Chapter 11. Callan #2
Her tone is wistful, worries momentarily swept away in an almost inconsequential little memory. I wonder whether it’s easier to remember the small things, the bits and pieces, rather than try to reconcile the loss of something whole.
I step forward to open the door for her. A thick, sticky-sweet scent reaches out to greet us. “After you.”
The interior is dated in a way that’s intentional: pink-and-white-striped wallpaper, checkerboard-tile floors, penny jars filled with saltwater taffy and peach rings and wax bottles, an entire wall of jellybean dispensers in every flavor imaginable.
Displayed on a center rack are yogurt-dipped pretzels and homemade peanut brittle.
“Callan Bradford,” a voice barks, and I flinch out of sheer muscle memory. A bird-boned man with a halo of white hair ducks out from behind the counter wearing an argyle sweater vest—and looking no less menacing for it. “You have a lot of nerve showing your face in here.”
Lenore lifts a hand in a tentative wave. “Hi, Mr. Gleason.”
Gleason halts to eyeball her over the top of his half-moon reading glasses, forehead puckered. “Ah, yes, hello,” he says, bemused. I suppose when you’ve been selling candy for almost fifty years, all the shining, happy faces eventually meld together.
Unless, of course, the face in question has done something particularly memorable.
“You,” he says, pointing a gnarled finger at me. “Turn out your pockets.”
Lenore snorts a laugh and tries to cover it by clearing her throat. I cast her a disgruntled look. “It was one time,” I mutter, but I untuck the front pockets of my jeans anyway. Dryer lint, a lucky penny, but no pilfered candy.
Gleason grunts and twirls that same accusatory finger at the bedsheet tucked under my arm. “And what’ve you got hidden under there?”
“It’s a painting.” I gather up the sheet enough to show him a corner.
With his hands planted on his knees, he stoops over to give it a closer look. His curt nod confirms that it is, indeed, a painting. He straightens and hikes a thumb over his shoulder at the register. “Pay for whatever you’ve got and get out.”
Behind his back, Lenore quakes with silent laughter.
“Mr. Gleason,” I say, hand over my heart as we approach the counter, “you’d kick out a paying customer?”
The old man narrows one eye at me, considering for a moment—and then he growls, “Yes.”
A pyramid of small cardboard boxes sits beside the register, small-batch maple candy pressed into the shape of leaves.
I grab a box and slide it across the counter.
Gleason holds my stare for several seconds, a battle of wills—maybe allowing me to purchase anything is conceding too much—but then he relents and punches the total into an analog register.
“That’ll be three dollars and seventy-two cents. ”
As soon as we’re out the door, Lenore explodes into a cackle. “You stole from Mr. Gleason? Oh my god, I can’t believe I didn’t know about this.”
Already, she’s opening the maple candy, popping one in her mouth as we cut across the parking lot. She holds out the box in offering, but I shake my head.
“Hey, I was ten,” I say with a sheepish grin.
“I didn’t have any money so I pocketed a couple gumballs.
I mean, I learned my lesson right away.” I unlock my truck and slide the painting onto the middle seat before stepping back to hold the passenger door open for her.
“Gleason called my dad and made me ‘work off the debt.’ Which, in retrospect, might’ve violated a few labor laws, by the way. ”
“You broke the law first,” she points out.
“Also forgot that there was still a gumball in my pocket when I threw those shorts in the wash,” I mutter, somewhat lost in the memory.
“Well.” Lenore pauses with one foot on the sidestep, arms braced on the frame of the cab. Her cheeks are hollowed out from sucking on the maple candy. “Let me know whether you have a lifetime ban from any other local businesses. I’d rather not be guilty by association.”
“Hey, I’m an upstanding citizen,” I say and count on my fingers. “I volunteer. I pay my taxes. I support local businesses.”
“You steal from local businesses.” With a wild laugh, she hops into the seat.
I stand over her with one arm braced against the door. “I was a different person then. About twenty years younger, for one thing.”
She leans in close, looking up at me from beneath her lashes.
“You could’ve at least stolen the good candy,” she taunts, near enough that her breath feathers across my lips, sweet as sugar.
My fingers itch to burrow in her hair and drag her mouth flush with mine.
Either I’m misreading the situation or she’s thinking the same thing.
Her breath hitches, the air between us stilling with anticipation.
“What are you doing tomorrow evening?” I ask, staring at her mouth.
Surprise flickers in her expression. “Why?”
“Shelby and Jesse are having a barbecue.”
Lenore breathes a nervous laugh and faces forward in her seat. The moment between us snaps like thread pulled taut. “I don’t want to show up uninvited.”
“No one’s going to mind,” I assure her. “It’s casual. Bring a bag of potato chips and they’ll welcome you with open arms.”
Her hesitation is palpable. “Are you sure?”
I brace a hand against the seat, mostly an excuse for my knuckles to brush against her leg, the sleek fabric of her tights.
“I want you there.” It feels so nice to just say it.
There hasn’t been a lot of room in my life for the things that I want.
Straight out of the small-town handbook: You’ll never have to be disappointed about falling short if you never reach for anything in the first place.
“Okay.” She smiles. “Then I’ll be there.”