Page 29 of Something Old

“Absolutely.” The woman didn’t get far, though. She spotted the 1950s metal picnic basket that Madeline was about to set on a chair, arranged with its lid open to reveal a set of matching dishes and food containers.

“Oh my—that’s adorable!” she exclaimed, taking in the tin’s yellow paint job, black handles, and the cartoon-style illustrations of a family picnicking that frolicked along each side. “How much is it?”

“$84.99,” Madeline replied, trying not to sound apologetic. “It’s an actual antique, not a replica.”

“I love it—and the kids would get such a kick out of it.” Was it Madeline’s imagination, or did the woman suddenly sound wistful? “I’ll think about it,” she said, then set it down carefully and moved down the window, looking at other items Madeline had gathered to put into the display.

Madeline pulled her phone from her pocket and took a series of photos for fun social media posts.

The bell above the door rang vigorously again. A tall, extremely thin woman with eye-catching hair—a glossy ash-blond bob, with a sweep of white-blond and a contrasting black streak in the front—strode into the shop. Madeline took in her polished look and high-end pantsuit and stood a little straighter in her vintage clogs and 70s A-line skirt.

“Good morning! Welcome to The Second Chance Shop.”

Instead of an immediate reply, the woman gave Madeline an obvious head-to-foot critique with an expression that overtly stated Madeline’s vintage clothing—or, perhaps, Madeline herself—wasn’t to her taste. Then she nodded and walked deeper into the shop, taking everything in with her mouth pursed in a way that suggested she was hoping to find things not to like, rather than the reverse.

Madeline was about to give herself an inner kick for thinking such a nasty thing about someone she didn’t know one whit—but then the new woman spotted the softly graying blonde.

“Gwen!” she trilled in a too-loud soprano. “Omigod. I haven’t seen you in forever. No one has!”

So now Madeline had a name for her flower-loving customer. That was a bonus—even if the woman’s squeal was like a fork scraping a plate and set every nerve on edge.

Gwen glanced side to side as if looking for an escape route. Seeing none, she visibly sagged. “Hello, Monika. Yes, it’s been . . . a while.”

“Kelsey said all you do these days is watch those grandkids of yours, day in, day out—and what, are they living with you now? I don’t know how you do it. The minute mine turned nineteen, I was done—and they know that if they have children, they’re the ones having ’em—not me. Who wants to be saddled with children at our age? It was bad enough the first time, am I right? Aren’t you just exhausted all the time?”

Gwen was mute, her face a mottled red. Her gaze slid to Madeline like a silent plea for help, then darted away, embarrassed, as she sensed Madeline had read her discomfort correctly.

Madeline moved closer to her for moral support, under the guise of reorganizing a collection of colored-glass stemware.

“But it’s not like you’re ever really done, am I right? I mean, you remember all those moms’ groups we were part of when we were younger? Who knew then that when you really needed a parent support group was when you had adult children!”

Madeline actually saw some truth in that statement. Lord knew, as much as she’d loved Lauren and enjoyed her, there had been hard times maneuvering from parenting a child and teenager to a young adult. Yes, she desperately wished she’d gotten a chance to face whatever joys—and trials—parenting a full-fledged adult offered, but loss hadn’t stolen her brain. She bet some challenges felt like more than you could bear. Yet Monika was clearly not commiserating or empathizing. She was needling Gwen about some obviously complicated element of her personal life.

Gwen might be an awful person—though somehow Madeline didn’t think so. Yet even if she had wronged this woman in some way, no one deserved to have the hard things in their life used for someone else’s amusement.

Monika, as if disappointed not to have provoked a larger reaction from Gwen, wheeled on Madeline. “What do you think? Isn’t parenting just sooo difficult?”

Madeline stiffened. Something in Monika’s tone suggested . . . But no, that was impossible. Monika didn’t know her situation. How could she? And even if she did know, even if she was the kind of gossip Madeline was starting to sense she was, surely, she’d draw the line at poking someone about the death of their child? Yet, there was a strange note in Monika’s query, an insinuation or something. Madeline wasn’t imagining it. She wasn’t.

She put on her smoothest facial expression and her most polite—and detached—customer service voice, a voice she’d hoped she’d never have to use in her shop, naively thinking only nice people would be interested in the type of goods she sold.

“I found it difficult at times, of course,” she said as if discussing a painting technique or a cooking tip, “but as my only child died in an accident, along with my husband and my only sister, my notion of ‘difficult’ might differ from yours.”

Gwen inhaled like she’d experienced a sharp, cutting pain.

Monika looked surprised by Madeline’s candor—but not by the information itself. So, she had known! What a total—

The list of expletives flooding Madeline’s brain was cut off when Monika spoke again. “So, all this . . . ” Monika scanned the parts of the shop that she could see, then gestured toward the unseen rooms. “It’s what? A new start?”

Madeline managed to refrain from gritting her teeth and maintained her bland expression. “Something like that.”

“How . . . quaint.”

Gee, thanks, Madeline thought but was saved from having to try to reply by the buzz of a phone. Monika glanced at her screen, then popped her eyes up to Madeline’s. “It was such a pleasure to meet you. I’ll be back to shop . . . some time.” She swept out of The Second Chance Shop, leaving the bells above the door jangling and a lingering scent of expensive perfume—which Madeline hated herself for appreciating.

“Yay, can’t wait,” she muttered under her breath.

Gwen laughed equally softly, even though the door had closed and Monika was well out of earshot. “My grandson once asked me if she was Cruella Deville—and he wasn’t trying to be funny.”