, and we wanted to see how sharp he was.”

      Joe was stunned that these old shysters were trying to get a refund on paint they’d obviously used up, then refilled the cans with water. He didn’t know whether to laugh or curse their ingenuity.

      Mattie set the four paint cans on the floor beside the trash, then smiled brightly. “Anything else you want to try to fly past me today?”

      “Well, now that you mention it.” Coreen retrieved a plastic bag from her oversize purse. “I bought this figurine of an angel a couple of weeks ago and didn’t notice that one wing was broken until I got home. I’d like to exchange it for a new one.”

      Joe crossed his arms, waiting to see how Mattie handled this transaction. As usual, she smiled cheerfully, then scooped up the angel with its broken wing. “You realize that I personally shelved these figurines, with all the loving care angels should receive. They are one of my favorites, you know.” She stared at Coreen, then focused unblinkingly on Homer. “Who dropped this accidentally? And don’t even think about lying to me because we are discussing angels. It’d be like telling a lie at church, right there, down on your knees at the altar.”

      Seconds ticked by. Joe appraised one wrinkled face, then the other.

      Apparently Homer couldn’t stand the silence a moment longer. He caved in.

      “Oh, all right, girl, it was me, blast it. I knocked the angel off the shelf. You got any of that industrial-strength glue that’d work on a broken wing?”

      “Of course, Homer,” Mattie assured him. “I’ll be happy to get it for you.”

      When Mattie strode off, the Zimmers zeroed in on Joe.

      “You’re darn lucky to be working for that girl, you know,” Homer declared. “Sweetest disposition in town…argh.” He grimaced when Coreen gouged him in the ribs with her elbow. “Next to my lovely bride of forty-seven years, of course. Mattie’s a talented artist, too, if you didn’t know. I’d buy some of her paintings, but I can’t afford it on our fixed income.”

      “The point he’s trying to make is that we don’t want you pulling any fast ones on our sweet Mattie,” Coreen lectured.

      This from two shysters who’d tried to exchange water for paint? They were hypocrites, both of them. But it was obvious they were immensely fond of Mattie. Yet, who around this town wasn’t? Joe had heard her praises sung all the livelong day.

      “I wouldn’t think of cheating Mattie,” Joe assured the Zimmers. “I like my job, and I plan to keep it.”

      “Good for you, boy.” Homer leaned closer. Joe could smell the cheap, sticky-sweet aftershave. “But be warned that some of the ranchers over at the café were poking fun at you during lunch today. They think you’re a sissy for working here.”

      “What do you think?” Joe asked.

      “I think you’ve got guts to be working in a place like this,” Homer replied. “Just hope you can take the razzing that’s sure to come your way when those cowboys get to feeling ornery and decide to torment you.”

      “Thanks for the warning.”

      Mattie returned, handing Joe the glue. “Please ring them up while I finish my painting project in the workroom. I promised delivery after store hours this evening.”

      Joe manned the register, swearing the mold count elevated when Homer pried open his wallet, complaining that it was highway robbery to pay such a high price for one teensy-weensy tube of glue.

      When the couple exited Joe reminded himself that working with the public was no picnic. He’d obviously been sitting in his ivory corporate tower too long. His employees deserved an across-the-board raise for working in the combat zone.

      DURING HIS AFTERNOON BREAK Joe heard the phone ringing in Mattie’s office. Since she was helping one of her regular customers, Joe made a dash to answer the phone.

      “Hobby Hut,” he said politely.

      “Where the hell’s Mattie?” came a loud, gravelly male voice.

      “She’s with a customer at the moment. Can I take a message?”

      “Is this Joe?” the caller demanded.

      He blinked. “Yes, sir, it is.”

      “Figured as much. This is Mattie’s grandpa. I have my list ready for her. Got a pencil handy, boy?”

      “Yes, sir.” Joe plucked up a notepad and pen.

      “Don’t give me any more of that sir crapola,” Pops objected. “The name is Pops.”

      Joe grinned. “Okay. Fire away, Pops.”

      “Double-stuffed Oreo cookies, a jar of peanut butter, smooth not crunchy. Apples and crackers,” he rattled off. “Chocolate chip cookies—the gooier the better. Chocolate snack cakes with vanilla filling. And don’t buy that off-brand stuff. Stick with the brand names. Make a note of that for Mattie.”

      Joe scribbled as fast as he could. “Is there some sort of party going on at the convalescent home?”

      “Hell no, Mattie has to sneak the junk food into me and my friends. They treat us like a bunch of preschoolers here. Afraid we’ll OD on sugar and caffeine and be bouncing off the walls at bedtime.”

      Joe swallowed an amused chuckle. He really was looking forward to meeting this character in person. He wished J.D. could, too. “Anything else, Pops?”

      “Yeah, how do you feel about my granddaughter?” Pops asked flat out.

      “Er…”

      “Not attractive enough for you?” Pops grilled him.

      “Plenty,” Joe replied honestly.

      “Thought so. I may be old, but I’m sure as hell not blind yet. That girl has a terrific body and a pretty