Chapter 2
Out on the sidewalk, though free of her mother’s claustrophobic house, Vic still felt trapped.
She wished that she hadn’t thought of shops because now she longed to .
. . browse. Stacks and shelves of untouched, unsoiled merchandise, full of promise and deliciously lacking in backstory, provided such lovely respite from thinking.
She wanted to take in rainbow-bright rows of prettily organized housewares and piles of perfectly folded bedding and towels.
She wanted to revel in the heady aromas of the mall, with its delicious, mingled scents of expensive perfumes, popcorn, and newness.
She could feel the pleasure of good quality fabric rubbed between her fingers.
She wanted to be surrounded by things that people with happy, full lives undoubtedly filled their cupboards and closets with—
No. She wasn’t going to give in today. She had decided yesterday that enough was enough—was way beyond enough, in fact. She was a grown-up, not a kid. It was ridiculous. She was ridiculous.
Stop thinking about it, she commanded herself. It’s a beautiful fall day. Focus on that instead.
It worked for a few minutes. She listened to the rhythmic clack of her heels on the pavement and admired the orange, golds, and fiery pink of the changing maple trees that lined her mother’s street—her street too, she supposed.
Summer had lingered late this year, and now, even though it was already November, the autumn sun still held heat.
There was an underlying dampness and smell in the air, however, that said don’t be fooled. Winter is coming.
As she walked, trying hard to concentrate on the crisp caress of the breeze against her cheek and the quality of the light that gave everything a slightly rusty hue, she thought about her complicated relationship with her mother.
It was an old, worn-out tune, but that didn’t keep her from replaying it over and over again.
It was true that her return to Greenridge hadn’t been completely altruistic. She needed a place to go after Brent—
Vic shut that thought down. She felt crappy enough already, thank you very much.
Plus, all that aside, she really had thought, had desperately hoped, that coming back to Greenridge to live and care for Audra would be a healing, cathartic season.
Oh, how she mourned her sad, na?ve, optimistic self of just months ago!
They were both adults—old adults, at that.
Surely enough time had passed that they could forgive the past. Surely Audra longed for closeness and love in their relationship, the same way Vic did.
Wasn’t that simple biology? That mothers cared for their young?
Well, Vic had been in Greenridge since January, so almost a year, and if the time she’d spent here so far had taught her anything, it was that she was .
. . an idiot. Just the way she’d always been an idiot.
Audra had not gotten more maternal with age. And yet stupid Vic had still hoped.
She wasn’t even sure what was wrong with Audra, who was uncooperative about talking about it, to say the least, and so far had resisted all of Vic’s attempts to get her to go to a doctor.
Something was wrong, though. Or at least Vic kind of hoped so.
Otherwise, Audra was just pure meanness and vindictiveness through and through, and Vic didn’t want to believe that.
Regardless of her ailments, real, imaginary, or some combo in between, she wasn’t getting younger.
She’d been twenty-two when she had Vic and was turning seventy-five this year.
(Crazy to Vic! When had they gotten so old?) Audra might live for another decade or two, but she also, very possibly, might not.
Who, facing the end of their life, wouldn’t want to make amends with their child?
What’s so wrong with me? Why don’t you love me? The age-old question sprang to Vic’s mind and made her feel like the sad little eight-year-old she sometimes felt she’d never quite outgrown. So pathetic.
In her mind’s eye, she saw Audra roll her eyes and heard the old, shrill refrain. I feed you and put a roof over your head. What else do you want? Why are you so needy, Victoria?
It was a question various so-called romantic partners had asked her over the years too. Why was she so needy? It was a damn good question.
Waiting for the walk symbol to light up so she could cross the street, Vic suddenly noted that she’d long passed through Greenridge’s tree-lined residential streets and inadvertently (or subconsciously on purpose?) walked the route that took her past the Second Chance Shop.
It was her favorite retail distraction, second only to the mall—and the only reason it was second to the mall was because the mall was bigger, thus more impersonal and safer.
Dammit! She’d been so proud of her self-control, so pleased by her resolve to go for a walk, but not go to any shops.
But then again, she hadn’t headed straight for them.
And her determination was still strong. Besides, stores were sort of like food.
Even if you had a problem with overeating, you couldn’t just completely avoid food.
It wasn’t possible. You still had to eat, so you had to learn to control yourself around food.
This was no different. Vic couldn’t completely avoid stores for the rest of her life.
She just needed self-control. And today her self-control was in top form. It would be a good exercise for her.
You got this, some small part of her whispered confidently. The problem was she couldn’t always recognize when it was the angel on her shoulder or the devil who was speaking.
She hesitated for another long moment on the sidewalk.
The restored heritage house turned retail space was painted butter yellow with cream trim, and a sign hanging from a wrought-iron post near the stone walkway leading to the wraparound verandah announced, The Second Chance Shop.
A line below added, Whimsical gifts for the practical heart.
Beneath that, hanging as separate entities linked by delicate chains, was a vertical row of creamy placards, forming the following list: New ~ Used ~ Antique ~ Vintage ~ Upcycled ~ Recycled ~ Consignment.
A strange combination of desire and fear shuddered through her.
“Stop it,” she muttered under her breath, but her brain spewed a silent stream of criticism. You’re being ridiculous. It’s just a store. A second-hand store at that. Millions of people shop every day. What is your problem?
Vic pushed through the Second Chance Shop’s cherry red door and tried not to cringe as the bells above the door jangled, announcing her presence.
She straightened her shoulders, shook out her hair—glad that she’d recently had the color retouched—and adjusted the strap of her Gucci.
She had as much right as anybody to be in this shop, so why did she feel so wrong-footed?
You know why, her brain said meanly.
It will be different this time, she promised back, then inhaled deeply, attempting to let the shop’s soft candy sweetness and sunshine scent comfort her.
Inside, the Second Chance shop was quiet. That was unfortunate. Lately, she preferred bustling shops, so that sales staff weren’t . . . quite so attentive. Then again, the quiet was fine. It was good, in fact. Or so she tried to convince herself, anyway, with dubious success.
The only thing really praying on her mind now was the hope that Gwen, an old friend from her school days, wouldn’t be working.
They’d had a very awkward interaction when Vic first discovered the shop.
A delicate Royal Albert teacup with a peaceful pastoral scene and three tiny tin pails painted in Easter egg pastels—precious sky blue, perfect shell pink, and yummy green mint—filled Vic’s mind.
She shook her head to clear it. She wouldn’t repeat the errors of that day. She wouldn’t. She really wouldn’t.
Vic walked deeper into the shop. She had her favorite sections, to be sure—but she loved the whole aesthetic of the store, how its owner Madeline had kept the original rooms of the house as they were and used them as themes for organizing and displaying stock.
The kitchen held cooking and food-related goods.
The dining room was packed with gorgeous, ever-changing table and chair sets, dishes, and silverware.
One bedroom held romantic gifts. Another was office themed.
Still another, a huge room at the back with old-fashioned windows overlooking the backyard, was filled with one-of-a-kind upcycled clothing items.
Vic knew it was only a store, but something about the Second Chance Shop felt like home—or the kind of home she wished she had, anyway.
And even more bizarrely, as much as she loved the shop, she also felt strangely jealous or resentful or something whenever she visited.
It didn’t help that Madeline was always perfectly put together in funky vintage clothes or that Gwen, her previously mentioned high school acquaintance, seemed to be Madeline’s sole employee.
Vic hated meeting people from her school days and all reminders of her life then—both of which were inevitable, practically daily, since she moved back, small-town life being what it was.
The horrible memory of her and Gwen’s first reunion at the shop flooded back again, with Vic not knowing what Gwen had seen when Gwen surprised her as she contemplated a shelf of mismatched China pieces a few months ago.
Gwen, who’d always been friendly and kind in high school, recognized her almost immediately and was as friendly and kind as ever, even seeing Vic all these years later.
Vic was humiliated and nervous—no wonder!
—and ended up gabbling something about how they should get together and catch up and then slinked away as fast as she could.