Chapter 17
Grant locked the door to his father’s house and did something unheard of. Well, unheard of for him, the last six months anyway. He called it quits, planning to have a day off, even though the day had barely started yet. He had an idea, the first of its kind in forever, and he was acting on it.
Heading across the yard to round up Grover, Grant noticed that even though it was barely August, many of the trees were starting to yellow, and the air carried the damp, earthy smell of mushrooms and forest. Fall was rushing the gun this year, and the fact made him shudder. He hated too-rapid changes of seasons.
“For crying out loud, man. Stop anticipating the end of things before they’re actually over,” he muttered, knowing even as he did so that he was parroting Madeline. Again.
Grover, as if suspicious of this Pollyanna version of Grant, side-eyed him and shuffled more quickly across the gravel parking area.
Grant smiled at the dog’s apparent skepticism but knew there was wisdom in the words he’d just uttered.
And besides, mornings were cool right now, but the afternoons and evenings were still long and hot.
There was lots of summer left. He hoped.
Before he opened the truck door for Grover and walked around to the driver’s side, Grant gave his surroundings a long, careful—slightly incredulous—study.
His father’s house and property were . .
. coming along. The knowledge never failed to throw Grant into a mental tailspin.
He felt he should pinch himself every time he looked around.
It was still an absolute sty, and other people wouldn’t understand what he was so euphoric about, but it didn’t matter what other people thought.
He could see ground, actual earth, in some parts of the yard.
There were bare patches in a lot of the rooms, and one was completely empty.
Completely. It would have defied imagining, even just a month ago.
Madeline’s systematic plan and her physical help had been—still were—instrumental to his success, but even more so was seeing the job through her eyes.
That she wasn’t daunted made him feel more up to the challenge.
That she considered it absolutely “do-able” made him think it was too.
That she saw it more as a game than a battle—so requiring strategy, but nothing with the power to ultimately defeat or end him—helped him to view it that way as well.
Even more critically, her insight about his father’s hoarding likely being grief-related had helped soothed a deep wound in Grant.
He’d always thought his father was selfish or just generally disinterested in him and Katie and their well-being.
He’d felt, as so many children seem to, regardless of how old they are, when it comes to their parents’ foibles and flaws, that it was personal.
That his father had failed him intentionally.
That he hadn’t loved him. Really, his father had just been a sad man, who’d never healed up from losses in his own childhood, then was tipped over the edge when his wife left him.
In a perfect world, yes, his dad would’ve looked beyond his own troubles and seen how his children, very much alive and around, needed him .
. . but the world wasn’t perfect, was it?
And now, with his own losses, Grant was very well aware of how all-encompassing grief could be.
How you could be huddled at the bottom of a valley at the base of a mountain, knowing you needed to stagger to your feet and somehow climb it, but having no idea how to take that first step.
It was too late to tell his dad, which made him sad, but Grant was starting to understand that he had been loved.
It was—a fact that made him shake his head in half-amusement, half-despair—evident in a lot of the crap his father had never been able to part with.
And as Grant came upon yet another box of photos or trinkets from his childhood or favorite clothes from bygone eras—outgrown in boyhood and long assumed discarded—he realized that without Madeline’s observation, he never would have seen some of his father’s collection as .
. . love. Love gone awry and damaged, for sure, but love all the same.
It was both a comfort and a motivation—and had led to a painful but also strangely bolstering conversation with Katie.
Another small miracle that he owed to Madeline.
Yes, Madeline’s friendship was a golden, glowing piece of luck that awed him.
In fact, the only thing that tarnished his thoughts whenever they lit on her was his worry that he wasn’t as good a friend to her as she was to him.
He benefited so clearly from having her in his life, and he longed for the reverse to be true .
. . but so far, was sure that it wasn’t.
There was a closed-off part of her, despite how open she appeared in a lot of ways.
It was like the level and intensity of the pain she’d gone through had seared a wall into her psyche, a wall that he feared had no door, that he’d never be able to help her with.
But she was tough and resilient. He would just have to try to be her match that way so that if she ever did need him, she would know she could count on him.
On the way into town, he contemplated stopping by the store to see her, but they’d just had dinner last night.
He’d pretend for a moment that he didn’t crave her company every minute of the day—and would at least wait until his return trip from Jack’s Hardware before caving and popping over to ask what she was up to later.
In the meantime, he was surprised to find himself feeling .
. . excited. It had been a long time since he’d built anything—since Holly left, in fact—but now, he had multiple project ideas in mind.
The first one, silly as it was, made him grin in anticipation.
He knew Madeline would respond to it with glee, and delighting her was the least he could do, seeing as she was the inspiration, not just behind this idea, but behind his motivation to start creating again, period.
Her unwavering enthusiasm, constant puttering, non-stop display design, and promotion and marketing brainstorming were contagious.
The last thought stopped him. Promotion and marketing brainstorming? How was that remotely inspiring? It wasn’t, that’s how. It didn’t relate to him at all. He wasn’t thinking of starting up his business again, was he? No, he decided, most emphatically, no.
Still, he couldn’t help but think about the online storefront she’d created for The Second Chance Shop’s website.
Being able to reach a global market easily and affordably made the notion of making a living from specialty items actually .
. . possible. Well, if a person could figure out a way to get eyes on their product in such a crowded marketplace, that is.
“I’m only thinking about this junk because I want her business to be viable,” he grouched out loud as he pulled into Jack’s Hardware and Lumber. Grover gave him a distinct Yeah, right look.
“Oh, Grant! Hello! It’s so good to see you! Are you working on something new, finally? I bet whatever it is, it will be wonderful! Everything you make is.”
Grant managed—barely—to stand his ground and not step away from the gushy greeting. Kelsey. Rats. It was the one flaw with Jack’s. This woman . . . dogged him. He had no idea why.
“Hello, Kelsey. How are you faring today?” he asked, intentionally sidestepping her question about whether he was making something, though the answer was evident enough as he started unloading the contents of his shopping cart.
Kelsey speed-talked as she put through his various paints, brushes, and pieces of sanding equipment, then entered the wood he wanted into the system and handed him a slip to take out to the yard, so he could have the order pulled.
He listened with half an ear, already planning his project’s first steps, and tried to murmur polite uh-huhs and um-hms at the right time.
She was a nice enough person but always confused him.
She seemed to like him way more than was normal for a passing acquaintance.
Abruptly, she turned in a circle, holding her arms out. “And ta-dah!”
He stared at her in stunned bewilderment, not having to feign giving her his full attention now.
“Twenty-six pounds down,” she announced, then tittered happily. “I’m only five pounds over what I weighed in high school!”
Ah, he thought, the point of her breakfast shakes and new fitness app story coming clear.
“You, uh, look really good.” And he figured it was true enough. She’d been a pretty teenager, and now she was a pretty adult. He’d never run with her crowd, though, and didn’t get why she was always so . . . chummy. Also, wasn’t she . . . married?
“Oh, Grant!” she chirped, then blinked rapidly—which was beyond weird. “You terrible, sweet flirt!”
?Ay, caramba! Grant thought, channeling a certain yellow-spikey-haired cartoon character. I’ve gotta get out of here!
But this latest bizarre Kelsey moment was already fading from his mind, even as she trilled goodbye. He had a lot to do today.
Back at his place, Grant constructed a makeshift shop using an easy-up tent as the shelter and a couple of sawhorses and a sheet of plywood as a workbench.
The end result made him shake his head in wry amusement.
After all the half-assed structures he’d had to pull down at his dad’s, you’d think he’d know better than to start creating his own eyesores.
He started hauling the tools he hadn’t sold off out of the tiny shed that matched his tiny home and set them up.
Then he rummaged in the same shed for a power bar and a couple of heavy-duty extension cords.
As he did, he fell into old thought patterns—familiar bitterness sharp at the back of his throat—remembering his real shop and how much he’d lost in the divorce settlement money-wise, but also creative spark-wise.
But then he shook himself out of it. Once upon a time, he hadn’t had the luxury of a fancy shop.
It hadn’t kept him from making things then. It wouldn’t stop him now, either.
Humming, he got out a measuring tape, a pad of paper, and a pencil and started to sketch.
When his phone rang a few hours later, he was in such a good mood, he didn’t even think to check the call display. The project was coming together cute as a bug’s eye.
“Ye’llo!” he said cheerily, a combo of “Yes? Hello?” that made Madeline laugh whenever he said it.
There was a moment of dead air on the line, and he was about to end the call, sure it was one of those automated robocalls or something, but then he heard a soft inhale of breath.
“Grant, baby?” The voice was soft and silken in his ear, and he would’ve known it anywhere. Holly.
The warm feeling of contentment that had buoyed him all afternoon as he worked was like a kid’s helium balloon—and this phone call was a sharp, jabbing fork.
His good mood, his pleasure in the thing he was building, and the confidence about who he even was these days, which had been slowly growing back, instantly deflated.
“Grant?” Holly repeated, leaving off the mind-crippling endearment this time, thank God.
“Uh-huh?” he finally mumbled, sounding as airless and wheezy as that damned punctured balloon from his imagination.
Holly didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. Sounding effortlessly breezy and airy, she explained she was coming to Greenridge for a visit, and—for the first time since she’d started talking, she sounded less than confident—she’d like to see him.
It took several minutes of sitting and staring at his phone—and clicking the call history multiple times—for Grant to believe that what he thought had happened really had happened.
Holly had called him after all this time.
And she wanted to see him. He . . . couldn’t make sense of it.
He shoved his phone into his pocket, then punched his hand into his palm over and over and over again.
Murphy’s Law was a bitch. Here he was, feeling better about life in general than he had in ages—or, to be more honest, than ever since Holly left—and who should call him? Holly.
At least she’d done him one pitiful kindness.
She wasn’t coming until September. She’d given him plenty of warning—but that was no consolation and no help at all.
He sank onto the grass beside his joke of a “shop” and the ridiculous project he was trifling with.
Hadn’t she done enough? What could she possibly want from him now?