Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Silas
“I’m so sorry to keep y’all waiting, Mrs. Kimball. Nearly got in a fender-bender this mornin’ on the way in.”
I shove the key into the lock and turn it, jiggling the weather-worn door just right to get it to pop open on the first try.
I hold it open for one of my regular customers and her middle school–aged daughter, giving them both a blazing smile.
Mrs. Kimball likes to come by weekly to check out the new stock.
She was one of my mother’s most dedicated customers, and I’m trying my best to keep her.
“Oh, don’t you worry, honey. Nora and I just walked over to Cloud Nine and grabbed an iced coffee ’til you got here.
” She pats my arm, her nails impeccably painted and a stack of mixed metal bracelets sliding up and down her wrist. “Your sweet mama, God rest her soul, used to join me for coffee if the shop was slow.”
My smile turns brittle and it takes everything I’ve got not to let my emotions show.
I miss my mama every single day. It’s been almost a year since she passed from an aggressive cancer bout, and my life still hasn’t returned to anything that resembles normal.
I think her passing broke something in me.
Or maybe it was turning forty. They happened back-to-back, so who’s to say?
“Mama always did love her caffeine,” I manage to say as I put my things behind the cash register. “Said it was right up there with the King and the Angels.” Referring of course to Elvis and our local university mascot. People around here are pretty feral for both.
Mrs. Kimball’s laugh is a happy tinkle as she carefully goes through the racks, eyeing each item before sliding the hanger to get to the next.
Nora trails behind her, eyes glued to her phone.
My boutique, the one Mama started ten years ago as a passion project, isn’t geared toward young girls.
Our merchandise squarely hits the middle-aged ladies of Heaven, Mississippi.
My cell phone vibrates across the counter by the register. I excuse myself and pick it up, seeing that it’s my father.
“Hey, Dad,” I answer brightly even though my gut tightens every time I see his name on my phone.
“Silas.” Clayton Winthrop’s curt reply is fairly normal.
His tone always implies that I’m in trouble.
Parental disapproval here in the South continues to flourish even when you’re forty years old.
“I have some acreage I’m fixin’ to check on south of town for that event space I was talking to you about last night. I want you to come with me.”
I blow out a sigh as quietly as I can. “Well, the store doesn’t close until five, so I can go right after that.”
There’s a beat of silence. It holds all the frustration—on Dad’s end—that we’ve discussed ad nauseam since Mama died.
He wants me to work full-time with him in his real estate and development endeavors so we can take over the town of Heaven as rich land baron or some such foolery.
That plan sounds obnoxious and pretentious as hell.
I want to carry out Mama’s legacy by making Harp and Hemline the most successful boutique in the whole county, serving middle-aged women who’ve lost themselves as wives, mothers, and corporate soldiers.
I have dreams of building a fully functional website so we can fulfill online orders and spread our name far and wide.
Not for my personal fame and fortune, but to make a name for my hometown.
To make women feel pretty when they aren’t sure who they even are any longer.
To be the place Mama needed when us kids left the house and Dad didn’t pay her much attention because he buried himself in work.
“You know a man sellin’ women’s clothing is a little…
odd, right?” Dad drawls quietly, changing tactics.
Yelling at me hasn’t worked, so now he’s trying to shame me into giving up this boutique.
As usual, he has no idea how much I want this place to succeed.
He’s always been too busy building his dream to realize that sometimes other people want to build their own too.
“I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree on that. I think making a living and providing for the community is nothing to be ashamed of. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a customer to help.” I go to hang up, only to hear him quickly get the last word in.
“I’ll pick you up at five.”
The curse word on the tip of my tongue is held back by years of being taught my manners.
I would never curse in front of a lady, let alone a child.
I store my phone underneath the register where I won’t hear or see it.
The tiny gold bell over the door rings again as another woman enters the boutique.
She sees Mrs. Kimball and immediately gives her a hug like they’re old friends.
That’s the way of it here in Heaven. Nobody’s a stranger.
The two ladies get a little louder as they shop.
I try to be as unobtrusive as possible, getting them fitting rooms the second they have an item in their hand and suggesting other items to pair with it.
In the end, Mrs. Kimball buys one skirt, a lovely number left over from when Caroline was doing the merchandising.
I try not to let the disappointment show on my face as I ask about the rest of Mrs. Kimball’s day.
I’ve seen her leave this shop with handfuls of clothes back in Mama’s day.
The other woman leaves with Mrs. Kimball without purchasing a single thing.
As soon as their exit is highlighted by the bell ringing out, my shoulders slump and the smile slides off my face.
Caroline had a unique ability to know what was in style for this age demographic and what would fly off the racks.
Unfortunately for Harp and Hemline, she got married a few months before Mama passed and then got pregnant.
She quit two months ago to have her baby and already told me she doesn’t envision coming back.
I’m happy for her, of course, but stuck shorthanded and without the artistic vision to buy next season’s must-have items.
Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe I’m just a guy trying to be successful in a woman’s world.
I barely make my living expenses with my first business investment.
The boutique isn’t even in the black. Maybe I should go into real estate development.
Sure, it sounds boring as hell, but I also don’t have a clear vision of what I want to do with myself.
It’s good money and it would make Dad proud of me.
I glance up at my favorite picture of Mama.
I put it in a gilded gold frame and hung it behind the register.
She’s so happy, her blue eyes sparkling.
Mama was a pretty woman, even as she aged and griped about her hooded eyes and forehead wrinkles.
She kept those grays covered and dressed fashionably at all times.
But it was more than her looks. She was genuinely kind.
She cared about all people in a way that made strangers become friends and family when she got done talking to them.
“I’m tryin’, Mama,” I say quietly, aware that talking to my dead mother’s picture might be a bit off-putting, but desperate times call for desperate measures. “I’d appreciate you steering me in the right direction.”
She doesn’t answer of course, nor does Caroline come waltzing through the door to beg for her job back.
There’s no clap of thunder or ray of sunshine suddenly beaming down into the shop to make me feel like Mama heard me.
I may live in Heaven, but I have a feeling God has more important things to do today than help a lost guy know what clothes to buy to make all the ladies squeal with excitement.
The bell rings out suddenly and I jolt away from the counter.
It’s Birdie, the town gossiper. And I’m all alone, without a single customer in the shop to offer deflection.
Pretty sure Birdie’s going to spread the news by lunchtime that the shop isn’t doing so well.
God bless her, she puts more importance on being right than on people’s feelings about her accurate reports.
“Top of the mornin’, dear Silas,” Birdie sings out dramatically, her brightly colored caftan flaring out as she waves. A waft of her perfume fills the boutique. Then she steps aside and I get a look at the woman behind her.
Oh no. It’s one of her grandnieces, Myrtle.
I’ve met her twice, and both times I was reminded of why I gave up on dating apps in my mid-thirties. The only single women left were the Myrtle types. Mousy, shy, odd. Impossible to have a conversation with.
“You remember my lovely niece, don’t you?” Birdie pushes Myrtle forward, almost making her trip over her own feet. Myrtle straightens her glasses and gives me a grimace I suppose she thinks is a smile.
“I do. Nice to see you again, Myrtle.” I will be kind, even if it kills me. I am my mother’s son after all.
Myrtle gives me an awkward head nod and then wanders off, looking through the hangers of clothing. Birdie stalks closer to the register, her beady eyes behind the oversized glasses sparkling in a way that spells trouble.
“You know, you’re forty now.”
I nod, wondering if I could announce we’re closing for lunch. I sneak a glance at my watch and see it’s barely ten thirty. “I am.”
Birdie sniffs, her nose lifting in the air. “One has to stop being so choosy at this age, no?”
My smile amps up. Despite the danger of engaging in conversation with her, I like Birdie.
She’s a tough ol’ broad, born and raised in Mississippi, just like her mama before her.
Birdie grew up in a time when things looked very different around here and finds a way not to let any of that slow her down.
Plus she was kind to my mother, which automatically makes her good people in my book.
“I think being choosy is a great quality, no matter your age. Take you, for example. You don’t choose to be friends with just anyone, right? You’re selective who you spend your time with. I, for one, find that inspiring.”
I stab my finger into the counter for emphasis and Birdie’s smile turns devious. She knows exactly what I’m doing: turning her words around in my favor and complimenting the hell out of her so she doesn’t feel good firing back at me. I see the way she’s having to bite back a smile.
A bullshitter always recognizes a bullshitter.
Doesn’t have a Hallmark ring to it, but the sentiment remains true.
“Your new employee starts tomorrow. Remember, I told you Betsy’s granddaughter needs a job?” As she often does, Birdie switches subjects entirely.
I feel my eyebrows lifting. “Uh, yeah. Yes, I remember now.” Honestly, I don’t remember. I vaguely recall Birdie asking if I needed more help now that Caroline is enjoying new-mom life. I don’t recall her hiring someone though, considering I’m the only one who can hire someone for the boutique.
Then again, I do need the help. Maybe this granddaughter of Betsy’s will be just what I need to bring back the charm of Harp and Hemline.
“What was her name again?”
Birdie runs her fingers through the bracelets on display next to the register. She already has several on her wrist. “Betsy, actually. You’ll adore her.” She tosses two bracelets on the counter. “I’ll take these, please.”
I ring her up, painfully aware she’s buying them just to help me out.
The woman doesn’t need any more jewelry.
Birdie could open her own shop with all the costume jewelry she’s obtained over the years.
Then again, I need the sale badly enough to see it through.
When she and her grandniece turn to leave, I feel grateful for her kindness.
Enough so I shoot a wink at Myrtle, who ducks her head and trips on the last rack as they make their way out of the boutique.
That night, once I’ve closed up the shop and gone to see the empty lot Dad has in mind, I pull on a pair of workout shorts and tennis shoes, foregoing the shirt.
I need a long run to clear my head. I don’t like being in a negative head space.
It doesn’t feel natural, even though it’s happened more and more since we lost Mama.
The evenings here in Heaven don’t offer much relief.
The wind is warm and the heat from the sun hitting pavement all day radiates upward.
The humidity’s high enough to have me sweating the second I step outside.
I douse myself in natural bug spray that doesn’t seem to do much other than smell decent.
Mama was big into natural products the years leading up to her death.
She got me started on ’em and I can’t seem to stop, even though I get bit to death on my runs.
I’m a mile down the road, out in the rural area just north of the square when a car comes whipping up behind me, oblivious to speed limits or pedestrians. It zooms by me and I swear the wind nearly knocks me over. Goddamn driver almost clipped me!
I raise my hand in the air in protest. “Hey!”
Then it dawns on me it’s a little white SUV. It looks a heck of a lot like the one that nearly barreled into me at the four-way stop and had the audacity to flip me off. I shake my head and keep running. It’s gonna take a long time to run off this head of steam.