18. Marnie
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Marnie
Walking home from a four-hour Saturday shift at the funeral home, I’m physically and emotionally exhausted. Liam wanted me there for Grandma Johanson’s service, but when Seagrovians (all former customers) noticed me working there, attention unfortunately diverted from the deceased to me.
Liam sequestered me in my office after that.
But boring office work tires as much as being a busy bee. My hip aches. My giant jellyfish bruise is only a large yellow smudge now and only hurts after standing too long.
Walking home doesn’t help. But I’m lucky that the funeral home is close enough—I haven’t been able to buy a new/used car yet. Not because of money—I have the awful severance (still uncashed) and the insurance payout for my old car. It’s just a matter of logistics—how do I go see cars when I don’t have a car to get me there?
A problem for later.
It’s a beautiful day, leaning toward spring. Daffodils peek through the mulch around the Pike’s flower beds, and the grass will be long enough to mow soon. My subdued black pants and gray blouse absorb the sunshine. I’m ready for jeans and a t-shirt. Maybe a pain pill. And time with the cats.
Edging down the road to my house, I spot Grady’s truck, tailgate down, and him with his sister sitting on the back. She has a sketchbook propped up, hands moving furiously. He leans against his hands, watching me approach from the tops of his eyes like I’m frustrating him again.
His intense stare warms and scares me at once—is that even possible?
“Marina, you’re walking to and from work? That’s too much,” he sighs. “Didn’t you get the insurance check?”
“Yes, but no car yet,” I say, turning to his sister. “Hey, Marigold. It’s so nice to see you. Come inside. Are you okay with cats?”
She glances up, blue eyes narrowing towards mine. “I like cats.”
“Purr-fect,” I giggle. “You can give them treats if you’re comfortable.”
She nods and scoots off the truck’s tailgate.
I turn to Grady, “You can come, too, if you promise to relax.”
“I’m relaxed. There’s somewhere I want to take you. I have an idea.”
“Oh, that sounds intriguing… slightly concerning. Does it involve much walking or any extreme sports?”
“No. Just assholes and gators,” he answers with a hint of a smile. “Trust me?”
“Of course.” I unlock the door to a cat chorus. Marigold looks overwhelmed at first, but seems to assess her surroundings and soon relaxes, petting Sunkist as she circles her Mary Janes.
“How’s the art going, Marigold?” I ask, grabbing cat treats from the pantry.
She looks unsurely at Grady, who gives her an encouraging look, urging her to answer.
“Good.”
“Marigold won every art show at Seagrove High when I was there, even when she was in middle school,” I say. “My favorite was your Shadow Man Series.”
Grady and Marigold share a familiar glance, and she says, as soft as a baby kitten, “Grady’s Shadow Man.”
A laugh rumbles out as I hand her the cat treats. “Oh, I see it! That makes sense.”
“Marigold finds inspiration in the least artistic places,” he says as she divvies treats to the meowing congregation.
“Oh, I don’t know.” I step closer and stare up at him. “All your gentle lines and hard edges could be inspiring.”
Grady’s eyes narrow with amusement, and his arms fold over his impressive chest. “Inspiring, huh? Never been called that before. Hope you feel the same after today.”
“Will you be trying to inspire me, Tripp Grady Tripp?”
“Something like that.”
His raspy voice taunts a grin that widens the longer I take him in. Is he blushing?
“Feeling inspired already.” Oh, wait, am I flirting? “Um, do I have time to change?”
“Take your time.” He breezes by me for the couch, and Triscuit promptly joins him like they’re BFFs.
I scoot by Marigold in the hall, where she ogles a rough painting of a waterfall I picked up at a thrift store. “Make yourself at home.”
“I like your art,” she says.
“Thanks. Most of them are probably discarded school projects or family hand-me-downs that no one wanted, but I like rescuing things. Back in a jiffy.”
I lean against the closed bedroom door, steadying my breaths. Whatever Grady’s up to makes me nervous—I hate that he feels indebted to me.
But I like that he’s here, and my curiosity builds into excitement over spending time with him and Marigold.
I dress in jeans, an off-the-shoulder white t-shirt, and comfortable slip-on shoes. I take down my high ponytail and wrestle my long hair into loose waves on my shoulders—a relaxed look that I hope will inspire Grady to relax, too. With a spritz of perfume and a touch of lip gloss, I leave the bedroom.
A gasp escapes, and nerves bubble at the sight of Marigold ogling my tiny workshop—the room I keep closed. She stands at my workbench, holding the clumsy stick figures I constructed for game pieces with an X-Acto knife and thick cardboard.
“Oh, hi. You found my little secret,” I say, fighting insecurities over my homemade efforts.
She looks unsure. “You said make yourself at home.”
“Yes, I did. It’s perfectly okay.”
Grady appears beside me. “Sorry, she wanders.”
“No problem whatsoever.”
“What is this?” she asks.
“It’s my game room. Game-making is my hobby.”
Grady glances from me to the menagerie of board games scattered on shelves and tables across the small space. “You make board games?”
“I tinker. I’m no artist like you, Marigold. That’s why my pieces leave a bit to be desired. But I like strategy and solving puzzles. I buy old games second-hand and try to create something new out of them. That one’s called Milk & Eggs . It’s a grocery store game—go figure. The object is to avoid the distractions, obstacles, and pitfalls around the store to get the items you came there for and get out quicker than your opponents.”
Grady looks confused, but Marigold says, “Fun. What about this one?”
“Oh, that’s Tickety-Boo . I heard the expression once on an old British mystery. It stuck with me, though I’m sure it’s not a phrase anyone uses these days. Tickety-boo is a funny way of saying everything’s okay, like hunky-dory. The object is to handle embarrassing moments on the cards with as much grace and politeness as possible. Oh, and when you read the cards, you have to keep a straight face. It’s always so funny when someone tells you not to laugh. What happens?”
Marigold laughs.
“Exactly. The game ends at a formal dinner party when the guests vote for the most well-mannered household member. That person must give a toast, mentioning the day’s mishaps without cracking up to be deemed the winner.”
“Sounds fun,” she says.
“Yeah, thanks. I think they’re fun. Um, they have yet to be tested by anyone but me and cats.”
“You invent games, you don’t play?” Grady asks, his narrow eyes and folded arms making me feel judged.
“I want to play them… It’s just… Anyway, nothing says family like a board game. Mom and I used to play sometimes. Um, anyway, do you have any hobbies, Grady?”
“He fishes,” Marigold answers, “and complains.”
I chuckle while Grady grunts
“Can we play sometime?” Marigold asks.
I gasp. “You want to play them with me?”
Her brow stitches like she’s unsure. She glances at Grady.
“Yes, she wants to play with you,” Grady clarifies. “She gets nervous when you answer a question with a question.”
“Oh, sorry, Marigold. I’d love to play games with you. Let’s make a night of it soon. I’ll let you decide if you want Grady to join us. Do you like popcorn?”
Marigold nods. Grady waves her out of the room, saying, “Are we ready to go?”
I grab a fuzzy, pink cardigan from the back of a chair, my purse, keys, and cane. “Ready. I think.”
Grady ushers us out, takes my keys, and locks the door behind us. His hand grips my elbow as I move more slowly down the stairs. His hand is warm and rough, just like him. He opens the passenger door and hooks my cane to his forearm.
“No Beast today?” I ask, glancing over his much newer black F150.
“Nope. This is my truck. Just got it out of the shop.”
He takes my hand to help me inside—help I don’t need, but appreciate. Is it wrong that I like him having an excuse to touch me?
Geez, Marnie! Lonely much?
He gets in the truck and starts the engine, but hesitates, turning to me with a pinched brow. “All I ask is that you keep an open mind.”
“Oomph, now you’re making me nervous.”
“Me, too,” Marigold chimes in from the backseat.
His head tilts as he takes me in. “No need to be nervous. Or nice . You can always say no, Marina.”
Then, he hits me with one of the top five sexiest side smiles I’ve ever seen—devious like he knows a secret and admiring , especially the way his eyes trail down my long hair like he wants his fingers to follow.
Now, I need to relax. I must be imagining it—Grady Tripp has zero interest in hair-fondling or general Marnie-fondling. Right?
Still, delightful twinges skitter through my nervous system whenever he looks my way, making me wonder.
Wherever he’s taking me, whatever requires an open mind, saying no to him might be impossible.