Chapter 12 #2
Madeline practically held her breath as she stepped through the beautiful wooden door—a carved work of art, portraying huge, leafy ferns, with a burnished brass knocker and matching knob. The intricate door stood out—in all the right ways—against the tiny house’s simple, modern lines.
Aware of Grant’s proximity in the small space, she studied the interior with growing delight.
The open-concept living space featured a kitchen on one wall and a library of bookshelves interspersed with three floor-to-ceiling windows—one of which was actually a patio door leading to the front deck—on the opposite wall.
A natural gas fireplace glowed cozily in one corner.
A large dining table made from a live edge cedar slab filled the center of the room, surrounded by four wide-seated chairs.
A comfy couch, complete with built-in recliners, lined the remaining wall.
Above her head, a ladder rested in a latch, ready to be pulled down should anyone need access to the loft bedroom.
Because the space had a twelve-foot ceiling and the loft only ran about a quarter of the length of the room, it felt airy and spacious—a funny description for such a tiny home, yet fitting.
“Do you mind?” She motioned at the only separate room—its door slightly ajar.
“Be my guest.”
Madeline opened the door wider and peeked in.
A luxurious little bathroom met her eye, complete with a Japanese-style soaker tub crafted out of cedar and copper.
It was perfect in the condensed space, deep and round as a barrel, and practically called out, Grab a book and a glass of wine. Have a soak.
“Oh,” Madeline breathed, striding back to the center of the main room. “My daughter would absolutely adore this place. It’s . . . captivating. Just . . . amazing.” She was being effusive, for sure, but she meant every word.
“Oh, you have kids—or a kid, I mean?” Grant asked, his smile suggesting he was pleased by her response to his home.
“No,” she croaked. “Not now.” She was floored that she’d brought Lauren up.
She never did, especially not to strangers.
She couldn’t stand the explaining or the cringing condolences.
The tiny home—another dream of Lauren’s—had lowered her defenses.
“I did, though. Once. A daughter, Lauren. She . . . died.” Even after all this time, saying it aloud was like trying to swallow a razor blade.
Graham pulled a chair out for her. “The worst thing about grief is how it hides in everyday, inane moments, then, when you’re least expecting, it jumps out and knocks you flat.”
She nodded but thought, yes, he’d nailed it exactly. Or one of the many worst things about grief anyway.
“Red or white? I figured you for red, but then I second-guessed myself.”
Madeline smiled shakily. He wasn’t going to ask her anything awkward or awful—and he’d guessed she liked red wine. “Definitely red.”
He grinned. “Me too.”
Madeline was shocked to discover that Grant Graham, Super Grouch was actually a fun and interesting conversationalist. Also, he’d warned her about his cooking ability for no good reason.
His appetizers were delicious: smoked salmon with cream cheese on crisp rye crackers, toothpick spears of mozzarella, fresh basil leaves, and halved cherry tomatoes, drizzled with balsamic vinegar that he called “Caprese salad bites,” and corn chips with homemade guacamole and salsa.
She hadn’t known what to expect when she accepted his invitation, but the idea that she’d spend hours with him that passed in the blink of an eye as they sipped and snacked and chatted had never entered her head.
At some point, she kicked off her shoes and moved from the hard chair to the comfy couch, curling her legs up under her and accepting yet another glass of wine.
Grant joined her, sitting close but not too close.
Every time she glanced around the room, it tickled her fancy—and she adored the little natural gas fireplace’s cozy glow and ambient lighting.
“It’s just so cute and perfect—especially the cabinets and wood finishing. ”
“So you keep saying,” Grant replied for about the tenth time, but he sounded amused and—also for at least the tenth time, Madeline thought—she noted how attractive he was when he was relaxed and smiling.
“Well . . .” She motioned to the empty bottle of wine and the newly opened—nearly finished—one beside it. “I might be a bit drunk.”
Grant laughed.
“And you really built it from scratch on an old trailer frame, all by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re a cabinet maker.”
“Well, not because of that, but yes . . . that’s what I am, by trade, anyway.”
“It’s just such a strange juxtaposition.”
Grant raised his eyebrows, still smiling. Madeline knew she was babbling. She couldn’t help it. She was a bit of . . . a babbler. Or she had been when she had people in her life to babble to. She’d forgotten how fun it was to babble!
The last thought made her wince. Wow, she hadn’t been exaggerating when she told Grant she was a bit drunk.
She was definitely tipsy. Tipsy tilting toward totaled, actually.
Suddenly self-conscious, she tried to recall everything she’d revealed in her tongue-loosened state.
She’d definitely spoken more freely about Lauren, Lyle, and Ronny than she usually did—but even wine-saturated, she’d only tiptoed around the edge of her pain, not fallen into the black hole of it.
She hadn’t revealed everything. She still might feel a bit overexposed when she sobered up, but she wouldn’t need to feel like she’d done the emotional equivalent of stripping naked and running around the room, especially since Grant had shared his own sad plight too.
Imagine having your father—whom you were estranged from—die on you and discovering the same week that your wife was not only cheating on you, she was pregnant with someone else’s baby.
The details were different, of course, but Madeleine had been right. She and Grant were two sorry peas in a pod.
“How is it a juxtaposition?” Grant prodded after her long pause.
“Right! Thanks for getting me back on track.” Madeline smoothed her skirt and studied her mustard yellow, snub-toed, square-heeled shoes, still lying where she’d kicked them off.
“It’s just a complete contrast, you know?
Your dad’s place stacked to the rafters because he could never let anything go.
Your picture-perfect getaway vehicle—like you kept nothing from your past and are dead set on being free from it and on never being anchored again. I mean, it literally has wheels!”
Grant topped up their glasses and sat back again, arms crossed.
He looked amused. Or bemused. Or short-fused.
Madeline wasn’t sure which. At some point in the evening, he’d tugged off his sweater and was down to one layer, a soft gray Henley shirt.
What was it about a man in a sweater or a Henley?
They were her two favorite items of men’s clothing.
Definitely. Oh man, where had that thought come from?
Screw tipsy. She was drunk! Still, as foreign as it was to her these days, it felt delicious to just .
. . appreciate a manly physique in soft clothing.
Grant raised one eyebrow. “So, I guess you don’t need to worry about whether The Second Chance Shop works out.”
“Why’s that?”
“You can just hang out your shingle as a shrink.”
For a second, she didn’t get it. Then she remembered—ah, her comparison between Grant’s way of living and his dad’s. She studied his face but couldn’t tell if she’d truly offended him or if he was teasing. “I wasn’t trying to analyze you. Sorry. I just . . . Did it help?”
“What do you mean?”
“This.” She motioned around herself. “Cutting all ties with your wife, keeping no visible connection to her or your old life, no mementos, no triggers.”
“No triggers. Good one.” His voice sharpened. “Everything’s a trigger.”
She sighed. “Yeah, I figured, but I thought it was worth asking.”
“Why? Do you have a hoarder house of your own somewhere that you’re wondering if you should cut loose?”
Madeline swallowed hard. How had Grant—the answer interrupted her mid-worry.
He hadn’t, of course. He was being funny.
She didn’t answer, just stroked Grover’s ears.
The friendly dog had asked to be let into the house a little while ago and was now resting beside Madeline on the couch, his big head on her lap.
Something occurred to her, and it was a handy subject change.
“Earlier, when you invited me over, you said calling your place a house was ‘generous,’ but it’s, as I keep saying, beyond lovely. Why are you so negative about it?”
Grant fiddled with a toothpick on the edge of his plate. “Boy, you really like to keep things light.”
She sipped her wine, waiting.
He sighed. “I guess the answer has two parts. One, it’s kind of a strange carryover from my childhood. I always feel self-conscious, like ashamed almost about where I live, how I live . . . I’m dealing with it, but it’s tough.”
Madeline nodded.
“Two . . . I used to have a really nice home, a big one that I also built myself. It was similar to this one in style and aesthetics but on a much grander scale—and I had a small acreage with a big shop that I ran my now-defunct business from.”
“What happened to it?” Madeline asked but thought she knew.
“Because I made it myself—and used a lot of reclaimed materials, etc., plus my own labor was free, of course—and some years had passed, I’d spent way less on the place than it was worth on paper.
And I had a couple lean years profit-wise because Greenridge was in an economic downturn.
We’re on the upswing again, but the region’s always boom or bust.”
“Like a lot of industry-based small towns.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Anyway, when Holly and I split, I couldn’t afford to buy her out, not even close. We were forced to sell so she could get her half.”