Page 50 of Something Old

Grant was hit with a feeling of great tenderness. “That’s how I feel . . . all the time.”

She shook her head and smiled—but again, there was just a flicker of something he couldn’t read in her eyes.

Grant took the long way back on the return to his vehicle, too, even though his leather boots would’ve kept his feet dry. He needed to think. As he and Madeline had walked, she’d filled him in on the rest of her crappy day in the sparest of detail. He was going to help her deal with the van and the bathroom, even if it took a lot of convincing, but—well, it wasn’t enough. The Boots thing was . . . awful. Totally unfair.

The brainwave hit just as he climbed into his truck. Gwen. Of course. Madeline had mentioned how helpful she’d been. He didn’t have her phone number, but he knew where she lived. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be too put out by an unannounced visit.

Chapter 26

Madeline awoke at 7:30 a.m. sharp, panic zipping through her like she’d forgotten something. Lying in bed, she wondered what on earth had jolted her out of slumber—then realized it was the booming silence. The absence of Boots’ hungry yowl was as loud as any alarm clock. She already desperately missed the small intrusions, noises, and comfort of sharing her house with another living creature.

All she wanted to do was burrow back into the soothing sedation of sleep—but it was too late. Remembering about Boots brought the rest of the previous day’s details back full force. There’d be no more rest this morning, and really, it was for the best. She’d lain awake half the night, brainstorming possible solutions to her predicaments. Yesterday she’d spent some time licking her wounds—but that was all the time she could afford for that luxury. Today, she had to get stuff sorted.

She slid on a pair of time-battered Levi’s, a tank top, and a brown Letterman sweater with rust-orange and ivory trim. As she dressed, she realized that as rotten as yesterday had been, it also contained some small mercies. At least all the mini-disasters had erupted after the shop was closed for the evening and with two days off ahead of her.

On the way to the washroom to do her hair and face, Madeline’s reflection in the big cheval mirror by her bureau gave her pause. She tilted her head to one side, studying the woman who stared back at her—the woman who was her. She’d probably looked pretty rough yesterday, and she was still a bit puffy from all that crying, but still . . . she was nowhere near as ragged and worn as she sometimes felt. She realized, detachedly, that she was holding up fine. And yet . . . she also felt like she didn’t recognize the person staring back at her, the external her, at all.

Who was this mature woman with creases that seemed to grow more prominent by the month and a slight softness to her jaw and eyelids that had never been there before? It couldn’t really be her. It was . . . startling. Sometimes she felt older than Moses, true—but it was still always a shock to see the changes age brought. In her head, she was never older than thirty-five or so—or, honestly, younger than that even. Did anyone ever feel their age?

She hadn’t given a thought to her physical “attractiveness” since Lyle had passed, but now she found herself contemplating her face and form, trying to see it through other people’s eyes—oh, who was she kidding? The only eyes she was trying to see herself through were Grant’s. She slid her hands up her shirt and over her breasts, following the path of Grant’s hands just hours ago, trying to get a sense of what she’d felt like to him.

Pretty good, she figured. She bit her lip, then smirked at her reflection a little. It was beyond strange to feel young and raring to go again! But Grant . . . Grant. Something about him made her fizz and pop inside like uncorked champagne.

Just thinking about last night had her insides melting. She wondered what would’ve happened if dumb old Grant wasn’t such a gentleman—and she hated feeling he was right to have stopped them. Despite how undeniably he revved her up, she’d be lying if she didn’t admit now, in the light of day, that a small part of her motivation last night had been wanting . . . to forget. To escape how bad she’d felt. Grant deserved better than that, and if—ugh!—he was heading toward another go with Holly, she deserved better too.

As Madeline pulled her hair into a low side ponytail and gave its end a little flick with her curling iron, it struck her that disappointment about the possibility of her and Grant never being more than friends was warring with—and winning over—relief. Gah! She was ridiculous!

On the way out the door, she stopped by Boots’ food dishes—and her silly, light-hearted mood instantly vanished. Planning to get rid of them, she bent to scoop up the cute bowls with tiny fish skeletons decorating their inner rims. But she just couldn’t. Instead, she sprinkled kibble in one and freshened the water in the other. Kind of like a ceremonial goodbye. She’d clean them up and sell them later.

*

Arriving at the shop after running a few quick errands, Madeline left the lights off, as usual—and heard Grant teasing her about it in her head. But it was easy to see in the morning light, despite the cloudy day, and she liked the otherworldly feeling of it, quiet and still with just the murmurings of all the various goods calling and telling their tales.

Last night, in the wee hours of her brainstorming, she’d remembered that Luke, one of “her” boys as she’d taken to referring to the inseparable trio who’d helped her so much when she was first moving into the shop, had an uncle who was a mechanic. She didn’t expect a deal or anything, but it made her feel better going to someone she “knew,” even if it was through someone else.

“My van’s broken. Think your uncle could help?” she texted.

“BRT,” zipped back through the ether a moment later. She knew that meant all three of the boys would “be right there” soon, and she was glad she’d stopped at Sweet Treats on the way over. Nothing made them happier than food. Any food. She was in awe of how much they could put away. Lauren and her friends had loved to snack too—who didn’t, really?—but they weren’t in the same league as these boys. Not even remotely.

True to their word, Luke, Zach, and Joe rapped a familiar beat on the door. They’d gradually become more and more boisterous with her, though they’d been very shy the first time she’d approached them as they skateboarded up and down the road in front of the shop, using the uneven pavement to practice dangerous-looking leaps.

She turned on the lights and unlocked for them, smiling, and they shuffled in, all elbows and gangly legs. They were like donkey colts or large-breed puppies or something. And then a fourth colt came in after them, more hesitantly.

“Hi, Madeline,” Luke said. “This is my Uncle Matt.”

Matt didn’t look much older than the other boys did, and he had Luke’s slightly sticky-out ears, cowlicked sandy hair, and beautiful blue eyes. Unlike his nephew, however, he didn’t appear to feel the need to toughen up his look. He wore the same Carhartt work pants the boys favored, but his were fitted, not hanging off his skinny butt, and he sported a plaid work shirt, not an oversized black hoodie with angry images emblazoned across the chest.

“Aw, you’re so cute,” she wanted to say—but didn’t, of course. After all, as she’d told Grant, she was insane, but not insane-insane. It was another hazard of getting older. Even other adults could seem as adorable as toddlers to her.

The boys happily scarfed down the honey crullers and big apple fritters she’d purchased, Matt matching them bite for bite. Then Matt asked her a few questions, which she couldn’t answer, and borrowed her keys.

He returned a few minutes later, looking apologetic.

“Not good news?” she guessed.

He shook his head. “I’ll have one of my guys tow it to the shop, so I can get a better idea, but I don’t think it’s an easy fix.”

Madeline grimaced, and Matt shuffled his feet and leaned his head to one side, then to the other, visibly weighing what to say. “Thing is . . . depending on how expensive it is . . .”