Chapter 3
DOWN WITH THE PUNCHES
The little bells I tied to the door years ago chime as Tanner Moore enters. Wilder Builds and Renos’ office space is smack in the heart of Main Street, opposite, and four doors down from Cherry’s. I’ve developed an unhealthy addiction to her maple lattes.
Dad’s outdoorsmen gear shop, more fondly known as Foster’s Gear is now Foster’s Gear and Guides.
Before Dad expanded, he’d had space just off main street.
Now he’s closer to the perimeter of town, because not only does Dad sell gear, but he sells an experience.
Alas, my addiction to all the sugary goodness at Cherry’s began when I manned the little shop Dad began over a decade ago.
My addiction has only gotten worse the last fourteen months. I’m aware it has everything to do with my inability to get a full night’s sleep, and the fact that life just goes on.
You either roll with the punches or you get the crap kicked out of you.
So, I roll with the punches. All the punches.
Alarms. One kid that likes to sleep till noon and another that howls at the moon.
Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. School runs and daycare.
Work. Making myself and my kids look not homeless.
Different brands of concealer to hide the darkness under my eyes.
Soccer practice…all year long. Dance on the horizon if Mabel’s chatter is anything to go by.
Oh, and my house is a mess even though I swear, I vacuum once a day. But the dog brings comfort to the kids. Mostly Owen, though he won’t admit it. And the cat…
Well, the cat is mine. He makes me feel not so alone at night, because he insists on parking himself in the nook of my legs, never getting pissy at the constant adjustments I make. He just moves with me.
I guess I’m saying I dodge a lot of punches in a day.
I’m tired.
Caffeine helps.
Tanner lifts the tray with two cups stamped with Cherry’s retro label. He pulls one from the tray and hands it to Elise. Then he walks across the gleaming tile to my desk. It’s supposed to be his day off, but Tanner’s boots are always muddy.
I’m going to have to dry mop when he leaves.
He pulls the second cup from the tray and hands it to me.
“Thank you.” I take the cup. Warmth oozes from the paper into my hands. I catch a whiff of yummy, sugary maple caffeine. My mouth waters.
It’s worth the dry mop.
“No problem.” Tanner leans into my desk. It scoots just a bit, and he shakes his head as he straightens. “Sorry.”
I can see Elise watching us from where she sits, sipping her own latte. I ignore her.
I also ignore the pinch that comes when my late husband’s mother watches another man attempt to woo me. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what Tanner is doing. I’ve been out of the game for so long, that I can’t truly be certain.
Actually, I’m not certain I was ever really in the game.
“No problem,” I parrot. His grin stretches.
I’m still woman enough to observe that it’s a nice smile. In fact, Tanner is a nice-looking man. He’s built well, with broad shoulders and a solid six feet of height. His hair is a dusty shade of blonde and cropped short. And his eyes are blue.
He’s nice to look at.
He was also Tate’s best friend.
The thought shoots a blade of cool sobriety through me, and I snuggle my cup.
I’ve been cold for fourteen months. The moment Tate went through that ice and didn’t resurface, something inside me froze, too.
They fished him out of the lake that spring.
It felt like I’d lost him again.
It’s almost automatic, the rearranging of my face to appear that I’m fine. Healed. Put together.
Would you believe it if I told you that grieving over a spouse was all well and fine, until the ten-ish month mark?
After ten months, people start to get antsy for you to move on. To be normal again. To just magically release your grief so they don’t have to feel uncomfortable around you anymore.
By a year, they start telling you about their single friends. Even family begins dropping little hints that it’s time to move on. Move forward.
My personal favorite: He wouldn’t want this for you. You deserve to be happy. To be loved. To love.
I do love. I love him. Still.
And being happy takes a lot of energy.
Right now, I’m fueled by coffee, and a will to see that my children are happy, healthy and feel loved.
I’m honestly not sure that I’ll ever have any energy to give to another man, much less space in my heart. Between the chunks Holt never gave back and the shards of ice that fill the gaping hole Tate left, I think I very well might be better off alone.
But alone looks bad. Maybe if I go on just one date, it’ll buy me another few months of peace.
Could be worth it. Tanner is nice enough and conversation comes easy with him.
Probably because he was Tate’s best friend, so he’s always been around.
It’s also probably why he’s been so cautious to push things between us.
The ghost of Tate is a buffer neither of us is entirely comfortable shoving through.
“Things are getting busy.” Tanner defaults to work a lot.
“Mrs. Kepler was in just this morning.” I give him a warm wink and a smile. His blue eyes drop to my mouth, and I wait but—no tingles. Yeah, I’m broken. “I think we’re getting close.”
Tanner’s brows slowly rise. “That woman has been considering which flooring she wants for the last four years. Her first choices have been discontinued.”
I snort a laugh. It’s not attractive, but Tanner’s eyes light up.
“Well.” I clear my throat as I stand from behind my desk, moving across the space to where the samples of laminate flooring are currently on display. I bend to tap a finger on the rustic oak sample and tell him, “She’s been in here three times to look at this one. Even took the sample home today.”
I look up and find his eyes are on my ass, not the sample.
Tanner notices he’s been caught and claps a hand on the back of his neck. He wets his lips and grins the grin of a confident man that might be just a little embarrassed.
It’s my turn to cock a brow as I rise. Tate used to tell me I was itty-bitty in the height committee. Considering my growth capped at a whopping five-foot-three, he wasn’t wrong. I get a solid extra inch and a half by wearing heels most every day.
Tate had loved me in heels. Clearly, Tanner shares the affection, because his eyes drop to my legs—which look a thousand times better in pumps, by the way.
Currently, they’re a pretty, muted nude to compliment the tight, high-waisted, knee-length skirt I wear. The outfit is topped off with a blush blouse that I’ve tucked in to the skirt.
As many punches as I’m hit with—I seem to get up a little quicker when I’m dressed for the hits. I think there’s a hashtag on TikTok. #girllbosspower.
I don’t know.
I’d spent months wearing sweats and Tate’s oversized sweaters. Believe me when I tell you it’s a lot easier to fall with the punches when you’re dressed as a mess. It’s a lot easier to stay down when you’re not at least attempting to play the part of an active participant in your own life.
In my sweats and sweater months, it’d been easy to throw together pre-packaged everything into my kids’ lunch box, pawn them off on my mom or Elise to drive to school and daycare and take the punch of life all the way to my bed.
And that’s where I would remain until Mom or Dad or Elise or Herman or anyone dropped them back off at home.
I’d quickly realized I was failing them. Choosing grief over them. My babies.
And I learned.
I learned that if I got up before them, ran twenty minutes on the treadmill, showered and put myself together—no matter how hard it was—that I’d stay standing after each and every punch life decided to dish out that day.
So, that’s what I did. Every day.
“I’ll believe it when I’m installing the flooring.
” Tanner’s voice follows me as I make my way back to my desk.
“Hell, I won’t even believe it when I’m ripping out her old flooring.
Knowing Mrs. Kepler, she’ll back out mid-way through the tear-up and tell me to put it all back.
I’ll spend the rest of my days getting the hairy eyeball because that won’t be possible, and I’ll be the sorry suck stuck having to explain that fact to her over, and over, and over again. ”
I snort again. Elise laughs.
Tanner’s scenario isn’t that far away from the realm of possibility. Mrs. Kepler is an interesting character. Her poor husband trudges along behind her, quiet, and ever-present for the show. Not even he has the kahunas to tell her what’s what.
“You’re probably right.” I pluck a pen from my desk and make a show of scribbling on a hot pink sticky note. “Just in case, I’ve made a note to place you lead on the project.”
Tanner’s head cocks back on his shoulders like Heaven might help him. “I’m the only lead. ‘Side from Herman.”
My heart does that painful squeezy thing.
Tate had been a lead.
I remind myself of that girl-boss-power hashtag and give him a shining smile. “We’re going to need to hire someone soon. With the summer rush and Herman going for knee surgery…”
Herman takes that moment to join us from his office in the back room. He tries to hide his limp with a stride that is long and sure. But it’s there. He’s in pain. A lot of pain.
And he hasn’t been willing to hire. Not since…
“We’ll be just fine. Don’t you worry about the business.” Herman claps Tanner on the shoulder with a weathered hand that has seen so many years of sun, its permanently tan. “Tanner will oversee things on the job sites, and I’ve got you ladies to keep the office afloat.”
I hedge, “Everette wouldn’t mind working on an as needed basis.” I twist the diamond stud of my earing. Tate bought them for our sixth wedding anniversary. “He’s worked for my dad for forever running tours. He’s great, reliable, and handy.”
Herman holds up a hand. Elise sighs as she folds her arms over her chest.
Herman declines as politely, but firmly, as he can. “Everette’s a nice boy, but we’re good.”
At thirty-six, Everette is no boy. He’s also entirely capable, with an experience in carpentry and framing. He works for Dad now on the tours because he moved to Rubble Ridge for passion, but I’ve talked to him, and he said he’d be willing to extend a hand. I don’t tell Herman that.
Like I have since Tate passed, I smile and nod. “Sure, Herman.”
Elise shakes her head but says nothing. She saves that for private, I know.
Still, Herman won’t change his mind.
Everyone takes a different path on the way to overcoming grief. This is Herman’s version of my lazy-day clothes.
Until he can get over the hurdle of hiring someone to fill Tate’s role in the company…he’ll keep getting knocked down with the punches.