Chapter 2 #2
Since that meeting a few months ago, Vic tried to visit the Second Chance Shop only when it was busy, which was, thankfully, most of the time, and avoided Madeline and Gwen as much as possible. They gave her an inferiority complex, and, well, there were other reasons to avoid them too, of course.
Typical rotten luck. Both Madeline and Gwen were present today, despite the lack of customers.
Vic spotted them near the big antique shop counter, standing beside a waist-high metal stand filled with small colorful flower bouquets.
They were both laughing and must not have heard the bells’ attempt to alert them to her presence.
A feeling that Vic would’ve been tempted to describe as homesickness, though not for any home she’d ever had, assailed her.
What would it be like to have such a good friend that you laughed like that even when you worked together nearly every day?
People like them had everything and didn’t even know it.
And they have all this beautiful stuff too, a small voice whispered.
The devil on her shoulder. Definitely the devil.
But it was true. They did have all these beautiful, interesting things.
And really, a lot of them weren’t even purchased for the store.
Madeline collected them, or found them, or they were donated.
Vic neared the China section, and a little thrill of anticipation went through her, but she caught herself. No, she said sternly. Or her angel said it. Something did anyway. No.
A friend for your other cup won’t be missed. Or a pretty saucer . . .
Vic suspected that was true, so she veered away from that temptation toward the room with artisanal handcrafted, small-batch soaps, bath products, and other pampering items. She’d just smell them, that’s all. It would be like aromatherapy.
She saw the one—knew it was the one—before her intention even fully registered with her.
The square-cut soap bar labeled “Pumpkin Pie” was a deep, warm orange color, and Vic recognized the brand from previous visits.
Soak. Created by a soap maker who lived in a minuscule community north of Greenridge and used all-natural scents and colors.
Vic thought she remembered reading that she even harvested all her own herbs and flowers, etc.
She snuck a furtive glance over her shoulder and frowned.
She was in Madeline and Gwen’s direct line of vision, for sure. But they seemed deep in conversation . . .
She picked up a bar of Dandelion soap and casually lifted it to her nose. It had a lovely delicate scent—and visible feathery yellow dandelion petals. She put it back. Then she sniffed a bar of cedar oatmeal soap and returned it, too.
Then, heart hammering but trusting Madeline and Gwen were still engrossed in whatever they were discussing, she plucked one of the orange bars from the shelf.
Rubbing her thumb along the undyed paper label wrapped around its middle, she read its wholesome, all-natural ingredients, each one recognizable as something you might have in your kitchen.
The soap smelled like Thanksgiving, Halloween, and Christmas all in one soft inhale. And the warm orange color? It was as if happiness had its own shade.
Vic put the bar down abruptly and left the soap section.
It was too tempting. Instead, she explored the large, whitewashed room at the back of the house that contained a whimsical slow fashion line created from pre-existing clothing and found items. It also had a fantastic, imagination-grabbing display of wonky little fabric scrap monsters.
Very cute. But she couldn’t get the pretty bar of soap out of her head. She slinked back to the bath products.
There were row upon row of soap—in addition to all the other bath luxuries. No one would miss one bar. And it was a small thing. It wasn’t like it would hurt the shop’s bottom line. Not even remotely.
Gwen’s warm laugh carried through the store again.
Vic plucked up a bar, sniffed it, then leaned in as if returning it to nestle beside its identical siblings—but instead deftly dropped it into the deep pocket of her knee-length, belted sweater coat. A wave of satisfaction washed over her, and she couldn’t hold back a smile.
She looked at a bottle of bubble bath, pretended to contemplate a bag of bath bombs, and mentally readied herself to stride out.
A second later, her heart plummeted to her stomach.
Madeline was standing alone now. Gwen was at the shop door and appeared to have flipped the Open sign to Closed.
Vic pulled her phone from her pocket. It was more than an hour before the shop was due to close.
She fidgeted with the strap of her purse, holding it close to her body like it was some kind of shield, and started to meander toward the exit.
She relaxed a little when she noticed out of her peripheral vision that Gwen had rejoined Madeline, and they were chatting again.
It’s fine, she told herself. Just be cool. You’re imagining things.
Vic was mere feet from the exit, nearly home free, when Gwen’s voice rang out. “Vic! Nice to see you again. How’s it going?”
Vic jumped, then winced. Tried to be—as she’d just inwardly commanded herself—cool. “Oh, Gwen—hi. Um, you know, still above ground, can’t complain.”
Madeline stared at her, and Vic knew her attempt to look “cool” was a big fail. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth. She was perspiring. Could they tell?
She forced herself to speak again. “But enough about me.” The words made her cringe. She hadn’t said anything about herself. She pressed on. “How are you? Still here, I see. That’s good.”
She was so close to the door. Why hadn’t she tossed a reply over her shoulder and pushed through? She might’ve appeared rude, but at least she wouldn’t look crazy and wouldn’t be trapped like she was now.
Madeline stepped forward, extending her hand. “Excuse me, hello . . . You’ve come into the shop a few times now, but we haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Madeline Hart. I own the shop.”
Vic felt like she might faint—or vomit. She blinked, then shifted her purse to her other shoulder, stalling for time.