Page 3 of Something Old

What else could explain her lollygagging around and failing to open for weeks? It was abundantly clear to anyone who’d been keeping an eye on the place, which Grant had been—but only because it was en route to his favorite burger place and because he needed its self-professed services—that it was more than ready to open its doors. If you were running a business as a business, you opened as quickly as you could. Or, at the very least, you updated your bloody “Coming Soon” signs with a date, so potential customers had some clue about when they could expect to be graced with your services.

And he was sick to death of the hyperactively cheery voicemail message he got every time he called the phone number on the sign. “Opening day’s just around the corner. We can’t wait to meet you!”

Yeah, right! He’d called every day for almost two weeks.

“You could leave a message, jackass,” his conscience reminded him—and thanks, Sherlock, obviously he could—but that would mean possibly getting a call back when he couldn’t handle talking to anyone. He needed to be in a particular headspace to field calls or speak to someone face-to-face these days.

The shop’s lights flicked on. Grant slowed the truck’s roll. That was new. As far as he could tell, she usually spent hours in the closed shop with the place as shadowy as a tomb—just another thing that made him shake his head. He braked harder, coming to a full stop and letting the truck idle in the middle of the road. There was no traffic anyway. Add that to his list of flaws about this stranger and her business. What a stupid, out-of-the-way location. Sure, it was only a five-minute walk from the rest of the downtown’s core shopping area, but in a small town, that few minutes might as well be a few miles. If you asked him, anyway.

He rubbed his chin—noting with some surprise that his failure to shave had far surpassed five o’clock shadow. He was well on his way to having a scruffy beard.

“So, what’s it going to be?” he mumbled, checking his rearview mirror to make sure no one had driven up behind him while he was lost in his stalker-like deliberations. “Piss or get off the pot! Are you going to talk to the old bat today or not?”

Beside him on the bench seat, Grover raised his head and gave Grant the kind of reproachful, long-suffering look that only a distinguished old yellow Lab could pull off, as if he was well-used to his owner’s rants, but found them tedious, nonetheless.

For a fraction of a second, Grant’s mood lifted. He rubbed Grover’s thick neck, right behind his brown leather collar, just the way the dog liked it. “Sorry, boy. Just remember, though. The old saying is ‘dogs are good company—not men.’”

Grover sighed and settled his noble head back onto his paws, his point made. Shame made Grant wince. Despite how Grover always forgave his bad temper, Grant was acting like a complete loser, and he knew it. Holding his misery and bitterness against some unwitting entrepreneur just because he had issues with his ex-wife was more than unfair. It was pitiful.

He rolled down his window so Grover would have fresh air, planning to leave him resting in the cab. It was cool out, and he wouldn’t be long. Grover would be fine.

Will steeled, Grant climbed out of his truck, crossed the road, and headed toward The Second Chance Shop. He was nearing its eye-catching sign—a nice piece of workmanship, actually—when three rough-looking characters slinked around the corner of the store. Grant halted in his tracks. Oblivious to—or pointedly ignoring—him, they ambled up the wheelchair access ramp on the far side of the verandah, flat-brimmed ball caps pulled low and baggy clothes worn like disguises. Was he about to witness a break-in or something?

You could’ve knocked him over with a feather when the shop’s door flew open and he heard—couldn’t see because of the youth blocking the door—the same cheery voice from the shop’s voicemail message. “Oh good, the muscle is here! I only have a few things for you guys to rearrange for me, and then, believe it or not, we’re done.”

The hoodie-sporting guys cheered, and one mumbled something about pizza to celebrate. Another laughed. “You’re nothing but stomach, man.”

The woman, still out of view, laughed too—a low, raspy sound. “Pizza can definitely be arranged.”

Suddenly, the dodgy-seeming crew was just a trio of lanky teenagers helping someone out. Grant was torn between feeling defensive—if they didn’t want to be mistaken for ne’er-do-wells, why dress the part?—and being ashamed of himself for jumping to the worst conclusions about them just because they were young. When had he become that guy?

Shaking his head—at himself this time, not the irritating Second Chance lady or the misunderstood youths—Grant beat it back to his truck and roared off in an angry belch of diesel exhaust. If she hadn’t opened by next week, he’d bite the bullet and leave a message with his contact information. He had to get a move on things.

Chapter 4

Opening for business wasn’t as simple as merely deciding to, of course—and yet, it also kind of was. Madeline chose a calendar date, adamant that she’d stick to it. She posted it on her website, arranged for newspaper and radio ads, and updated her voicemail to ensure she couldn’t back out. But her emotions about it? They were still all over the place.

It was excellent that Boots had forced her hand, and it was a helpful coincidence that needing to find his owners supported her original goal of opening before all the schools in the area went on summer break. The Second Chance Shop would be a popular place for tourists and locals, hopefully. That said, she couldn’t tamp down the nagging feeling that the shop was missing something integral. She needed reassurance—an omen, maybe, though she cringed, acknowledging that bit of a superstitious side that she disliked in herself—that she was doing something . . . worthwhile.

Those musings, along with a scrolling mental list of last-minute things she needed to do now that she had a firm opening date, had her fully preoccupied as she walked to work from the small house she’d rented because of its proximity to her shop.

She was so lost in thought that when she popped into The Second Chance Shop’s backyard through the gate that opened from the alleyway running between her house and the store, it took a full thirty seconds to make sense of what she was seeing.

A girl with wild white-blond curls and a fantastic fringed kimono was standing on tippy-toes on the cherry red bench beneath a bay window, straining to peer into the shop. Talk about taking the “lookie-loo” thing to a whole new level! The fence’s front gate was locked. The kid had to have jumped the porch railing to get to this part of the yard. Madeline would be annoyed, except initiative always impressed her.

“Can I help you?”

The girl, startled, almost fell off the bench. Equally quickly, she regained her balance on her red perch and whirled around, staring down at Madeline.

Up close and seen from the front, the “girl” was actually a young woman—a young woman who studied Madeline from head to foot, then gave her a serious stink eye. Madeline’s eyebrow quirked. She was apparently failing some silent test. Then, with typically perfect timing, her body chose that moment to have a hot flash. She managed to resist whipping off her T-shirt—barely.

Alarm widened the girl’s striking green eyes as if she’d read Madeline’s boiling hot brain and feared she’d be subjected to an impromptu middle-aged burlesque show.

“I’m not casing the joint. I promise.”

So, it wasn’t her sudden sweatiness that freaked out the youngster. The kid was worried Madeline thought she was a thief.

“Honestly,” Madeline said, trying to calm the young stranger with a joke, “at this stage in the game, I’d be relieved if you were. Come in the night, take everything, and burn the place down. I’ll get the insurance money and split.”