Chapter 11
Taking a break from sorting different types of metal into bins for the scrapyard, Graham plunked down beside Grover on the old mutt’s favorite resting place, a decrepit bench-style truck seat.
It was a chore he would’ve happily put off for other tasks that he personally deemed more important, but the powers that be, aka the house insurance racket, had informed him they wouldn’t renew the property insurance until the junk blocking the doors to the shop was cleared away.
Grover grunted—sympathetically, it seemed to Grant—as he rubbed the dog’s silky ears.
The one good thing about this place, and the one thing that made Grant wonder if his dad had a side Grant hadn’t seen: this sweet old boy.
Grant had always wanted a dog, but Holly didn’t like them—something that hadn’t seemed ironic until .
. . much too late. But he didn’t want to go there right now.
He forced his attention back to the work at hand.
Surveying the lay of the land, his mind boggled. How could he put in so many hours every day and still see no noticeable progress? It made him feel as worn out as poor old, arthritic Grover looked some days, and the workload surrounding his “inheritance” overwhelmed him.
His sister Katie thought he was nuts and couldn’t understand why he didn’t stick up a For Sale sign, take the first offer, and be done with it.
But she would think that. She’d left town—and him alone with their crazy parents—at eighteen and never looked back.
He didn’t blame her. In fact, especially now, after everything that had gone on with Holly, he suspected she’d handled life exactly right.
But it didn’t change anything for him. As much as he couldn’t see how or why exactly, Grant knew it was important he see this through.
That if there was an ice cube’s chance in hell of him having a happy life again—or any life actually, happy or not—he had to confront the wasteland of his past. It was just too bad that in his case, the “wasteland” bit was so . . . literal.
His phone rang, and the ID flashed, “unknown caller.” Well, you could fool him a dozen or so times, maybe, but let it never be said that you could fool Grant Graham forever.
He had no interest in talking to Holly when she was into her low-calorie coolers and feeling sentimental—and he’d learned the hard way that nine times out of ten, an unknown number was her.
He couldn’t help but see how fitting a summary that was of their whole relationship.
She had always had his number—and hers had always been unknown to him.
What he should do, he thought for the billionth time, was change his phone number, but then if he ever picked his business back up again, he’d have to waste a bunch of money changing all his business cards and brochures. What he did instead was mute the ringer.
Standing again, he stretched and decided to call it quits for the day.
Yes, living this far north, it’d be light enough to work outside until 11:00 p.m., and some days he did put in those hours.
Today, he didn’t have it in him. His stomach was rumbling, and he was even more out of sorts than his new norm.
He’d head into town, grab a burger to go . . . take a drive.
His route, as usual, took him past The Second Chance Shop.
He wasn’t surprised to see that although the place was closed up tight and not a single light was on, a womanly figure moved through the shadowy aisles.
Madeline. Previously, he’d always put her habitual evening presence in the shop down to the fact—or hope—that she was preparing to finally open.
Now that he’d met her, however, he knew her haunting of the unopened business was more than that.
Nothing in her smile, quirky clothes, or energetic manner suggested it, but something about her countenance did: she was like him.
The other day when she’d come by his dad’s and made her surprising offer—which Grant still couldn’t believe she meant a word of—confirmed it somehow.
She, too, had nowhere to go and was completely alone.
She was just notably better behaved when she met new people.
On his return trip past, fries already demolished, burger half done as he drove one-handed, he glanced at the shop again.
And when he got stopped at the corner, waiting for a string of vehicles to stream by—the public swim must’ve just finished, the only thing that could explain a rush of traffic on this street at this time—he looked in his rearview mirror just as Madeline happened to exit her shop.
She glanced in his direction but didn’t seem to recognize his vehicle from the back.
Her expression looked so far away, however, that she might not have recognized him even if he was standing right in front of her.
She tugged her jacket around herself and moved down the steps to the sidewalk, shoulders bowed like she was walking into bad weather.
Her seedy-looking cat walked dog-like at her side.
The observation triggered a small smile but made him, of all things .
. . a bit sad. It had been a while since he’d been moved to feel sorry for anybody other than himself—something he noted with shame.
He idled at the stop sign even after it was clear for him to go.
The Second Chance Shop officially opened the next day.
It should be exciting for her—but he felt worried.
In all his many, many trips past her store, except for the time she’d had those teenagers help her move stuff, he hadn’t once seen her talking to anyone except that darn cat.