Playing For Keeps. Karen Templeton

second ago. Almost. “Joanna Swann.”

      “You were trying to sell these next door?” Dale went on, now appraising Stanley, a Santa in denim overalls and a red-and-green-plaid workshirt. Striped stockings ended in open-backed bedroom slippers on his feet; through a minuscule pair of wire-rimmed glasses, he frowned down at a tiny teddy bear in his hands.

      “More or less. They’d said they’d take two on consignment.” Joanna stuffed her hands into the pockets on the front of her dress. “Then this morning the owner said she didn’t have room.”

      “I’ll take them.”

      “What?”

      “I’ll take them,” he repeated. “I mean, I’ll buy them from you.”

      She frowned. “Look, just because I broke down—”

      “I don’t want them because I feel sorry for you, okay? I want ’em because you do freakin’ unbelievable work and because I’ve got customers who’d go nuts for something like this. So what’s your price?”

      Well, hmm. Certainly a change from Ms. Hoity-Toity-we-don’t-really-have-much-call-for-crafts next door. However…

      “Oh, that’s really nice of you, but, see, I don’t really have a wholesale price. Because I put so much work into them? I mean, the gallery would’ve taken a percentage, but—”

      “How. Much.”

      She felt her skin warm. “Three hundred. Each. Including stands.”

      The little boy sparkle reasserted itself in his eyes. “Thank you. And you say no two are alike? Can you get me more?”

      Joanna waited out the short surge of dizziness, then said, “Uh…yeah. Although I’m pretty booked up between now and Christmas with special orders—”

      “You think you could do six more by Thanksgiving? I’ll prepay,” he said when she hesitated.

      Was this guy totally off his nut or what? If this was how he ran his business, he’d be bankrupt within the year. “Yes, I could probably fit in another half dozen by Thanksgiving. But—”

      “Good.” He vanished into the back for a moment, returning with a large business-size checkbook, which he slapped open on the counter. “That was three hundred each, you said?”

      “Um…Mr. McConnaughy?” Without moving his head, his eyes angled to hers. “These aren’t toys, you know,” she said.

      “Yeah. I know. So?”

      “So…this is a toy store?”

      On a chuckle, he straightened, his arms folded across his chest. For some reason Joanna’s gaze was drawn to the top of his left hand, to the patch of oddly smooth skin set in the midst of the sprinkling of light brown hair.

      “You may be talented as all get-out, Ms. Swann, but your salesmanship sucks.” Her attention zipped back to his face. “I don’t think I’ve ever run into someone more determined to shoot herself in the foot before.”

      “It’s not that. It’s just—”

      “—that these aren’t meant for children, so why the hell am I buyin’ them for a toy store?”

      “Well, yes. There are a lot of small pieces on these a child could choke on. These are meant to be displayed, not played with.”

      The right side of his mouth hitched up. “I kinda figured that out.”

      “You…oh.”

      “Uh-huh. But then, how would you know more’n half my customers are adults comin’ in to buy things for themselves?” He finished writing the check, ripped it out and handed it over to her, with instructions to get him an invoice whenever it was convenient. Then he capped his pen, tossing it back onto the cash register. “A person doesn’t have to be a kid to still get a kick out of playing. And collecting’s something anybody can do. Cars, dolls, model trains…” He picked up Clarence. “Santas.” He grinned down at the doll, then back at her. “Looking at this guy just makes you feel good inside, doesn’t it? Like I want to laugh right out loud.” He looked at her, something like wistfulness softening his features, making her insides jump. “Sometimes grown-ups need a little poke to make ’em remember what it was like to be a kid, when it was okay to believe in magic. And that’s something most folks can’t put a price on.”

      Joanna stared at the check, shaking her head. “Even if they can get them for a fraction of the price at Costco or Sam’s.”

      “There you go again. Tryin’ to talk me out of this.”

      “But by the time you take your markup…I’m sorry. It’s about this practical streak I have.”

      “Which you put aside to make these, I take it.”

      “No,” she said, her brow puckering. “This is a business. My livelihood. I can’t afford not to be practical…why are you laughing now?”

      “Would you listen to yourself? I can’t think of many things more impractical than making dolls that sell for three hundred bucks a pop.”

      “Which is why I don’t sell too many of them. I mean, I’ll never get rich from these.”

      “Then why do you do it?”

      “Because…they feed something inside me.”

      “Then trust me…they’ll feed something inside everyone who buys one, too. Something none of that mass produced stuff can ever do. Sure, most folks are perfectly content buying what they’re gonna see in half their neighbor’s living rooms. But you and I know that’s not enough for everybody.” He leaned his hands on the edge of the counter, hooking her gaze in his. “Not for the fools who have the nerve to try to compete with Toys “R” Us and Target and K mart, or the ones who spend hours making a single doll instead of holding down a regular job in some office with a guaranteed paycheck and a dental plan. Or for the ones who pay five, ten, a hundred times more for something than they have to, just for the satisfaction of having something that nobody else does…”

      “Joanna! Come here!”

      She jumped, tearing her eyes away from the crazy man and toward her mother, who was beckoning her to the back of the store. Joanna wended her way through the narrow aisles to look outside at a display of wooden play forts with attached swing sets, each one bigger and badder than the next and more expensive.

      “Wouldn’t the boys love one of those for their birthday?”

      “Right. Honestly, Mom—I paid less than that for my first car.”

      But her mother, hanging on to the stuffed frog she’d apparently decided on for the new baby, had already turned to Dale, who’d followed Joanna. “My twin grandsons’ eighth birthday is two weeks from today—can you have one of these delivered by then?”

      “I can’t let you spend that much on the boys—!”

      Glynnie quelled her with a don’t-be-rude look as Dale assured her that was no problem. Then another customer arrived and, with a “Be right back, ladies,” Dale took off. Glynnie smacked Jo lightly in the arm.

      “For God’s sake, Joanna. It’s just money. Loosen up.”

      “Been down that road already, Mother. I’m perfectly happy being my tight little self again.”

      “Happy? Hell, you haven’t been happy in years.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Well, it’s true.”

      “Is not.”

      “Is, too.” Glynnie glanced over, presumably to make sure they couldn’t be heard, then lowered her voice anyway. “I saw him making goo-goo eyes at you.”

      “No, you didn’t,” Joanna whispered back.

      “Don’t