Chapter 12
Annie and Lita had shown up first thing as promised—and were The Second Chance Shop’s very first paying customers.
They purchased both the breadboard they’d initially asked about and a nineteenth-century trough-style dough box.
Their cupcakes, lemon cream works of art, were a huge hit—as was Boots—with the small groups of people who trickled into the store at regular intervals.
Madeline was touched to recognize a few of the people who came in, realizing with warm surprise that they’d come because it was her shop, that it was personal, notably: Vivian, a librarian she routinely chatted with when she picked up new books, a bank teller named Monique, who always wore vintage dresses that Madeline complimented, and Brendon, a waiter at Pink Ginger, the sushi restaurant she was addicted to.
And there were many, many more faces that she didn’t know yet, but felt sure would become familiar over the next few months.
Everyone was incredibly complimentary and enthusiastic—and doing her first cash-out, again, not awe-inducing, but definitely solid, reassured Madeline that not only would people come, but they would also buy.
So, yes . . . Madeline was ultimately pleased but perhaps also a tad melancholy. With her brain still buzzing from the day’s activities, locking up and going home with only a box of leftover cupcakes and her cat for company, the end of her opening day felt very anti-climactic.
If—
No, that if hurt too much. Madeline couldn’t go there. She shifted her thoughts to an only slightly less painful bit of wishful thinking . . . her zany sister.
If Ronny were here, they’d, at the very least, go for drinks to celebrate—or, more likely, her sister would’ve found a way to throw a party for her, whether she knew a single soul or not. But Ronny, of course, wasn’t here. That was the point. Or one of the points, anyway.
Madeline berated herself lightly. She should’ve thought of this—that she’d want to do something to mark the occasion. She’d been in Greenridge for months. She should’ve put some effort into making friends.
You do it to yourself, Madeline, Lyle’s voice intoned in her head.
Ah, memories. The gift—and curse—that kept giving.
It was something he would say, sometimes fairly, but more often, she realized only after years of being together, unfairly—or unkindly, at least—whenever she suffered a disappointment.
In this case, she knew he’d be blaming her for being alone, not for his and Lauren’s passing, of course, but for the way she had isolated since.
Was he right? She often felt guilty about how she remembered Lyle.
So many of her memories were negative and, in the way of being the only one left to tell their story, she could easily focus on his flaws and shortcomings, instead of all the ways he was lovely and she was the terrible one.
She wanted to lie on his grave and assure him.
Assure herself. I loved you. I loved you. I loved you.
What was more difficult, she wondered, losing someone when you were resting on one of the peaks of glorious marital bliss, basking in your shared love and smugly convinced of your rightness together, or having them die when you were in one of the dark valleys, unsure if this time you’d make it through and even stay together?
Boots twined around her legs, meowing, then stopped and stared up at her impatiently.
Madeline sighed. “I know, I know . . . this kind of repetitive, circular thinking is worse than useless.”
Another loud meow. This one successfully pulled Madeline out of her head and back to the matter of what to do.
In the here and now. In her present. Something .
. . special was due. It wasn’t a huge or exciting plan, but at least it would be delicious.
She would order a sushi platter for her and Boots.
“Tuna sashimi?” she asked, heading down the front stairs to the sidewalk. Boots meowed and assumed a quick march beside her.
As she opened the gate to the shop’s backyard, planning to cut through the property to her little rental house the way she always did, a horn honked from across the street.
She glanced toward the noise, slightly startled, not even remotely thinking someone might be singling her out. And yet . . . it was meant for her.
Grant climbed out of his pickup and raised a hand in greeting. Well, this was a surprise. What could he want? She shut the gate, slid its lock home, and started across the street, Boots at her side. Grant eyeballed the cat as she drew closer and shook his head.
“Hello,” Madeline said, shielding her eyes because Grant was standing directly in the glow of the evening sun, one hand behind his back like he was hiding something.
“Yeah, hi . . . I just, well . . . how’d your big day go? Was it all right?”
“Pretty good, thanks.”
“Quiet now, though.”
“Well, yeah. I mean, I’m closed, so—”
“No, I meant, no big after-party or anything?”
Madeline could only shake her head.
“Oh, well, that’s all right then.”
“Did you come for any specific reason, Grant? I was heading home and—”
“Well, yeah. I was wondering if you’d sold any of that furniture of mine like we talked about, you know . . . through word of mouth, sight unseen and all that.”
For Pete’s sake! Maybe she had been wrong.
Maybe he was out of his ever-loving mind.
He read her face, and above his scruffy not-quite-bearded-but-more-than-stubbled jaw, his cheeks flushed.
“That was a joke. I was kidding. Sorry.” Then almost to himself, he muttered, “Hell, I’m making a mash of this. ”
Boots, bored, slinked back the way they’d come and darted beneath the fence. Madeline wanted to follow his lead.
“I didn’t know if you’d have other plans, so I came to see if you wanted to have a glass of wine and snacks at my place to celebrate,” Grant said in such a rush that all his words blurred together—or maybe it was Madeline’s shock muddling what she was hearing.
Maybe he was perfectly coherent. “But I totally get it if you don’t.
Either way . . . ” The hand he’d held behind his back whipped into view, revealing an extravagant bouquet of roses—yellows, pinks, corals, and reds.
Old-fashioned and gorgeous. “These are for you. I thought they suited you and the store, sort of vintage looking or something.”
Don’t cry, you ninny, Madeline commanded herself. Do. Not.
Aloud she said, “What an unexpected treat. They’re beautiful. Thank you.” She took the flowers and buried her nose in them.
“They look really nice with your, uh, outfit.”
Madeline looked down at her vintage 40s navy peplum jacket and skirt. “You think?”
“Yeah. It’s a bit weird to see you in real clothes, though.”
Madeline laughed. “T-shirts are real clothes, Grant.”
“You know what I mean.”
She cocked her head. In the fading sunlight, his sandy beard was shot with glints of copper, gold—and silver. It was very attractive on him. She blinked at that observation and batted it away. “I wasn’t sure about this suit, actually.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “When you’re young, you can wear any old thing you want, and it looks cute and on purpose. I worry I’m getting to an age where ‘retro’ just looks like I haven’t kept up with fashion.”
“Not keeping up with fashion! Oh, dear.”
She rolled her eyes. “I know. It’s stupid.”
“Not at all. It’s your business, right? And don’t worry. You look very cute—oh, and purposeful.”
“Ha-ha.”
“I’m serious. You look—you are, I mean—very pretty. If I was someone who noticed or commented on those types of qualities. . . .”
Madeline crossed her arms, amused and a smidge uncomfortable—aware of a warmth rising in her own face that had nothing to do with a hot flash. “Flatterer. You’re just trying to make sure I won’t bail on my offer of free help.”
“Absolutely.” He cleared his throat as if being humorous and slightly flirty was an effort that had worn him out. “Now . . . are we on or what?”
“For celebratory wine and snacks at your house?”
“Well, ‘house’ is a generous term, but . . . yes.”
“All right. Let me run these beautiful things into the store and put them in water, then we can head out.”
“Your cat’s gone. Will he be all right?”
“I thought you didn’t like him.”
“Well, I don’t, but just because he’s an asshole doesn’t mean I want him hit by a car or something.”
“I leave a window open for him, so he goes back and forth between my house and the shop all day. He’ll be fine.”
Grant nodded.
Minutes later, she was in the passenger seat of his truck, buckling her seatbelt.
“How did you know?” she asked as he shoulder-checked and pulled out onto the road.
“Know what?”
“That I didn’t have anything on celebration-wise.”
He kept his eyes fixed on the road. “Well, you pretty much straight out said you have no people—and I know you spend a lot of time alone. Plus, you volunteered to work evenings with me in the hell hole . . . not exactly something someone with a busy social life would do.”
She didn’t ask how he knew she spent a lot of time alone. No doubt, her only ever referencing Boots as a friend gave her away.
“Well, it’s very nice of you. Thank you.”
He shot her a wry look. “Don’t say thanks ’til you’ve tasted the appetizers. I’m not much of a cook.”
*
Grant’s house was a bit of a shock, especially after seeing his father’s place and misattributing it to him: tiny, immaculate, portable.
Perhaps three hundred square feet total, not counting a small covered porch at the entrance, just large enough for the large wicker chair and footstool it held, and another, larger, deck off the front of the home.
It was a masterpiece of simplicity and beauty, with corrugated metal siding and massive windows trimmed with gleaming pine planks.