Chapter Eight #2
"Bye, Liam!" Noah yells from the backseat, waving wildly. Liam grins and waves back before walking toward the doors. I wait until I can't see him anymore before I pull away from the curb, heading toward the elementary school.
Halfway there, Noah tells me, "Mama, I'm gonna make my autumn sky a gratient."
I bite my lip to hold back a laugh. "A what, baby?"
"A gratient."
"Gradient," I correct gently.
He huffs with all the dignity an eight-year-old can muster. "That's what I said."
I lose the battle and laugh outright, meeting his smiling eyes in the mirror.
◆◆◆
Customer service is like riding a bike—you never really forget how.
When we hit a lull, I'm wiping down my cashier lane when my coworker Drew walks over. Funny enough, I used to babysit him when I was fourteen, and now we’re coworkers.
"Mrs. Durant," Drew starts, looking very confused as he holds up a can of chicken stock in one hand and chicken broth in the other. "Do you know—"
That was bothering me all morning. After I married Atlas and changed my last name, wanting to disconnect from my parents completely, I used to giggle every time someone referred to me as Mrs. Durant.
Now, though, it feels odd... wrong. It feels like a piece of clothing I've outgrown, squeezing me too tight.
"Hey, Drew," I gently cut him off, smiling and tapping my nametag pinned to the vest. "We're coworkers now. You can just call me Wendy."
Drew's cheeks flush pink—he's always been a little shy and soft-spoken. "Uh, no can do, Mrs. Durant. My Mama would think it was disrespectful."
I sigh, amused. "Well... how about Miss Wendy? You used to call me that when you were a toddler."
"I forgot you used to change my diapers," Drew mutters, cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of red and making me chuckle. "Uh... I can do that... Miss Wendy."
"Thank you," I say, pleased with how that sounds. One day, we'll work our way up to just Wendy. One step at a time. "Now, what did you need?"
"I have a guy who doesn't know the difference between chicken stock and broth... and I don't know the difference either. Do you?"
"Stock is made from bones; broth is made from meat and bones."
Drew blinks, a blank look on his face like I'm speaking another language.
I smile, patient. "What's he trying to make?"
"I think he said chicken noodle soup."
"Stock," I say, pointing to the can in his hand. "He can use either, but stock has a little more flavor in my opinion."
He nods, "Okay, thanks, Mrs. Dur—Miss Wendy," Drew catches and corrects himself, before he races back to the customer.
Just in time for me to see Mr. Morris Jefferson easing his cart into my line, full of groceries and a bouquet of flowers wrapped in brown paper.
"Well... ain't this a sight—what are you doin' here, Wendy darlin'?" Mr. Jefferson asks, his accent thick as honey as he starts placing his groceries on the conveyor belt.
Morris Jefferson is ninety years old, stubborn as a damn mule, insistent to his well-meaning sons that he can, "do my own damn grocery shopping, ain't in the ground yet."
He's been a fixture in this town forever, was best friends with Mabel's late grandfather, and owned the local hardware store, which his sons and grandsons took over. It's the store where Atlas always bought his tools and paint.
Purposefully shoving thoughts of Atlas away, I grin as I start scanning his items, having gotten into a rhythm after my fifth customer. The system Mabel uses is similar to the one we used at the ice cream shop, so it's easy to navigate.
Talking to customers isn’t a problem for me. I’m not as extroverted as Taylor, but conversation has always come easily after years of talking to teachers, coaches, doctors, parents, repairmen, and insurance agents.
People are just people, and most of them love talking about themselves. All you have to do is let them, and rapport will follow.
Besides, I know just about everyone in this town by now.
"I work here now," I say proudly, easily bagging his groceries while I continue scanning. "And how are you doing today, Mr. Jefferson?
"Peachy keen, sugar," he winks, smooth but completely harmless.
The love of his life, the late, great Ronnie Jefferson, passed away a couple of years ago, taking his heart with her. "Workin' here, huh? Them boys not keepin' you occupied enough?"
"Oh, they keep me occupied plenty," I laugh, bagging up his vegetables. "But I need something to fill my time when they're in school."
"You're not foolin' me," he says, keeping his voice low. "Ronnie ran our household like the Navy for seventy years, raisin' our boys and our grandbabies. I know how much work it is. You just showin' off, huh?"
"I love a juggling act," I joke to try to lighten the mood, setting a bag of potatoes into his cart and setting the bouquet in the child's seat so they won't get crushed. His dark eyes behind his glasses study me as if I'm a puzzle he's almost solved.
The expression on his wrinkled face is soft; through the cracks and wear, deep compassion bleeds through.
"Folks look at women raisin' babies and think it's light work," he murmurs, his age-roughened voice softened by memory. "It's the hardest damn thing anyone'll ever do."
I raise an eyebrow, "You always this perceptive, Mr. Jefferson?"
He laughs. "God, no, sugar. You know that men are slow on the uptake.
Took me half a century to learn that. We like to peacock and call ourselves providers, like we're beatin' our chest and remindin' ourselves of our worth.
Ronnie set me right. She'd laugh and say, 'Morris, you may bring in lumber, but I build and keep the damn house. It needs both.'"
The words land hard, and I feel stripped to the bone in the middle of this store. He speaks like it's from experience, wise old words I'd be a fool not to listen to. My contributions, monetary or not, are still as important at Atlas.
If Mr. Jefferson could figure that out, maybe Atlas could one day. But am I willing to wait around for him to figure it out?
Morris shakes his head and smiles fondly, eyes drifting to a place only he can see. "My Ronnie..."
"She was great," I comment, remembering Ronnie Jefferson singing during our Christmas pageants growing up. She had a voice like an angel when she sang, and everyone would just stop and marvel at her. "Uh, it's... $67.95."
Mr. Jefferson pays for his groceries before he reaches down to the bouquet of flowers. He plucks out a sunflower and then holds it out to me. "Oh, Mr. Jefferson—"
"Ronnie loved sunflowers, know why?"
I shake my head.
"They're smart. They seek the light," he says, placing the beautiful flower in my hand. His palm is warm as he sets his hand over mine and squeezes, "Seek your light, Wendy darlin'."
Nose burning, I bite my lip to keep the tears at bay and nod. He pats my hand once before letting go and pushing his cart forward. "See you next week. Don't miss me too much, sugar."
I laugh, "Get home safe, Mr. Jefferson."
Mabel walks out of her office, then, waving to Mr. Jefferson as he passes, and heads straight for me just as I close my lane for my lunch break.
"How's it going?" she asks, eyes flicking from my face to the sunflower clutched to my chest.
"It's going great, Mabel," I say, the truth of it surprising me even as I speak. I gently touch the petals of the golden flower in my hand. "It's going great."