Page 20 of Something Borrowed

Then she focused on four things she could touch. The silk fringe on the throw pillow scrunched against the wall between her and the bed. The satin trim on her nightie. Her rough wool throw blanket. The worn cotton top sheet.

She’d just started to concentrate on three smells, starting with the fruity papaya leave-in conditioner she’d used before bed, when she realized she was okay again. Her breathing had calmed. Her heartbeat had slowed. Her swollen eyes had stopped leaking.

Her brain couldn’t resist one more barb, however. You are stupid. You should’ve known.

Gingerly, body aching like she’d overworked every muscle, she climbed out of bed.

*

Vic’s thoughts were heavy as she headed to work on Monday. She was disappointed that even after all this time, the fallout from Brent still felt so fresh. So painful. And it was confusing. Why, when some good things were finally happening, would her brain dredge everything up again?

As the cheery yellow Second Chance Shop came into view, however, she was surprised by a tangible lightening feeling, as her heart actually skipped a beat. After a weekend stuck in her head, plus Audra’s nagging as icing on the cake, she would’ve welcomed the respite of a job scooping dog poop, but to get to be at the shop? It was mind-blowing.

Madeline greeted her cheerfully and asked if she could “hold down the fort” because she had some errands that couldn’t wait. It still weirded Vic out that Madeline would just . . . trust her like this.

“Of course,” she said. “Whatever you need.” What else could she say?

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Madeline called over her shoulder as she rushed out, “I left something by the till for you. I thought they looked fun, but I haven’t even cracked the container since I bought them. You might actually use them.” On that cryptic note, she was gone.

Vic stashed her coat in the little staffroom and made a cup of tea; Madeline always insisted she didn’t mind. Boots—she’d discovered the huge gray cat’s name—was curled up on one of the chairs by the tiny yellow table. Hearing her, and no doubt recognizing Vic was no Madeline, he opened one blue eye a slit. He stretched and yawned and stretched again, then joined Vic as she gave the shop a cursory walk-through. She felt oddly flattered. She’d always wanted a pet, but it never worked out for her. She could see why Madeline was so attached.

As Vic had expected, there wasn’t an item out of place. Madeline was meticulous when she worked alone or closed, as if she was an employee under a boss’s watchful eye, not the boss. Finding not one thing that needed adjusting or wiping, she made her way to the payment counter, pausing to admire its gleaming oak surface, freshly polished just last Friday—by hers truly. It smelled amazing and glowed warmly in the late autumn sunlight pouring through the shop’s big, multi-paned windows, a definite mercy after so much heavy rain.

Boots, having lost patience with her, or perhaps feeling his job was done, disappeared around the corner of the big counter. Vic knew—she just knew—that she’d find him snoozing on a velvet ottoman that she suspected Madeline had put there precisely for him.

Positioning herself by the till to sip her tea—smugly noting she’d been right about the cat; he was exactly where she’d known he’d be—her eye fell on the object Madeline must’ve been referring to when she said she’d left something that “looked fun” for Vic: a 72-shade set of brush-tip acrylic felt markers. So basically, the ease of felt pens, but the look of paint. They were fun. In another life, one where she’d still had optimism about the future, Vic had used them. Beside the markers was a block of 6X6-inch sheets of acrylic paper.

She looked around the uncharacteristically empty shop and considered the bright pens and stack of crisp, blank papers. Then she shrugged. Madeline had told her to “doodle,” so doodle she would. There was no one to see her except Boots, and he was oblivious to her—and the rest of the world. Stretched out on his back, belly up, snoring away on a moss-green ottoman, his sense of utter safety and peace was palpable, and his thick blue-gray fur was just as plush as his velvet resting place. He was a picture. In fact—

During training, Madeline had mentioned that Monday mornings were the shop’s slowest times, but Vic was still surprised when an hour passed without a jingle of the bells at the door or even the shadow of a window shopper passing by. She looked down at her morning’s accomplishment. Two sketches. The first was not without charm, even if she did say so herself, and although she hadn’t necessarily been going for realism, it was clearly Boots. The second? Her cheeks warmed as she studied it. It was a very good representation, too—good enough that she traced a finger along the edge of Cal’s beard, imagining its texture. Cal. What was she doing sketching out Cal? (As if it wasn’t obvious.)

Girl, getttttt it, Devil cheered.

You’ve got to be kidding me. Angel’s tone was anything but angelic. You are not seriously going to tell me you’re crushing on a man you literally pay to be nice and polite to you. He was working. What was he going to say? Please get lost and let me get the job done? Besides, you’re probably just obsessing over him to distract you from Brent.

Devil didn’t disagree. Neither did Vic.

She carefully capped each marker and returned them to their box, then slid the small drawings under the till, out of sight.

The door jingled. Perfect timing—and that wasn’t sarcasm. Two early-thirtyish women entered, their purposeful strides toward the shop’s original vintage kitchen indicating they knew exactly what they were looking for. A few minutes later, they were at the payment counter, goods in hand, exclaiming about how much “she”—a friend who’d just bought her first home—was going to love the items.

Vic admired the handmade charcuterie board, matching wooden salad tongs, and a large locally made pottery bowl glazed in swaths of earthy browns, blues, and greens, with tiny smatterings of a soft, deep pink. Something about it reminded her of exploring the backroads around Greenridge, the way she used to as a teenager a hundred years ago—flashes of lake, blurs of evergreens, and glimpses of fireweed.

As she picked up their final item to ring it in, she laughed, a bit startled.

It was a jar candle with a pretty label that read, “Smells like I own this f*cking place” in big letters, with smaller font below that said “Smell that? That’s the smell of a motherf*cking homeowner.”

“So good, right?” the brunette said in response to Vic’s surprised laugh.

“Hilarious, hey?” added her friend. “So pretty—and sassy. We don’t want her forgetting that we’re young and wild no matter how old and responsible we’re getting.”

Vic smiled—and realized it was genuine. Then she felt it was pathetic that she’d register if her own smile was genuine or not.

The cheery duo left and before the door could even close, a small parade of other shoppers entered: a mother and daughter, a slightly frazzled man wanting a gift for his wife’s birthday, a couple of solo shoppers . . .

When Madeline returned a few minutes before Vic’s scheduled lunch break, the store was still humming and she’d made several sales, nothing huge, but still . . . She felt oddly elated to have Madeline there to witness it and even more elated when Madeline beamed. “I so appreciate being able to leave the store in your hands. It helps me out a ton. Thank you.”

Oh, shit, Vic thought, a glum realization knocking the momentary shine off the moment as she got her jacket, planning to zip out and grab a coffee for her lunch. Shit, shit, shit.