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I return a smile that mirrors his. “I’d love that.”
After I dropmy mom off at work, curiosity leads me back to my favorite apothecary. I’m surprised it stayed open after so much economic uncertainty over the past ten years.
“Can I help you with anything?” a woman with brown skin, blonde dreads, and gold ear gauges asks while she waters the plants.
“I’m just checking things out. I used to work here.”
“Oh, really? How long ago was that? I’ve been managing it for seven years.”
“Twelve years ago. Do the Kettlemans still own it? Margaret gave me my first job here. I was sixteen.” I twist the cap off one of the tester bottles and wave it under my nose.
“No. They sold it. The new owner hired me to manage it. I pretty much do everything.”
I chuckle. “I know how you feel.”
“I don’t mind. I make twice as much as I did at my last job.” She slides the stepladder a few feet to the right. “Do you still live around here?”
“No. I live in Austin.” I admire the propagation wall. “Do you go to tradeshows with the new owner? I got to go to one with Margaret. It was so much fun.”
She laughs. “Mr. Milloy doesn’t go to tradeshows. I see him in person once or twice a year, is all.”
I slowly turn toward her. “Mr. Milloy?”
She climbs down and sets the watering can behind the counter. “Yes.”
With a hard swallow, I offer a nervous smile. “Price Milloy?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
Why does everything about that man make my heart ache? A good ache. A bad ache. And everything in between.
“I uh … yeah. I know him. Knew him.”
“I don’t know him that well, but he’s been very generous to me. Edward Goff, who owns the coffee shop across the street, said he’s a successful banker or some sort of investment guy. And his wife’s with a big advertising firm. But you probably know that.”
I narrow my eyes. “Edward’s wife?”
“No. Mr. Milloy’s.”
By the timeI make it to my mom’s car, I can barely catch my breath. Did I even say goodbye to the woman at the store?
Price is married.
No.Wasmarried.
There’s no way he’s married now. A married man doesn’t receive a cancer diagnosis and leave his wife to find his first love.
Why?
Why would he not tell me about her? It’s been twelve years. I never expected him to remain single, even though I did.
Finding an address for Price Milloy in Rittenhouse Square doesn't take long. I check the time. I have an hour and a half before picking up my mom for lunch—plenty of time to drive by his place.
When I get there, I can’t resist parking down the street and walking to the entrance. He’s living in Austin. Surely, he sold this residence. Yet, I can’t walk away until I know for sure.
I press the security buzzer to the high-class condo. Seconds later, a woman answers softly, “Yes?”
“Uh, hi. I’m looking for Price Milloy.”
