Chapter 23
Cal groaned inwardly. Bohemian? Really? That’s what you came up with, smooth guy?
But that was the problem. He wasn’t trying to be smooth. He really was trying to decorate—and he really had thought Vic would be done working at The Second Chance Shop by now.
It was Carrie who had insisted he go in, said that’s where she’d purchased everything in her house that he liked so much. “Items with story, history and craftsmanship, like you’re always going on about,” was actually how she put it.
But now he kept forgetting he was on a mission, kept falling into the trap of just enjoying their conversation and wishing he could continue it somehow. He forced himself to focus on the various things she’d said.
“I like your idea of decorating in bits and pieces, just adding interesting things when I come across them.’
Vic beamed, those big, often sad, brown eyes of hers lighting up. It almost took his breath away. “I’m so glad—and make sure they’re things you truly like, not just things you’re supposed to like.”
Cal thought about that for a moment, figured he understood what she meant, and nodded. And all at once, his first “thing” hit him.
“Blankets,” he blurted.
Vic tilted her head.
“Like at your place. I really loved your living room—er, your mom’s, I mean. It wasn’t fussy or anything, but it felt warm and welcoming. Cozy.” His face heated and he hoped his beard hid any embarrassing flush of color.
“No,” Vic said excitedly. “It is mine—or the way it’s set up and decorated is, anyway. Audra let me empty out the old furniture and stuff and use mine in that room. She has another sitting room off her bedroom that she uses if she doesn’t want to sit with me, which is most of the time . . .”
Vivid spots of color flamed on Vic’s neck and cheekbones as if she wished she hadn’t said that last bit. “And I agree, obviously,” she added. “Blankets are an awesome way to cozy up a room.”
She didn’t seem to think it was lame that he wanted cozy. That was nice. Maybe it was only men who were hard on each other about these things. Maybe women all thought it was normal, like Carrie and Vic did.
“And blankets are my comfort zone.” She laughed.
“Obviously, I mean, they’re everyone’s comfort zone, right?
” She led him toward the back where there were two rooms set up like bedrooms, complete with furniture, plus a sign on one wall listing other pieces in storage, should anyone be interested.
Each bedroom had a wall of shelving with various kinds of bedding, vintage and new.
“Browse to your heart’s content,” Vic said, as the door’s bells jingled from the front of the store. “And, of course, wander the rest of the store too. You might find other items that catch your fancy.”
She motored away on those ridiculous but undeniably sexy heeled boots of hers to help the new customer. He didn’t know how she didn’t break her neck on the crazy things—
Okay, wow. If he’d ever had any doubt that he was turning into an old man . . .
In the end, Cal was surprised by how much he enjoyed himself .
. . shopping. He picked out two blankets.
A wool one like the ones he’d seen at Vic’s, but in greens, blues and grays that reminded him of lakes and cloud-strewn skies.
And it was indeed handwoven on a loom by Steve’s wife—Sylvia.
Her name on the simple brown tag with an S-shaped snake covered in flowers pinned to the blanket reminded him.
The price gave him a bit of a jump scare, but hey, it was supporting the local economy and a friend, so all good.
The second was a solid chocolate-brown mink blanket, again like another of Vic’s blankets, just in a different color.
He liked Vic’s roses, creams, and cheery multi-colors, and he loved Carrie’s jewel tones too, but he knew himself.
He wanted his living room to feel more restful than opulent, like sitting on a log looking out at the river—but being soft and warm while doing it, not freezing your nards off.
He was almost at the hulk of a payment counter when a display of antique brass pieces caught his eye.
They were really cool. And then he spotted the dogs.
A shepherd-type working dog in an alert standing pose.
Another shepherd lying on his belly, legs splayed frog-like in front and behind him.
A childhood memory flashed. Taffy, his and Carrie’s Lab X, had slept like that.
He laughed remembering. She’d been such a good dog.
Each dog was large, about ten inches long, and heavy. Were they doorstoppers, maybe? Either way, they’d look great on a bookshelf.
Vic smoothed her hand appreciatively over his blankets, then squealed when she saw the brass dogs. “Oh, these guys! You love them too? Of course, you do. I’m glad they’re going home with you.”
Cal cleared his throat. It almost felt too personal to say out loud, but he wanted to . . . put it out there to the universe, like Carrie was always harping on about. “I’m . . . I’m thinking of getting a dog.”
“A dog!” Vic clasped her hands over her chest, and somehow it didn’t look fake or pretentious.
“You should. You really should.” She lowered her voice as if she, too, was aware that there was something private about these revelations, as if they said a little bit too much about each of their personal longings or something. “I really want to get a cat.”
Cal could immediately see Victoria curled up in her blanket with a skinny little feline on her lap and told her so.
Her eyes shone. “You think so? I’ve never had a pet, but this guy—” she motioned to a hefty gray fighter spread out on the floor behind her—“he’s got me thinking.”
“You should do it. Totally,” Cal affirmed.
He paid and then they were both a little flustered. “I’ll be back,” he said, finally. “Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome—and great plan. We get new stock all the time, and Madeline’s always going on buying trips. Checking in regularly is perfect.”
Cal was halfway to the door when he turned back. “Vic?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s fine either way, really, so no pressure, but what are you thinking about the house repairs? Do you still want me to do them, or would it be awkward or something?”
Vic looked relieved, by what he wasn’t sure.
“Are you sure you don’t mind? I wanted to call and find out if you were still willing to tackle the jobs for me, but then I figured I’d probably harassed you enough.”
Not nearly enough, Cal thought ruefully.
“I’m happy to do the work,” he said. “So how about we stick to the original plan? I’ll text next time I have an opening, and we’ll go from there.”