Chapter 8
Madeline hadn’t been kidding when she said she wanted Vic to cover Gwen’s hours while she was away. She trained Vic like she was an actual new hire, a real employee, not some pathetic loser doing a bizarre version of community hours.
At one point, she asked Vic about previous work experience, again like a real potential employer would.
And if Madeline was surprised by Vic’s reply that she’d been an insurance adjuster for almost twenty-five years, she didn’t show it.
Vic didn’t bother to explain that her company had been bought out by a bigger one and that she and other senior employees had been offered a generous buyout, which she’d happily taken, daydreaming about how her early retirement would let her travel with Brent until he could retire too.
Vic’s voice was craggy, and she cleared her throat before adding, “I, um, sort of have retail experience too, though. I worked one weekend a month for about ten years in an artists’ cooperative gallery.”
Madeline’s forehead wrinkled as if in thought, but she only nodded and didn’t say anything.
Probably wondering how much I stole in the decade I was there, Vic thought, but it seemed pointless to try and defend herself with the truth: not one thing.
Why would Madeline believe her? Then again, Madeline was just nutty enough that she might believe her. She was unnaturally trusting.
She even took a lunch break and left Vic alone for an hour every day. It boggled Vic’s mind. The woman was obviously crazy (Shoulder Devil’s vote) or a saint (Angel’s opinion—though Angel was apparently feeling a bit salty and suggested Madeline could be both simultaneously).
Vic honored Madeline’s trust implicitly and didn’t so much as use more than the absolute minimum of required toilet paper when she used the loo, let alone pocket any of the shop’s treasures.
Filled with endless nervous energy, Vic was in constant motion, cleaning, dusting, organizing when there weren’t customers.
And speaking of customers, she was surprised to discover an ancient sociable side of herself that she’d thought long dead was alive and well.
She easily directed folks to various sections of the shop, spoke with enthusiasm and growing knowledge about the philosophy behind the Second Chance Shop and its wonderful, whimsical wares, and fielded questions about products, gift ideas, and dozens of other things with ease.
She generally thought of herself as introverted and was shocked by how much she enjoyed the people side of things.
She was not surprised, however, by how easily she caught on to the point-of-sale system, including how to enter and record commission items, though Madeline seemed pleased by it.
“You should be really proud of yourself,” Madeline commented at the end of the day on Wednesday. “You’re a huge asset here.” And Vic understood why Madeline said it: because she was endlessly kind, something Vic saw confirmed more and more each day.
Madeline, her employer, benefactor, scared-straight-coach—whatever she was—treated everyone who came into the shop with genuine care and attention.
She spent as much time and diligence on a kid who had ten dollars to spend on a “most perfect present” for her mom as she did on a woman who wanted to redo her whole kitchen and dining room in reclaimed goods, vintage items, and high-end antiques.
Despite the kindness of her words and in the very notion that Vic should be proud of anything, Vic sensed Madeline was disappointed—but in what she couldn’t tell exactly.
Maybe because she was social with the customers, but not overly chatty with Madeline herself?
But Madeline was Madeline. She had Gwen and a younger woman named Aisha, who sold gorgeous, quirky, bespoke, and upcycled clothing and home décor through the shop, as close friends.
Plus, she had countless customers of varying levels of acquaintance.
She certainly didn’t need social-justice-case Vic for friendship.
No, her not being gregarious wasn’t the issue. So, what was?
Thursday, just before the shop closed, she got a clue.
A young mother came into the shop, a toddler in a backpack carrier, head slumped against her shoulder, eyes closed, and a sleeping infant of indeterminable age in a fabric sling on her chest. Vic greeted her, complimented her beautiful babies, and asked if she needed any help.
The woman declined with a soft, slightly distracted smile.
“No, thanks. Just browsing. If I put them in the van, it will wake them up.” She looked suddenly wild-eyed, and Vic understood it wasn’t so much a desire not to disturb her children’s slumber that kept her from waking them.
It was more that she didn’t want to lose the brief respite from them being awake.
“Take your time and let me know if you have any questions.” On a whim, she added. “I remember my baby days. Any quiet minute I had to myself was like a small miracle.”
The young woman smiled a little deeper at that.
“I just made tea a few minutes ago. The kettle’s still hot. Can I make you a cup to sip while you shop?”
“Oh—that would be lovely. Thank you.”
A few minutes later, Vic found the woman in the vintage kitchen, flipping through dish towels adorned with old-fashioned flowery embroidery and cheeky sayings like “Live, Love, Leave by 9 PM” and “Well, well, if it isn’t the consequences of my own actions.”
“We have that one in a throw pillow too,” Vic said, thinking she should buy it for herself. She handed over the fragrantly steaming mug.
The woman took the offered cup, and her eyes fluttered closed for just a second as she inhaled appreciatively. “Earl Grey.”
“Yep.” Vic nodded. “With heated milk and vanilla-infused sugar.” She left the woman looking notably more relaxed than she had been when she first entered the shop.
Not wanting the woman to feel watched, and with the bulk of cleaning and organizing for the day already taken care of, Vic positioned herself behind the payment counter and doodled on a piece of blank cardstock that had come in a box of picture frames, keeping the frames from rubbing together.
A few minutes later, the woman came to the payment counter, empty mug, two washcloths, and a dish towel in hand.
Vic was taking her payment when Madeline materialized behind her.
“What’s that?” Madeline asked, motioning at the small picture Vic had sketched.
Vic’s face burned as the young mom’s gaze fell on it too.
“It’s me,” the woman exclaimed. “And my kids.”
Vic wished she could disappear.
“It’s so good.”
“It really is,” Madeline agreed, looking thoughtful.
“It’s nothing. Just a scribble. You can have it.”
“Really?” The woman sounded delighted and not at all weirded out. Vic relaxed a little.
Vic followed the woman to the door and locked it behind her, then flipped the Open sign to Closed.
As she moved toward the staffroom to grab her coat, Madeline motioned her back to the payment counter and pulled open a drawer, revealing assorted scrap papers.
“If you have spare time and want to ‘doodle’ anything else anytime, please do,” she said.
“Okay . . .” Vic agreed slowly. Why did Madeline seem so pleased that she’d been drawing on the job instead of working? Wasn’t it time theft or something?