12. Chapter 12 #2
“Milton?” she repeats, out of breath. “You’ve been walking around this whole time with that information?”
“I’m sure you can understand why I changed it.”
“I don’t, actually.” She swipes a finger under her eye. “I think I might want to call you Milton.”
“And if you do, I’ll call you Rosaline.”
“Right,” she says. “Touché.”
Her smile softens, but she doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
This has been happening since the night I slept in her room. We look at each other longer than necessary, and then one of us eventually remembers to stop.
It’s Rosie, this time. She takes a breath and then goes back to painting.
The town is quiet, Main Street is totally empty, and the only thing open at nine p.m. is the Maple Bar and Grill, so I head there.
Rosie hit a wall an hour ago after we’d finished painting and tried to get me to watch Tangled with her because she now feels it’s her job to educate me on Disney fairy tales, since my lack of having seen any is appalling to her.
Five minutes into the movie, and she was out cold. Head lolling to the side, mouth wide open. This time she actually was snoring.
So, I helped her to her room, where she fell onto the bed and rolled to the center of the mattress, still in her overalls and shoes. I took off her shoes and made sure she was under the covers before turning off the light and leaving her there.
Rosie will probably be annoyed that I didn’t fully wake her up so she could get back to work, but I’ve watched her run herself ragged over the last few weeks, and I know she needs the rest.
For one stupid second, I looked at the empty space beside her and thought about how easy it would be to climb in.
Which is exactly why I left the room and went to find something to eat.
“The dining room is closed,” a woman with a helmet of blonde hair that adds at least four inches to her height says when I walk inside, warm air carrying the smell of grilled meat and fried food toward me as the bells above the door jingle. “But the bar is open.”
She points toward the empty bar, where a man in his sixties sits behind it, watching football highlights on a screen mounted on the far wall. His gray hair looks like it could use a brush.
“Hello, there,” the man says as he stands up from his stool when I approach. He probably wasn’t expecting anyone else to come in tonight.
“Hello,” I say back. “Is the kitchen still open?”
He nods once. “Just for fries and burgers, though.”
“Great.” I take a seat on one of the bar stools. “I’ll take an order of each. And a Coke.”
I made stir-fry again tonight, but for some reason it wasn’t enough to fill me. I was going to have leftovers, but then realized I was craving something else.
“Do you want a maple one?”
This place puts maple on everything. The first time I came here, before I started cooking for myself, I was told that’s because a maple farm in town supplies it.
“Just a regular, please,” I tell the man.
“Coming right up,” he says. “Are you the fella staying at Rosie’s?”
“I am.”
“I thought it was you. Edna Bloomberg—the one with the dark hair—told me you were staying there,” he says.
Of course she did.
So, the dark-haired one is Edna B. Rosie is going to love this.
“How’s Rosie doing?” he asks, as if he knew I was just thinking about her. “She still got my truck in her garage?”
Ah. Right.
“You must be Hal,” I say.
“At your service.” He gives me a little head bow.
“Order up! Regular burger and fries,” he yells through the swinging door behind the bar.
“On it,” someone yells back.
He turns back around and looks at me for a beat longer than he needs to. “Alden, right?” he says. “You’re Robert and Vivian’s.”
“They’re my grandparents.”
“Knew it.” He points to a spot down the bar. “Your grandfather used to sit right there. Great people, both of them.”
“They were.”
He grabs a towel and starts wiping down the bar.
“Your truck is still there, by the way,” I tell him.
“Good, good.” He works on a spot that needs more elbow grease. “She’s a peach, that girl. Didn’t even hesitate when I asked her to hold it for me.”
I smile to myself.
No. She wouldn’t have.
“I think you told her it would only be a week, right?” I don’t know why I say it. Maybe I’m feeling protective after the whole Jackson/nanny revelation this afternoon.
It’s none of my business, but Rosie isn’t going to ask this man to move his truck. Maybe if I give him a little nudge, he might do it himself.
“Did I?” he asks. “It was my dad’s. It sat on the side of my house for four years. The thing doesn’t even run. My wife is begging me to sell it. I probably just need to do it.”
Okay, so he’s not getting my point.
Also, the truck has been sitting there for four years? And he can’t make a decision about it? Does Rosie know this? And was he planning on leaving it in her garage for another four?
“Rosie’s got festival tables coming this week,” I try again. “To put in the garage.”
His eyebrows go up. “Huh.” He considers it for about half a second. “Well, she’d have said something if it was in the way.”
“Right,” I say. Hal seems like a nice guy, but he can’t take a hint to save his life.
Then again, he wouldn’t need to. Most people would have just told him the truck was in the way.
But Rosie isn’t most people. She’d let that truck sit there until it became part of the foundation before admitting she needed the space.
I could tell Hal the truck needs to be moved. It would be easy, and I’m pretty sure he’d do it without an argument. But it’s not my garage. And this would be worse than unsolicited advice—it would be unsolicited fixing.
And she didn’t ask me to fix it.