Chapter 22
Seemingly overnight, the prolonged fall became true winter, and Vic tried not to love the new routine of her life too much because what if it didn’t last?
But what if it does? Angel sometimes whispered. What if it gets even better than you can imagine?
Both Vic and Devil would roll their eyes at the thought, though Vic secretly hoped Angel was onto something.
It was funny to her now, but originally, she had feared Gwen’s presence at the Second Chance Shop, thinking that with Gwen back, every one of her shortcomings would be bolded and underlined.
Worried that any small inroads toward something approaching friendship with Madeline would be cut off.
Or, at the very least, that Gwen wouldn’t really want her there, would find her an intrusion, or worse, a possible threat the way other women sometimes did.
She was shocked to find the exact opposite of each fear was true.
Gwen was friendly and welcoming, and she seemed genuinely ecstatic to have Vic around to help customers and work the till, so she could focus on spring plans for the shop’s various yard displays, flower beds, and gardens.
(Who knew there was so much to do with flowerbeds and gardens even in the winter months?
Certainly not Vic.) Gwen was also busy building Christmassy floral arrangements, and it didn’t seem to matter how many she made, they always sold out.
Every morning, she arrived with buckets of various evergreen trimmings, sometimes helped by her new, devoted husband Daniel or one of their seemingly numberless kids.
Vic thought they had five, or was it six?
She went over names in her head. That’s right.
Five at home—and Gwen had three adult children who had already launched. Eight children!
“We’re kind of like the Brady Bunch but not as well-organized,” Gwen had joked, obviously reading Vic’s surprise when she initially found out.
Since Gwen had gotten back from her beachy honeymoon, she spent most of her time in the super cute workstation Madeline’s husband Grant had built outside in the gardens.
It looked like a mini-Victorian House, complete with Gingerbread detailing, and featured a front section that opened down, creating a counter that Gwen could open to the public when she wanted to.
In her heavy canvas apron and work gloves, surrounded by spools of ribbon in every color and texture, baskets of everything from cutesy to elegant trimmings, rolls of wire, and assorted cutters, it was like watching one of Santa’s elves—a Santa’s elf that was nearly six feet tall and a huge soccer nut.
Seeing how busy Gwen truly was made Vic feel oddly pleased. Madeline hadn’t just been being charitable. They really did need her.
Best of all, however—and this one could’ve knocked Vic over with a feather—while Madeline and Gwen were tight, for sure, their friendship felt wide and welcoming, not exclusive at all.
Some days, as they chatted during quiet minutes in the shop or had a quick visit at the end of the day, Vic was tempted to tell the full details about her breakup with Brent, not just the “cliff notes” as Madeline called her initial sharing.
If they fully knew who she was and what she’d done and they didn’t hate her, maybe she could stop hating herself .
. . For now, though, safety was best. Still, even with that question—whether they’d still like her if they truly knew everything about her—rattling around in her head, Vic had an unfamiliar feeling of optimism for the future.
These were the thoughts fluttering and landing in her head, then flitting off again as she let herself into the Second Chance Shop, readying herself for this early December day.
She re-locked the door behind her and set a timer on her phone to remind her to unlock for the public and flip the Open sign when it was closer to 10:00.
Moving deeper into the delicious-lemony-smelling shop—would she ever get tired of its scent—she changed the number on the adorable wooden sign that cheerily announced how many sleeps until Christmas. 21!
She was almost an hour early, as she liked to be. It gave her time to do any last-minute tidies, familiarize herself with any new stock that Madeline—who was a night owl extraordinaire—might have added in the wee hours, and have a cup of tea before the shop opened.
She took this morning’s tea, a hibiscus rose blend—she’d caffeinate later, or not—to a large purple couch with a built-in side table.
Her phone buzzed and she mentally crossed her fingers.
It wasn’t who she was hoping to hear from, however.
It was a text from Madeline saying she wouldn’t be in until close to noon.
Vic sent back a thumbs-up and smiley emoji.
Another buzz. Another text. This one from Gwen.
Two of her kids were throwing up. She wasn’t coming in.
Madeline already knew, but she wanted to tell Vic too.
Vic smiled and texted back, sending love and hopes for a speedy recovery.
She waited. Maybe three would be a charm and she’d hear from him . . . but no, her phone stayed quiet.
Michael, she said sternly in her head. Call or text your mother.
Vic knew why he’d gone silent. In her primary goal to “Rebuild (build!) a closer relationship with Michael,” she’d gotten too excited and pushed too hard, too quickly.
At first, he’d seemed receptive to her more frequent communications.
Sending back comments like, “Ahhahaha, nice hair,” or “I remember that,” or “Good days!” to tiny snippets of memories she shared or photos she sent.
Buoyed into a false sense of readiness by his comment about good days, which suggested maybe he hadn’t hated his whole childhood, she’d invited him for Christmas.
She knew even as she sent the—probably overly long—message that it was likely a mistake.
Christmas was too emotionally laden. Even for families much less broken and distanced than her tiny one, it often came with heavy baggage.
She dared to send one small nudge text too, but since then had resisted nagging or pushing. She couldn’t keep from obsessively hoping he’d reply, however.
She should’ve waited. Focused on building up to a phone conversation or two, then maybe invited him for a spring or summer visit . . .
The alarm on her phone jangled. Vic jumped, then glanced at her phone again, this time checking the time. It was 9:55! How had that happened?
She quickly moved her empty teacup to the staffroom, where she’d wash it later, then zipped to the front of the store.
She’d barely turned the lock when the knob twisted and the door opened, sending the bells above her head jingling.
She stepped back to avoid being clipped by the door, and her jaw dropped in surprise.
“Oh, hey.” Cal seemed startled too. “Right—you work here. I forgot. Gwen still on her honeymoon?”
Vic smiled, unable to hide her pleasure at being able to say, “No, she’s back, but Madeline asked me to stay on. Permanently.”
Cal shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Good, good—that’s good, right?”
“It’s great,” Vic reassured him, then winced. He was uncomfortable, and that was on her. “I’m really sorry about the other night.”
He scrubbed his beard with one hand and looked even more awkward, but then he rallied. “The crack of dawn cancellation, the last Friday in November, roughly two weeks ago? I don’t even remember what happened. Refresh me?”
“Okay, I deserve that.” She grinned ruefully. “At the very least, I could’ve waited until the sun was up. Please tell me you had your phone set to Do Not Disturb.”
His laugh said that no, no, he hadn’t.
She scrunched her face apologetically.
“It’s really okay, though,” he added. “In fact, I should thank you.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
Because he’s onto you as a person, and he’s happy to have missed his ride on the crazy train, maybe?
God, her brain was mean to her sometimes.
“The pizza.”
“The pizza?” she asked, not quite following.
“I ordered pizza anyway because, you know,” he shrugged. “I still had to eat.”
She laughed. “And also, because . . . pizza. You were probably glad you didn’t have to share.”
“No, I would’ve happily shared with you, Vic.”
His eyes were warm and guileless. It wasn’t just a line. She remembered him asking permission before he kissed her—and quickly cut off that vein of thinking.
“But that’s why a thanks is due. I ordered your bizarre-sounding smoked oysters and onion—”
Vic practically shrieked. “You did?” She didn’t know why it pleased her so much—maybe because, except for Michael, she’d never been able to convince anybody else in her life to try it. And Michael had been little, and she was the person who ordered and paid, so it didn’t really count.
Cal nodded. “I sure did.”
“What did you think?” Though surely him saying he needed to thank her meant—
He let out a low whistle. “It was so good I had to turn the TV off just to savor it.”
Vic laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Wow, that is high praise.”
“Yeah, well . . . but seriously. It was super good. Almost as good as my—”
“Your favorite, I know,” she teased.
Cal’s smile stayed, but his eyes grew serious. “I hope it won’t sound strange, but I also wanted to thank you for, well, canceling. You must’ve felt a little self-conscious being—”
“Such a huge flake?”
His eyes shone, and he shook his head. “I was going to say being so honest.”
Perhaps Vic’s face showed her skepticism because he added, voice soft.
“I mean it. The easy thing to do would’ve been to try to spare my feelings, keep our .
. . meet-up, then never talk to me again.
Instead, you risked looking—your word, not how I feel at all—flaky and didn’t condescend to me by trying to manage my disappointment.
Your texts, your words were actually deeply respectful. Of me—and of yourself.”
Oh. Oh.
“Um . . . you’re welcome. And thank you for being so gracious about it. That was unexpected and nice.”
She didn’t know what else to say or add and felt uncomfortable that their conversation had come to rest on sort of serious grounds again, so she joked, “And also, if the flake-shoe fits, right?”
Cal shook his head again, but his eyes—such nice eyes—were laughing.
“So,” Vic said after a moment, rubbing her hands together, then giving an efficient little clap—she was working, after all. “I’m assuming you didn’t come in just to rave about smoked oyster and onion food-for-the-gods. What can I help you with?”
“Well,” Cal looked around, as if somehow, suddenly mystified by his presence in the prettily decorated, arguably feminine-feeling, vintage, artisan, and upcycled goods shop.
“I don’t know exactly. My sister Carrie has made her house something special, and I guess I was, I mean I am, hoping to do something similar with mine.
Right now, it’s, well, very clean, but that’s all it’s got going for it.
I’d like it to be . . .” He cleared his throat self-consciously. “More homey, or ‘me,’ or something?”
Vic desperately wished for Madeline. She’d whisk in and know from one look at Cal and a couple of gentle, expertly phrased questions, exactly what types of furnishings or décor to show him. Meanwhile, all Vic could think was her own bare walls in her childhood bedroom in her mother’s house.
“Do you, well, um . . . Is there anything specific you know that you want, but don’t have?”
Cal smiled, but it wasn’t a happy look per se. “Should I write a categorized list?”
Empathy hit Vic hard. She knew that feeling intimately too.
“Actually, wait—this might help. I took pictures.”
Except for his well-stocked bookshelves in almost every room, Vic had seen Cal’s house in every single furniture store she’d ever been in.
The living room had the big wall-mounted TV, the leather sectional with recliners on either end, plus a coordinating coffee table.
A dark wood table set with matching chairs, featuring charcoal gray suede seats, made up the dining room.
The bedroom was filled with a king-sized platform bed, covered in a nondescript—gray again—duvet cover with matching shams, framed by two highboy dressers.
If there was a décor style called “No frills bachelor man,” Cal had nailed it.
She nodded at each photo thoughtfully.
“Yeah,” Cal said dismally, as if she’d spoken out loud. “If you think it looks like I just went to some big box store furniture joint and pointed at display rooms, that’s exactly what I did.”
“It’s not bad,” she defended. “It’s a classic, pretty common masculine vibe.”
“A vibe. Have you been talking to my sister?”
“Wouldn’t know her if she walked in the door right now.”
“You would. She looks exactly like me sans beard.”
Vic half laughed, half gasped. “You should never, ever tell her that!”
“Too late.” Cal’s eyes crinkled. “And yeah, she liked it about as much as you suspected.”
Vic shook her head and had to hold back more laughter than the comment probably warranted. She was feeling a little . . . hysterical or giddy or something with Cal so close.
“Anyway . . . my place. Pretty bad, right?”
“I already said it wasn’t bad. It’s actually quite nice. Very clean, as you said.”
They exchanged a look and Vic bit her lip to keep from grinning too big.
Cal raised his eyebrows and lifted his chin in a C’mon, you can tell me gesture.
Vic nodded. “Okay, so maybe it’s a little—”
“Void of personality, dull, boring—sterile to the point of suggesting a psychopath might live there?”
Vic tried to hold back again but failed this time. She laughed loudly—then flinched. Why couldn’t she just have a normal woman’s small laugh?
“Spare. I was going to say spare. Like you moved in recently-ish after a big life change or something and had other things on your mind besides decorating.”
Cal studied her for a moment. “Well, that is a very kind take. Thank you.”
Vic bobbed her head and said cornily, “My pleasure, sir, I’m sure.”
She winced at herself, glad that Madeline and Gwen weren’t here to see the mess she was making of this possible sale. “I did notice you have a bookshelf in every room—and they’re each nearly full. That’s something unique and cool.”
“Yeah, yeah, it is. That’s true.” The poor guy sounded almost too relieved.
“So . . . I think maybe don’t change everything at once or do a big specific ‘I’m-decorating’ shop.”
Cal nodded, listening intently, as if he thought she knew what she was talking about.
She almost faltered but went on. “Just, I don’t know, keep your eyes open over the next few months and when you see something you like, buy it.
Things don’t need to be so matchy-matched.
” Vic blanched, remembering that every single thing in his house matched.
“I mean, unless of course, you really like everything to be coordinated.”
Cal shook his head. “No, despite all looks to the contrary, I’m actually quite bohemian.”