Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
Claire
Claire stopped in front of the post office, her hands on her hips as she surveyed its shuttered front.
It was eight o’clock on Saturday morning, and the shop should have been open for an hour at least. She didn’t work Saturdays, but she’d come in to get some milk and the Saturday paper—and to check on Dan.
He’d seemed his former surly self the last few days, since he’d growled at her about being slow with the inventory, and her few attempts to get him to open up had been met with stonewalled silence.
Not exactly a surprise. Still, she’d thought she should drop by, make sure he was okay, even if he just snapped at her to mind her own business and insist that he was fine.
If the shuttered shop was anything to go by, he wasn’t.
“Dan?” she called, and knocked on the door. The shop window was covered in a curtain of corrugated iron and the door’s shade had been drawn so she couldn’t see anything inside. She doubted Dan could even hear her, if he was in the shop, which she didn’t think he was.
After a moment’s hesitation Claire walked past the shop and down the alley that ran along its side, to the little courtyard in the back. She’d been there before to take out the bins, and she knew there was a door to the kitchen.
She peered in its tiny rectangle of window and saw that the kitchen was dark, dirty dishes scattered over the usually pristine counters. Then she heard a scratching at the door and a heartrending whimper, and realized Bunny was in there.
“Oh, Bunny, you poor thing.” She jiggled the door handle uselessly. Of course Dan locked his doors. He probably had some kind of jerry-rigged homemade trap for burglars that would have her dangling by her ankles with piano wire if she so much as stepped across the threshold.
Claire tapped on the glass, and then knocked loudly, and then finally kicked it, hurting her foot in the process. Bunny continued to whine.
“Darn it.” She rubbed her foot absently, wondering if she dared to break a window.
Not that she’d even be able to wriggle into the one window above the kitchen sink.
Without any better ideas, she started knocking again, and after about ten minutes, when her knuckles had started to bruise, Dan finally appeared in the kitchen.
He stood in front of the door, peering through the window, and all Claire could see was how bloodshot his eyes looked and the deep furrow between his eyebrows as he scowled.
Finally he unlocked the door and Bunny rushed out, tangling herself around Claire’s legs before she hurried into the tiny garden to pee.
“You look terrible,” Claire said. He wore sweatpants and his usual black T-shirt, his face pale and unshaven.
“Thanks.” Dan turned around and went to the sink, pouring himself a glass of water and gulping it down. Finished, he tossed the glass in the sink, where it shattered, and he braced his hands against the edge of the counter, his head bowed.
“You smell awful too,” Claire said as she came inside, Bunny scampering in behind her. “Are you ill?”
“I’m hungover,” Dan said flatly. His head was still bowed, and he was taking deep, even breaths. Claire could see the sweat beading on his forehead.
“Are you going to be sick?” she asked in alarm, and wordlessly he shook his head. Now she recognized the sour, yeasty smell of metabolizing alcohol. She saw a whiskey bottle on the kitchen table, next to a single glass. The bottle was empty.
“Shall I feed Bunny?” she suggested, and Dan nodded again.
Gingerly Claire moved around him, finding Bunny’s bag of kibble in the cupboard under the sink and pouring a scoop’s worth into her bowl.
She started to tidy up a bit, but Dan’s bulk dominated the room and made it nearly impossible.
“You should eat,” she finally said. “Why don’t I make you some tea and toast?
You can go upstairs and make yourself presentable. ”
“That’s not—”
“Necessary?” she filled in. “I think it is. Seriously, you smell rank.”
Dan gave her a glare that lacked its usual malevolent force, and after a tense pause he turned and headed upstairs. Claire let out her held breath in a rush of relief and started to clean the kitchen.
She heard Dan’s heavy tread above her and then the squeaky sound of the shower being turned on. She bustled around the kitchen, cleaning the broken glass from the sink and then washing the dishes. She put the bottle of whiskey in the recycling bin outside and then went in search of bread and tea.
By the time Dan came down the stairs the kitchen was clean and she had a mug of tea and two pieces of buttered toast on the table.
“I don’t know how you like your tea. . . .”
“Milk, three sugars.”
“Three sugars? Real builders’ brew, then.” She put the sugar bowl on the table along with a spoon and then stood back, conscious of how Dan’s hair was damp and bristly. He’d changed into a fresh T-shirt and jeans and he smelled of soap.
“Thank you,” he said as he sat down. He glanced up at her standing by the sink, her hands tucked behind her. “You want to join me, or are you just going to watch me eat?”
“Oh, all right, then.” She fetched another mug and made herself a cup of tea while Dan started on his toast.
“You don’t usually get hungover,” she remarked as she sat down across from him and blew on her tea. “Do you? I haven’t noticed . . .”
“No, I don’t.” He was steadily working through his two pieces of toast, his head down as he chewed methodically.
“Is everything okay?” Claire asked. Dan looked up.
“Sure, everything’s fine,” he answered, and she couldn’t miss the sarcasm. “I normally empty a bottle of Glenlivet on a Friday night by myself. Who doesn’t?”
“Maybe you do and I just didn’t know it,” Claire retorted. “You’ve never opened up to me about your life.”
“Why would I?”
“Because we’re friends?” Claire suggested. “Or becoming friends, at least?” Dan didn’t reply, and she couldn’t keep from feeling a needle prick of hurt. “But you don’t really do friendship, do you?”
“I did,” he answered gruffly. “Once.”
“Once?”
He shook his head. “Leave it. And thank you for the tea and toast.”
It sounded like a dismissal, but she didn’t move. “What are you going to do about the shop? You can’t miss a whole Saturday of business.”
“I’ll go out there in a minute.”
“Why don’t you let me?” He swung his head up, his gaze bloodshot, bleary, and narrowed. “I can manage the shop on my own,” Claire said. “And you can dry out. Take Bunny for a walk. She looks like she needs it.” Bunny was quivering under the table, her head nudging Claire’s knee hopefully.
“I can’t afford to pay you overtime—”
“You don’t have to pay me at all—”
“I don’t need your charity,” he snapped. “I’m not that strapped.”
“Is it charity if I want to do a friend a favor?” Claire demanded. Dan didn’t answer, and she gritted her teeth. “Why do you have to be so difficult?”
“I’m difficult?” He looked both affronted and surprised. “I gave you a job when you were completely unqualified.”
“So I can accept charity but you can’t?”
He stared at her for a long moment, the only sound Bunny’s nervous whine from under the table. Then he actually cracked a smile, the gesture so surprising Claire gaped back at him. “Fine. But don’t open the post office.”
“Of course I won’t,” she answered with stiff dignity. “I’m not a trained postal assistant yet.”
It felt strange yet also surprisingly comfortable to be in the shop alone, turning on lights and unlocking the door. A note had been thrust through the letter box from Robin the milkman, stating he’d come back later to deliver the day’s pints.
Claire had just gone behind the till when Eleanor Carwell stumped in, dressed in her usual twinset and tweed, looking decidedly disgruntled.
“So you finally decided to open, did you?”
“Better late than never,” Claire answered cheerfully.
Eleanor stopped in front of the empty newspaper racks. “No newspapers,” she stated in an aggrieved tone. She turned towards the refrigerated section. “And no milk, either.”
“They’ll both be here shortly,” Claire assured her. “I could deliver them to your home, if you like, when they arrive.”
Eleanor eyed her suspiciously. “I’m perfectly capable of walking to the post office twice in one day,” she said. “It’s merely inconvenient.”
“Which is why I suggested delivery,” Claire returned sweetly.
Eleanor glared at her for a moment and then nodded. “Fine. I live at number fifteen, just down the street. The house with the iron railings.”
“All right.” As Eleanor strode out of the shop Claire wondered what Dan would think about her offering delivery service. Maybe she wouldn’t tell him.
The rest of the morning passed quickly; the milk and papers arrived, and she stacked them both in between serving the occasional customer.
An elderly farmer threw a strop when he discovered the post office wasn’t open as it usually was, but after quelling a bit under his beady glare, Claire managed to stand her ground.
He rolled the Westmorland Gazette under his arm and left the shop in a huff.
At lunchtime Dan emerged from the back, looking sheepish. It was a new look for him, his hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans and a faint flush coloring his cheeks as he nodded towards the kitchen. “I’ve made lunch, if you’re hungry.”
“What about the shop?”
“We’ll leave the door open. I can hear if someone comes in.”
Which sounded rather cozy. It had started to rain, and drops splattered the kitchen window as Dan dished out tinned tomato soup and tuna sandwiches.
Claire could tell he’d gone to some effort, with paper napkins placed besides the plates and a pitcher of water with a slice of lemon floating in it. Fancy stuff.
“Thank you,” she said as she dipped her spoon into her soup. “This is very kind of you.”
“Thank you for waking me up this morning,” Dan answered gruffly as he sat down across from her. “I don’t normally . . . do that.”