Chapter 16
Madeline arrived at the shop more than an hour early, the way she liked to, and put coffee on. Then, in what was quickly becoming a weekly routine, she gave Aisha a quick call, letting her know that she should restock whenever it was convenient.
“People have been claiming Reclaimed items like crazy the past few days.”
“Ha-ha, you’re so punny,” Aisha said, and Madeline grinned.
Aisha had complained about her puns before—and said she really needed to hang out with her dad and Jase more because they were equally as bad, which Madeline took as a big compliment.
“But seriously, that’s fantastic! I’ll bring new stuff first thing tomorrow. ”
“Perfect.” Madeline was about to end the call when Aisha spoke again, sounding hesitant.
“I just remembered Sam, my . . . mom, has plans. She usually watches Mo when I’m coming in, so she’s not in my hair—or yours—while I’m moving stuff around and trying to organize it.”
“Bring her,” Madeline insisted immediately.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. It will be no problem at all to entertain Mo for a bit—and if you’re ever in town and want to run errands without her in tow, drop her off then too.”
“For real?”
“Yep, I’d be honored.”
“Well . . . thank you. That’s really nice of you.”
Madeline was smiling as she ended the call. She glanced at the wall clock. Still plenty of time to get the place spick-and-span before opening for the day. She quickly got busy wiping down shelves and dusting. Dust was fine in a house, she felt—but it was a big no-no in a shop.
The radio was playing a Beach Boys tune for “Oldies Hour” in honor, according to the chipper DJ, of the sunshine that had finally arrived.
Madeline sang along under her breath, flashing back to the eight-year-old she’d been so long ago—and the Beach Boys were retro music to her even then.
The power of music to transport you to other places and times was almost like magic.
She and Ronny had adored their mom’s old Beach Boys and Jan and Dean records and used to careen wildly down a big hill in the back of their then-rural property, pretending to surf.
She could practically feel the crabgrass “waves” that grew to her mid-thigh, and she could definitely smell it.
To this day, that grass was the definition of green for her mind’s eye, and its fresh, sweet, sun-kissed scent was the smell of youth and freedom.
Her phone buzzed, letting her know it was almost time to open.
She smiled as she flicked the lights on and unlocked the shop’s front door, then opened it and took a deep inhale of the outside air.
Not quite 10:00 a.m., and it was already decidedly warm out.
Maybe there’d finally be some summer weather after all!
“How on earth is it August already?” she asked Boots cheerfully but felt genuinely mystified.
The cat shrugged—making Madeline laugh—then stretched out, belly up, in a sunny spot on the floor, right in the middle of the most direct route to the payment counter, of course.
Madeline had taken down the July window display the night before, and now she busied herself creating something fun for August, feeling excited about her picnic theme.
It was perfect for the predicted sunny skies and balmy temperatures, and since Wednesdays were her slowest days, she’d most likely be able to get everything set up and laid out with a minimum of interruptions.
She was admiring how the yellow background of a cheery apple print tablecloth contrasted with the turquoise legs of the little square table she’d laid it over when the bell above the door chimed.
Boots popped up to a more dignified sitting position to greet the customer, and the tall, blonde, fellow rose-lover Madeline had seen in the shop a few times now entered—sans children, which was new.
The woman bent to rub Boots’ ears, which he approved of.
“No kids today?” Madeline asked, then kicked herself for stating the obvious.
The woman smiled—a bit wanly, Madeline thought—and pushed a strand of her chin-length hair behind her ear. “Nope. I got time off for good behavior.”
“You just mean you didn’t get caught.”
The woman looked startled, then her hazel eyes shone as she got the small joke, and she laughed.
“Is there something specific I can help you find today?”
“No, I’m just browsing—if that’s okay?”
“Of course. Have fun and holler if you need me for anything.”
“Absolutely.” The woman didn’t get far, though. She spotted the 1950s metal picnic basket that Madeline was about to set on a chair, arranged with its lid open to reveal a set of matching dishes and food containers.
“Oh my—that’s adorable!” she exclaimed, taking in the tin’s yellow paint job, black handles, and the cartoon-style illustrations of a family picnicking that frolicked along each side. “How much is it?”
“$84.99,” Madeline replied, trying not to sound apologetic. “It’s an actual antique, not a replica.”
“I love it—and the kids would get such a kick out of it.” Was it Madeline’s imagination, or did the woman suddenly sound wistful? “I’ll think about it,” she said, then set it down carefully and moved down the window, looking at other items Madeline had gathered to put into the display.
Madeline pulled her phone from her pocket and took a series of photos for fun social media posts.
The bell above the door rang vigorously again.
A tall, extremely thin woman with eye-catching hair—a glossy ash-blond bob, with a sweep of white-blond and a contrasting black streak in the front—strode into the shop.
Madeline took in her polished look and high-end pantsuit and stood a little straighter in her vintage clogs and 70s A-line skirt.
“Good morning! Welcome to The Second Chance Shop.”
Instead of an immediate reply, the woman gave Madeline an obvious head-to-foot critique with an expression that overtly stated Madeline’s vintage clothing—or, perhaps, Madeline herself—wasn’t to her taste.
Then she nodded and walked deeper into the shop, taking everything in with her mouth pursed in a way that suggested she was hoping to find things not to like, rather than the reverse.
Madeline was about to give herself an inner kick for thinking such a nasty thing about someone she didn’t know one whit—but then the new woman spotted the softly graying blonde.
“Gwen!” she trilled in a too-loud soprano. “Omigod. I haven’t seen you in forever. No one has!”
So now Madeline had a name for her flower-loving customer. That was a bonus—even if the woman’s squeal was like a fork scraping a plate and set every nerve on edge.
Gwen glanced side to side as if looking for an escape route. Seeing none, she visibly sagged. “Hello, Monika. Yes, it’s been . . . a while.”
“Kelsey said all you do these days is watch those grandkids of yours, day in, day out—and what, are they living with you now? I don’t know how you do it.
The minute mine turned nineteen, I was done—and they know that if they have children, they’re the ones having ’em—not me.
Who wants to be saddled with children at our age?
It was bad enough the first time, am I right?
Aren’t you just exhausted all the time?”
Gwen was mute, her face a mottled red. Her gaze slid to Madeline like a silent plea for help, then darted away, embarrassed, as she sensed Madeline had read her discomfort correctly.
Madeline moved closer to her for moral support, under the guise of reorganizing a collection of colored-glass stemware.
“But it’s not like you’re ever really done, am I right? I mean, you remember all those moms’ groups we were part of when we were younger? Who knew then that when you really needed a parent support group was when you had adult children!”
Madeline actually saw some truth in that statement.
Lord knew, as much as she’d loved Lauren and enjoyed her, there had been hard times maneuvering from parenting a child and teenager to a young adult.
Yes, she desperately wished she’d gotten a chance to face whatever joys—and trials—parenting a full-fledged adult offered, but loss hadn’t stolen her brain.
She bet some challenges felt like more than you could bear.
Yet Monika was clearly not commiserating or empathizing.
She was needling Gwen about some obviously complicated element of her personal life.
Gwen might be an awful person—though somehow Madeline didn’t think so. Yet even if she had wronged this woman in some way, no one deserved to have the hard things in their life used for someone else’s amusement.
Monika, as if disappointed not to have provoked a larger reaction from Gwen, wheeled on Madeline. “What do you think? Isn’t parenting just sooo difficult?”
Madeline stiffened. Something in Monika’s tone suggested .
. . But no, that was impossible. Monika didn’t know her situation.
How could she? And even if she did know, even if she was the kind of gossip Madeline was starting to sense she was, surely, she’d draw the line at poking someone about the death of their child?
Yet, there was a strange note in Monika’s query, an insinuation or something.
Madeline wasn’t imagining it. She wasn’t.
She put on her smoothest facial expression and her most polite—and detached—customer service voice, a voice she’d hoped she’d never have to use in her shop, naively thinking only nice people would be interested in the type of goods she sold.
“I found it difficult at times, of course,” she said as if discussing a painting technique or a cooking tip, “but as my only child died in an accident, along with my husband and my only sister, my notion of ‘difficult’ might differ from yours.”
Gwen inhaled like she’d experienced a sharp, cutting pain.
Monika looked surprised by Madeline’s candor—but not by the information itself. So, she had known! What a total—