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Griffin

Good.

In the barn, Griffin had asked me not to shut him out when he hurt me.

I shut him out.

We had not made it twenty-four hours before I broke my half of the promise.

I closed at six and stayed downstairs another two hours doing December inventory, which is a job that consists of counting stock whose total you already know.

I counted forty-one wreath forms, nine boxes of the good German glass I’d over-ordered in July because the rep was kind to me on a bad afternoon, and two hundred and six tin ornaments in the basket by the register, minus two.

I let the music box reach the end of “Deck the Halls” and switched it off instead of letting it roll into the next carol. I didn’t think I’d ever done that. The shop went quiet enough for me to hear the compressor through Pearl’s wall.

Then I turned the card around to the side that says CLOSED and went up.

That night, I lay awake trying to fit together two versions of Griffin. One had kissed me in a barn and promised to stop hiding bad news. The other had taken Victor Crane’s call before making that promise and let Janet tell me about it the next day.

I couldn’t find an explanation that made both versions feel safe.

By midnight, I had rehearsed the conversation six times. In every version, I accused Griffin before he could explain, ended whatever had started in the barn, and walked away before he had the chance.

It was an old trick. If I closed the door myself, nobody got to shut it on me. I had called that wisdom for eight years.

CHAPTER 11

GRIFFIN

Victor Crane’s polished black car passed the old pharmacy at ten and turned into the community center parking lot, where I was waiting. He was the senior partner at Meridian, the company that had loaned me the last four hundred thousand dollars I needed to buy the block.

Robert Ellison climbed out of the passenger side with a tablet and a laser measure. He was Meridian’s attorney and the man who had written paragraph nine into my financing agreement. I’d disliked him before we met. Meeting him hadn’t helped.

Crane buttoned his coat and studied the parking lot. He took in the crack running from the storm drain, the four spaces that flooded at the north end, and the parking-lot light with only one working bulb. “The top layer of asphalt is from the eighties, laid over a base from the sixties,” he said. “It has four winters left. Who owns it?”

“The town.”

“Then they’ll patch it for two more winters and spend more when they finally repave it,” he said.

“How does that help the town?”

“It doesn’t. It helps the next budget meeting.” Crane started toward Main Street. “Walk me through the block. I don’t trust property I’ve only seen from a car.”

Robert followed us for the first twenty minutes. He measured the empty corner unit’s facade, entered the number on his tablet, and stepped backward into the path of a woman pushing a stroller. She stopped short. Robert looked up, apologized, and moved aside.

Crane watched the whole thing. “Robert, get the county’s building drawings and see whether they have the original 1902 survey. Take the car and watch the sidewalk on your way back.”

Robert nodded to the woman once more before he left.

“He’s very good,” Crane said.

“At buildings,” I said.

“He’s still learning that sidewalks come with people.”

I’d driven back from Portland before dawn Saturday after one night in my apartment to collect project files and clean clothes. I spent the rest of the weekend planning how to handle Crane’s visit. I’d keep him moving, keep him on schedule, and keep him away from anyone whose words he could use against the project.

I could handle pressure. The problem was that people liked him. Crane asked questions and listened to the answers. People felt heard, and he didn’t have to promise them anything.