24. Marnie
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Marnie
Grady’s text pings just as I slug through my front door after quitting the funeral home.
Did you do it? How’d it go?
I collapse on the red couch, eyeing his words like they might give me profound insight into him. He keeps going above and beyond for me. Does he see me as another sibling he’s obligated to care for, only instead of being born into the role, he crashed into it?
This makes me feel horrible.
More befuddling—the sparks I keep imagining between us. He sets off warming firecrackers through my core whenever he looks my way. He’s so delightfully intense. Whew. Undressing me with his eyes feels like a gross understatement. It’s more like undressing my soul, rendering me naked but safe, nested to him.
What is he thinking? Is he thinking the same thing I’m thinking? Well, probably not the whole naked bird Marnie in Grady’s nest thing. Geez.
But something like it? Does he have those kinds of thoughts about me ?
I remember his reaction when Marigold thought we were about to kiss, how absurd he made it seem, and how determined he was not to label our outing a date. He doesn’t date. Ever. Reason tells me that Grouchy Tripp has no interest in sparks, undressing me with his eyes, or nesting me to him. Soul Penetrating Stare is probably just Grady’s resting face.
I must go shields-up whenever I’m in his atmosphere. Or anyone’s, for that matter. This thing with Grady, whatever it is, will end, just like every relationship I’ve ever had. I prompt my phone and start typing.
Piece of cake. Don’t you have a cow’s rectum to explore?
No, but thanks for ruining cake for me forever.
A chuckle rumbles from me.
I’m getting you a cow cake for your birthday.
Yours will be a pirate ship.
The phone falls to the couch. I take a breath, thinking about my birthday. I never want to celebrate it again. Next year, I’ll lock the doors, pull the curtains, turn off my phone, and spend the day in bed, hiding under the covers with the cats if they want to risk being that close to me on my unluckiest day.
Last night, he insisted on seeing me to my front door. It was dark when I finished detailing my notes for the G that’s a problem for another day.
“I think he likes you,” I tell Marigold once inside.
She huffs. “He said my lines were too crooked at my first art show.”
Her venomous words come quickly, and I’m taken aback. Marigold has a venomous side? I suppose we all do. “Well, he makes furniture, so he deals more with straight lines, you know?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe your beautiful art threw him for a curve,” I laugh, and she smirks. “Or maybe you made him nervous, and he didn’t know what to say.”
“Why would I make him nervous?”
“Because he likes you,” I say slowly.
Her eyes widen before narrowing to angry slits. “He doesn’t like anything except killing trees.”
“Whoa, harsh. You have very big feelings about Peter Pike.”
Her brow knits. “Yes, big feelings,” she agrees with a small voice.
“Hmm, big feelings are valid, and maybe they’re big for a reason.”
“What reason?”
“You must care what he thinks. Since you still feel this way after all this time, your big feelings might push you toward a second chance. I love second chances. A lot of times, a second chance leads to something better than it was before.”
“Like recycled art?”
“Exactly. And my secondhand board games.”
“And your cats.”
“Ha, yes, my sweet collection of beautiful strays. That’s a perfect example. Pete’s a nice guy, and he thinks you’re nice—he told me so.”
“He did?”
“Yes, so keep an open mind about a second chance. Okay?”
She nods, fidgeting with the hem of her crocheted sweater. “Mom says you’re Grady’s second chance.”
Now, my nerves rise with big feelings. “Second chance for what?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Can we play games now?”
We set up on my small dining table under the wooden globe lamp that Pete created (and I pointed out to her). I learn quickly not to bombard her with questions, that she doesn’t like sharing dips, and that she loves rules, making gameplay second nature for her. What she lacks in conversation, she makes up for in being an excellent opponent. We play every finished game I’ve created: Milk & Eggs, Tickety-Boo , Zombie Grocery Store , and Scaredy Cats. She giggles incessantly over Tickety-Boo ’s funny situation cards, making it a definite win, but Milk & Eggs is her favorite. We play it three times.
Returning it to my game room, she motions to another game spread across a folding table. “What about that one?”
“Oh, that’s Play Together, Stay Together . It’s about family dynamics and strengthening the ol’ family tree, but, I don’t know, it’s giving me trouble. It’s not right yet.”
“A work in progress. Can we play when it’s finished?”
“Absolutely,” I return, though I wonder if the game is a lost cause. I started it the day after Ashe proposed, modeling it after the Sullivans and employees at Sunny’s, but keep hitting obstacles to finishing it. Creating the game has become a game—a bad one that’s more frustrating than rewarding.
We have fun testing my games, and it’s a pleasant surprise to find them playable, even enjoyable, especially under Marigold’s rule-abiding scrutiny.
She’s quick to point out that they need artwork—actual game boards with colors, pictures, and pieces that aren’t recycled from old games. When she asks if she could help, I jump at the chance.
“You know, Marigold, I could use an artist’s eye at the G&G, too,” I say as we clean up our snacks and drinks. “Would you be interested in helping redesign the store and creating marketing materials?”
“Yes.” She fiddles with her long, blonde hair, struggling with words. “I take care of Grady’s dogs when he’s working. I’m responsible for the chickens at home. I babysit for Colin and do chores for Mom. Would this be like a real job?”
A smile slides easily over my lips. “Yes, you’ll be our official artist. I can’t pay much, but I have several projects that you could handle.”
I invite her to my first all-hands meeting, and she readily agrees.
Leaning against the porch railing, I watch her walk to her car. We both jump when Peter Pike rushes around the corner, calling, “Wait!”
He carries a large wooden desk against his hip, stained a pretty, daisy yellow that nearly matches her car, and plops it on the gravel drive with a loud clank. “Wait, Marigold,” he says again, though there’s no way she can go anywhere with a desk blocking her exit. “I, um, made this.”
She looks entirely unimpressed.
So, he breathlessly adds on, “For you. I made this for you.”
“Just now?” she asks, sounding bothered.
“No. Ages ago. After I upset you at the art show. I didn’t mean to upset you. I felt bad.”
Her head tilts as she considers him. “What is it?”
“An art desk. Look.” He shows her a wooden crank on the side. Turning it, the surface of the desk rises. “You can use it flat or like an easel. The drawers have slots and cubbies for paints, pencils, and brushes. There are clips, see? To pin papers or inspiration pieces to the sides. I stained it yellow. That’s your favorite color, right?”
Marigold eyes the gorgeous desk with enviable calm while poor Peter Pike anxiously awaits her verdict.
I am absolutely dying over this, drowning in giddy, feel-good feelings like I’m witnessing a people-version of a sugar rush. I only hope she doesn’t mention the trees killed in its construction.
Her eyes cut to me, and I flash her my girliest grin and most encouraging nod.
“I will give you a second chance, Peter Pike,” she decides.
His bulky frame deflates in relief. “May I bring this to your house tomorrow?”
“Not before ten.”
He nods, side-hipping the desk again, and motions over his shoulder up the lane to his workshop. “Would you like to see my trains?”
She looks toward me again, and I offer a reassuring nod. “They’re spectacular, Marigold. You’ll like it.”
Then, with a brief nod, they stroll up the driveway together, leaving a trail of romantic magic behind them.