Chapter Two The Shop On Main Street
Caleb
I liked the shop best before noon, when the street outside was busy enough to feel alive but not so busy that people wandered in just to kill time.
Mornings made sense where I had a list that needed to be done, like a guitar which needed restringing, a cracked bridge that required patience instead of force, and a violin case that had been left with a note that said “PLEASE FIX ASAP” as if the capital letters would make my hands move faster.
I worked through the repair of the guitar on my bench, tightening the last string and testing the pitch until the notes matched what my ear expected.
The instrument responded cleanly, which was satisfying in a way I didn’t bother explaining to anyone.
Instruments did what they were built to do when you treated them properly.
That was the simple part of running a music shop.
The complicated part was the stack of envelopes waiting on the counter.
I had been pretending for the last hour that I didn’t see them. When the denial stopped being useful, I wiped my hands on a cloth, crossed the room, and opened them one by one.
The electric bill was higher than I liked. The supplier invoice was higher than I expected. The rent notice was exactly what I feared it would be, which meant my landlord had either learned optimism or stopped caring whether I liked him or not.
I sorted the papers into neat piles, not because it changed anything, but because chaos on the counter made chaos in my head.
I told myself what I always told myself.
The shop wasn’t failing, yet it also wasn’t thriving.
It hovered in that narrow space between just enough and not quite, held there by lessons, repairs, and the steady loyalty of people who preferred fixing something over replacing it.
The bell above the door chimed, and I looked up out of habit, expecting a customer.
Instead, a woman I recognized from the town committee stepped in with a clipboard and an expression that suggested she believed persistence was a virtue and boundaries were only suggestions. Her boots left damp marks on the mat. She smiled like she was arriving with good news.
“Caleb,” she said brightly. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
I didn’t love that sentence. It was never followed by something easy.
“Good morning,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “What can I do for you?”
She came straight to the counter and slid a flyer toward me as if it was an inevitable part of my day. “We’re finalizing the winter festival details. We have the rink set, the cocoa booths are planned, and we’re doing a talent show in the town square. We would love your support.”
I glanced down at the flyer she slid across the counter.
The corners were decorated with hand-drawn snowflakes. Someone had used cheerful fonts. It was nice enough, I supposed.
“What kind of support?” I asked, even though I already knew.
Her smile widened. “Well, you own the music shop, so it feels like such a perfect fit. We were thinking you could perform something or even be part of the opening.”
I set the flyer down slowly. “No.”
She blinked. “No?”
“I don’t perform,” I said, and kept my tone calm and not expanding on my boundary.
“But it’s for the community,” she pressed. “It would be wonderful for Maple Ridge. People would love it.”
That was exactly the problem. People loving it always turned into people expecting it. It always turned into someone deciding my music and my life belonged to them.
“I can put the flyer in the window,” I offered, because I could be generous without stepping onto a stage. “I can tune instruments for performers if they need help. I can help with making sure the sound is good on the stage.”
She watched me for a moment, measuring how movable my answer was. When she seemed to decide I meant it, her expression softened into something that looked almost disappointed.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll keep in touch about the sound support. Every bit helps.”
I nodded.
She left a stack of flyers on the counter before going to hassle the next poor shop owner.
Anyone looking in from the outside would assume I would be the first person to encourage a talent show. A music shop owner refusing to perform sounded like a contradiction.
I liked music when it was mine. I liked it when it lived in the space between my hands and the instrument. I liked it when it wasn’t treated like a public utility, a puppet to perform for the gain of others.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the thoughts back and returned to my bench to continue to work on the repairs that would pay this month’s set of bills.
The bell chimed again.
I heard her hesitation before I saw her. It was the pause just inside the door, the subtle shift of weight that told me she was deciding whether she was in the right place. I finished the note I was checking before I stepped out from behind the counter.
She stood near the front display, hands wrapped around the strap of a canvas bag. She was short, brunette, and her eyes were big and brown in a way that made them hard to ignore.
Cute was a simple word for what I thought, and I didn’t like how quickly it came to me.
“Just a second,” I called, because it was what I always said, even when I was already walking toward the counter.
She nodded and waited, patient and polite. That alone set her apart. Most people wandered in with immediate demands and an assumption that I existed to serve them. She stood like she didn’t want to take up more space than she had to.
When I reached the counter, she lifted her chin slightly, like she was bracing for me to decide she didn’t belong here.
“Hi,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “What can I help you with?”
She opened her mouth, then paused, and I could tell she had rehearsed this in her head and still felt a little silly saying it out loud. “I was wondering if you offer guitar lessons.”
People came in for lessons all the time. Still, something about the way she asked felt different, like this was not a casual decision.
“I do,” I said simply. “Beginner?”
“Yes, very much a beginner,” she confessed.
A small smile showed at the corner of my mouth before I could stop it. “That’s usually how it starts.”
“I’m Kitty Bennet,” she added, and I could tell manners were something she leaned on when confidence was not.
“Caleb Green,” I introduced myself.
I leaned lightly against the counter and waited, giving her space to continue. The pause felt intentional because it was. People who rushed themselves tended to talk their way into a corner. People who were given a second usually found the honest sentence.
“I’m helping organize the winter talent show,” she said, then winced.. She shifted the bag under her arm and added, “I should clarify something. I mentioned the talent show because it’s on everyone’s mind. I’m not here to convince you to perform.”
I found myself amused, which surprised me since I hadn’t reacted at all the same way when the previous committee member had asked me to perform.
“I figured,” I said. “You had the panicked look of someone trying not to accidentally volunteer a stranger.”
“I’m glad it showed,” she replied dryly. “Because I was trying very hard to look normal.”
Her humor was quiet and sharp in the gentlest way. It landed easily.
I smiled, then let it fade into something calm. “I don’t perform.”
The words weren’t sharp, but they were firm. They landed like a line drawn cleanly across the conversation, and I watched her reaction carefully out of habit.
“Oh,” she said, surprised by the immediate certainty. “At all?”
I shook my head once. “Not publicly.”
She nodded slowly. “Okay.”
She didn’t push. She didn’t ask why. She didn’t soften my answer with excuses for me. That mattered more than it should have.
“I just thought maybe I should learn something myself if I’m going to ask other people to sign up,” she explained.
I watched her for a beat, then nodded once. “You’re cutting it a little close to compete.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, I wasn’t intending to be a part of the talent show this year. I was thinking maybe next year. I like music, I just never really learned it.”
I let myself smile again, because the idea of her thinking a year ahead felt both practical and unexpectedly hopeful. “Then we have plenty of time to see if you have talent.”
“That’s something I’m not really sure about,” she murmured, and there was something honest in the way she said it, like she had lived with that doubt for a while.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She shrugged, small and contained. “Some people seem to excel at certain things. I’m not sure that anyone would say I’m really good at something.”
The sentence didn’t sound like fishing for reassurance.
It sounded like a belief she carried around quietly.
I didn’t like that. “Maybe you just need to keep exploring new things until you find out what you’re good at.
Or maybe it’s not about being perfect at something.
Maybe it’s about finding something you love to do. ”
As I spoke, I reached for my notebook behind the counter and flipped it open, because I needed my hands to be doing something steady while I said something that could accidentally matter to her.
“How often were you thinking for lessons?” I asked.
She blinked. “Is there a correct answer?”
“There are answers,” I said. “Correct depends on how much you want your fingers to hate you.”
“That sounds alarming.”
“They will eventually toughen up,” I replied, keeping my tone light. “Twice a week is good for beginners if they have time. Once a week is fine too. Any less than that and we spend most of the lesson remembering what we did last time.”
She considered her week, and I could see the calculation happening behind her eyes. “Once a week, maybe twice if I’m feeling brave.”
I nodded as if bravery was a reasonable scheduling factor, because it was. “Tuesdays and Thursdays are my lesson days. Short sessions or longer?”
“Short,” she said immediately. “If I stay too long, I’ll start apologizing for wasting your time.”
I looked up. Something in my chest tightened, not from attraction, but from recognition. I had heard that sentence in different forms from different people. It was the language of someone who had been told, directly or indirectly, that they were too much when they weren’t useful.
“You’re not wasting my time,” I told her.
“I suppose,” she murmured, and the way she said it made me think she didn’t fully believe me yet.
“Learning is useful,” I added.
“That sounds like something a teacher would say.”
“That’s because I am a teacher,” I replied.
I handed her a business card, then slid the notebook and pen toward her. “Write down your name and phone number so we can communicate about lessons.”
She set her bag on the counter, and the edge of the book inside became visible. I recognized the cover instantly, which made me pause.
“That’s a good book,” I commented. “When Thea gets Jake out of the dungeon and he jumps over the balcony to save Amarilis, that was pretty cool.”
For a moment she stared at me blankly like I had spoken in a different language. “It’s for my sister. Meri reads constantly.”
I nodded. “What’s her genre? Just fantasy?”
“Mostly, but also historical or sometimes mystery. Anything with a library in it,” she remarked.
My eyebrows rose. “A library setting is her weakness.”
“Yes,” Kitty said, and her tone warmed. “If there’s a librarian with emotional depth and a secret staircase, she’s done for.”
I laughed quietly, and I saw a small spark of satisfaction cross her face.
“And you?” I asked.
“I read normal things,” she said automatically, then stopped and corrected herself. “I mean, realistic things. Contemporary novels. No prophecies.”
“Are you holding a grudge against prophecies?” I asked, letting the humor sit there.
“They’re stressful,” she insisted. “Everyone is always destined for something. I prefer choices.”
“Fantasy is full of choices,” I said. “That’s kind of the point.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly. “You sound like Meri.”
“That’s not the insult you think it is,” I replied, and I meant it, even if I kept my tone mild.
She hesitated. “You read fantasy.”
“Yeah,” I admitted easily. “A lot of it.”
“That’s unexpected,” she said, then immediately looked like she regretted the wording.
I didn’t take offense. I shrugged. “Long stretches of travel and waiting around. It’s good for passing time.”
I didn’t say more than that. I didn’t need to. The moment someone heard the word travel, they always wanted the story that came with it, and I didn’t feel like handing her that story on a first meeting. Not when she was already looking at me with curiosity that felt sharper than simple politeness.
She studied me for a second, then said, “I might have been unfair to Meri and her books.”
“A little,” I agreed, and the way I said it made her laugh.
“I’m sure Meri will be delighted,” she said. “She’ll say she’s been telling me this for years.”
“Your sister sounds like a lot of fun,” I commented.
Kitty’s expression shifted, subtle enough that most people would miss it. I didn’t. The flicker looked like a sting that she smoothed over quickly, like she had practice.
Before I could decide what it meant, the bell chimed again as another customer entered, and I glanced toward the door. Timing had always been cruelly efficient that way.
“I have to take this,” I said, then looked back at Kitty. “But I’ll write you in. Tuesday at four?”
“Tuesday at four,” she repeated, and the steadiness in her voice sounded like a decision she wanted to keep. She gathered her bag and stepped back from the counter, then paused as if she wanted to say something else. Instead, she offered a small smile.
“I’ll see you then,” she said.
“I’ll be here,” I replied, because it was true in more ways than one.
After she left, the shop settled again, and I realized I had been watching the door a beat longer than necessary.