Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Silas
If miserable had a look, it would be my face.
Or perhaps my entire body. I’ve been so down in the doldrums this week, I put on a purple polo with turquoise paisley shorts yesterday, headed for the boutique, and didn’t realize what I was wearing until Darby Kate came in to help for the day and gave me a once-over that curled her lip.
That’s the one thing that’s kept my hope alive this week: the helpers.
Someone—and I highly suspect it’s Betsy—has arranged for one person to come in every day this week that Betsy’s called in sick.
Monday was my sister. Tuesday was Palmer.
Wednesday was Anna Claire. I’m pretty sure Betsy’s out of friends though, so perhaps it’ll be Nana who helps me today.
Why would Betsy send me helpers? Out of guilt? Because I wrote her that check and she feels some sort of misplaced sense of responsibility to make sure the boutique thrives without her? Or because she still cares for me?
My entire state of being at the moment relies on that last assumption being the correct one.
The bell above the door rings out and I turn around, feeling exhausted down to my bones but pasting on a smile anyway.
Sales have been amazing this week. We’ve been slammed with customers from the moment we open until after our closing hours.
Honestly, without the help Betsy arranged, I’m not sure I would have been able to keep up.
“I’ll fold clothes, but I’m not smiling at anyone and you can’t make me,” Mr. Barrett growls from the doorway, one gnarled hand still on the doorknob like my response might dictate if he stays or leaves.
My smile slides right off my face. Fucking great. Not Nana. Mr. Barrett is my helper today. If I didn’t love her so much, I might kill Betsy for assigning the grumpiest man in Heaven to my boutique.
“You know what, I’m not going to smile either,” I reply, which is apparently the right thing to say. His hand releases the doorknob and he lets the door swing shut as he enters, cane smacking against the polished wood floors with each step.
“I know why I’m unhappy, but what’s your issue?” he asks, stopping on the other side of the counter from me to catch his breath. His lungs wheeze a dangerous tune and he’s squinting through his thick glasses to see me. I’m not sure how much help Mr. Barrett will be…
I run a hand over my chin, surprised to find a week’s worth of whiskers there. Damn. I’ve kind of let myself go, a fact Deuce will pounce on if I happen to see him today. Note to self: avoid Deuce.
“I’ve decided love is best reserved for the youth. Being rejected stings, sure, but it’s also exhausting when you’re older.” Case in point: I’m too tired to come up with a lie and instead spill my guts to a man who doesn’t give one shit about my love life.
Mr. Barrett grunts. He rests his cane against the counter, pulls off his glasses and wipes them down with the tail of his untucked denim button-up shirt. I’ve never understood how old people can wear long sleeves in this heat.
“Well, there’s only one old person in this boutique, so I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he grouses.
“You’ve got more than half your life still ahead of you, so I don’t want to hear any more of this bullcrap about being old.
Tell that to my arthritic hips, or the hands that shake doing anything, or the eyes that can’t see far or near, or the hair that’s up and left my head.
Don’t get me started on my hemorrhoids!”
I absolutely will not be getting him started on that.
I hold up my hands. “You’re right. I’m not old. I just feel old because I’m heartbroken. And a little bit of my pride has been dented too. I’m sure I’ll get over it one day soon.”
Mr. Barrett narrows his eyes so much I can’t see them anymore. Then he slides on his glasses. “If you’re talking about getting over Betsy Mae, then no, you won’t be over it soon. Because she’s one of a kind and you fumbled her.”
Now my hands go to my chest to protect me from the arrows he’s throwing with expert precision.
He’s not wrong through. I did fumble Betsy.
I should have had patience and dated her over an extended period of time.
I should have waited to introduce the L-word, not lobbed it at her when we weren’t even officially dating.
“Ouch.”
“But somehow she sees something in you.” Mr. Barrett picks up his cane, and for a fleeting second, I wonder if he means to beat me with it. “She asked me to come help you today and that’s what I’ll do. Where are the clothes to fold?”
I point to the curtain partition that leads to the storage room. “Through there.”
Mr. Barrett doesn’t even respond. He just thumps his cane and limps into the back. It’s actually kind of funny how much he and Betsy are alike. At least Mr. Barrett doesn’t hum off-tune while he folds.
The little bell rings out again. This time it’s Deuce barreling through the doorway, a covered suit slung over his arm and a white envelope in his other hand. His lip curls up in disgust before he’s even one foot into my boutique.
“Is that you that smells?”
I lift an arm and give it a whiff. Huh. “No, I don’t think so.”
He drapes the clothing over my counter, knocking off a stack of basic tanks I had folded there. “The fact you even had to do the whiff test tells me everything I need to know. That and that furry animal on your face.”
I roll my eyes, but that makes my headache bloom again. “Is there a reason for this pleasant visit? Because I have Mr. Barrett in the storage room and I’m sure he’d be happy to give me a beatdown. You can head on over to your boutique.”
Deuce, hair perfectly coiffed and impeccably tailored suit in place, gives me the smile that makes all the ladies simper and bat their eyelashes. It does nothing but make me hate him for being so full of life while I feel like crap.
“Today’s your lucky day. Betsy asked me to wait until this afternoon, but I made an executive decision to come first thing. Good thing I did too.” His eyes sweep up and down my person, which turns his expression into a grimace.
I ignore his obvious dig and focus on the one thing in that sentence that matters.
Betsy.
“Betsy talked to you about me?”
Deuce scoffs. “What are we, middle schoolers? Yes, Silas, she passed me a note and said to give it to you.”
“Shut up, asshole. I’m doing the best I can here. Cut me some slack.”
“No, seriously, she gave me a note to pass to you.” He brandishes the envelope that I forgot he was holding. It’s the expensive kind, thick linen cardstock with my name printed in swooping gold ink.
After a prolonged moment of soaring hope and then a mental smackdown to not get my hopes up, I snatch it from his hands.
The flap isn’t sealed which makes it easier to slide out a single sheet of matching cardstock.
It’s an invitation. My heartbeat’s pounding so loudly in my skull I can’t get my brain to focus on the words.
I have to read through the gorgeous cursive twice before it sinks in.