Page 27 of Something Old

She shrugged. “You can go through them, of course, but I don’t think you’ll want any of them. They’re either overexposed or just blah. No people. No buildings or scenery that really show anything. I have a stack of maybes, though, over there.” She pointed to a chair. “Those I didn’t feel comfortable culling until you look through them.”

Grant put the keeper photos into their box, then scooped up the discards and deposited them in a black garbage bag also near the door, trusting Madeline’s discretion totally.

“You’re really good at this.”

She looked up, and he noticed that when she’d rubbed her damp face, her sleeve had left a smear of dust. He wanted to hug her and wipe her face and never give her reason to cry anymore. “Good at what?”

“You know.” He gestured to encompass the whole of the room but meant far more than that. “I was just treading water, barely making progress, till you leaped in like The Flash.”

“The what now?”

“You know . . . The Flash. A superhero.”

“I know The Flash is a superhero, and I’m glad you’re finally starting to recognize the worthiness of superheroes as reference points, but how and why is that me?”

Grant grinned. “You really don’t know?”

“Are you referring to my hot flashes? You know about those?”

Grant laughed. “How could I not? At least once a day, you practically strip to nothing—then five minutes later, you’re piling on the layers again.”

Madeline threw a wad of crumpled newspaper at Grant and beaned him in the head. “The Flash! Pah!”

“Okay, if you don’t like The Flash, how about . . . Mad Flash?”

Madeline shook her head but grinned. “That’s actually not the worst, Grant Graham. Not the worst.”

A moment later, she replied to his original comment. “I’m not good at this at all, for the record. It’s just when it’s someone else’s personal stuff, it’s way simpler. Every item isn’t an emotional landmine. It’s easier to be objective when you don’t see or know the complex memories, backstories, and people attached to every item.”

He didn’t understand why she wouldn’t take the compliment or why she couldn’t see that she did indeed have a gift for organizing and weeding out valuable articles from the dross, whether that value was personal or emotional or monetary, but decided to let it be.

Thus, rainy July moved on at a rapid clip. Grant was torn between delight, enjoying every minute of Madeline’s continued help, and dread. He kept waiting for her to come to her senses and realize she had better things to spend her time on than him and his insane job. He already knew he’d miss her. A lot. She was a workhorse. And funny. And such . . . good company.

Toward the end of the month, she did indeed start talking about possibly having to scale back her time at the property with him. As summer deepened and word grew about her store—and tourists flooded into Greenridge—she was getting busier and busier.

“I’m going to need the occasional evening and my days off, or one of them at the very least, to keep on top of things, I’m afraid,” she said one evening over pizza, which they ate on a blanket on the cleared part of the living room floor, celebrating the empty space.

“No problem. I’ll miss you here, of course, but that’s great news. Busy’s what you need.”

“Yeah,” she nodded, but her tone wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, and her brow was furrowed.

“You have sauce on your chin.”

She swiped at her jaw with a napkin.

“Other side.”

She wiped and missed again. He laughed. “Let me.”

He gently dabbed the spot so near her full mouth—and electricity buzzed through him, as the memory of how she’d tasted and how her lips had felt under his hit hard and fast before he could quash it. He yanked his hand away, crumpling the napkin, sure that his desire was easily readable. His eyes flashed to hers, hoping against hope that he hadn’t made her uncomfortable—but the flare in Madeline’s eyes, the sudden widening of her pupils, and the soft blush of her skin told him something . . . unexpected. He suddenly felt her reserve was a carefully constructed veneer; she was tamping down desire too. Always or just now? It was an interesting question, but a dangerous one. He only let himself entertain the delicious possibility of what if for a second, then hammered it away. They had a good, uncomplicated, easy, and—most importantly—safe thing going. Madeline had been smart to put the brakes on all those weeks ago.

He turned and whistled for Grover—who, now that the pathways in the house were wider and there were some clear spaces, occasionally hung out in the house. When the dog appeared, Grant lobbed him a couple of pizza crusts. Grover caught each one with thrilled leaps that made him seem young and spry again, his whole body wagging in delight and gratitude.

Next, Grant filched a piece of pepperoni from one slice. Fair was fair, right? He held it out to Boots, who had lifted his head the second Grover showed up, instantly alert to the possibility of snacks—or to the opportunity to slash at his nemesis. Grant wasn’t sure which one held more appeal to the animal.

Boots contemplated the proffered sliver of meat—and Grant—with interest that could’ve equally fairly been described as indifference. Just as Grant was about to give up and eat the pepperoni himself, the cat darted a glance toward Madeline to clearly show he’d prefer any and all edibles to come from her in the future, thank you very much, and grabbed the treat from Grant. Then he streaked back to the couch—another miraculously cleared place—and nibbled mincingly away at his treasure in that annoying way of cats. Why couldn’t they just enthusiastically gulp down their snacks the way dogs did? Why did they have to make everything such a production? As he ate, the cat glared at Grant like Grant might steal the pepperoni back any second.

“You’re welcome,” Grant muttered.