Chapter 35
Grover huffed a huge sigh, then let out a mournful moan as the realtor pulled away. Grant reached down to rub his ears. “I know, boy. I know.”
He wasn’t just trying to pacify his dog, either.
He did feel sad. Not in an am-I-making-a-huge-mistake way, but in a longing-for-what-might-have-been-if-the-world-were-different sort of way.
Fall had moved in with a vengeance. The trees were bare, the sunlight brilliant and penetrating.
It was impossible not to notice the season had changed in every way.
Soon the house, albatross that it was, wouldn’t be Grant’s problem anymore.
However, that also meant the largest, most tangible connection he had to his father—and to his family’s past—would also be no more.
If only he’d come to understand his dad before he’d died. If only—
But you couldn’t change the past. You could only move forward with whatever new knowledge you acquired. Grant lifted his travel mug of coffee in a toast to his dad’s memory, and Grover stood up and stretched, just as a squirrel in a nearby tree started up a noisy chatter.
Instantly, Grover’s whole demeanor shifted.
On a mission, he charged into the bushes that lined the driveway, obviously confident that this time, finally, he would succeed.
He would get the cheeky guy above him. Grant laughed.
So maybe the dog hadn’t been mournful after all.
Maybe, as ever, it was just him projecting.
Like Grover, Grant couldn’t stay glum for long. As surprising as it continually was to him, he still had a lot of get-up-and-go left in himself as well. He smiled, imagining describing this inner comparison between himself and Grover to Madeline.
She’d say something like, “Am I supposed to be the squirrel in this scenario?” and act indignant, but that’s what it would be: an act. Madeline. Madeline. Even just repeating her name made him happy.
He still couldn’t believe his—their—good fortune.
With so much in the world that was hard to bear, hard to understand, and hard to endure, what a gift it was to find someone who just .
. . got you. Seemed meant for you. Was the tonic for his gin.
The PB for his J. The nut to his bolt. No—this was going too far.
He was embarrassing himself in his own head!
Still, he just . . . couldn’t believe it.
He whistled as he made his way to his truck.
He was going to call his sister—see if she’d come for a visit.
He figured, what with the regularity they texted and called each other now, there was actually a chance she might.
And then he was going to head to his new workshop, which was coming along nicely.
And then—then he was going to see what Madeline was up to.
It might take him a bit to track her down since it was no longer a given that she’d be haunting her shop.
She still loved the place with a passion, but these days, more often than not, she was busy with other things after hours. With other people. With him.
Grant knew he was grinning like a kid as Grover bounded over, not discouraged in the slightest by his failure to get the squirrel.
“We can’t all be lucky, boy.”
Grover snorted and shook his head, making his ears flap, then hopped up into the truck and curled up on his side of the seat.