Page 22 of Fate, Interrupted

It’s the straight-ahead declaration of a man who has been waiting five days and has identified exactly how long he’s willing to keep doing that.

“Okay,” I say, and it comes out steadier than I feel, which I’m counting as a win.

He nods and moves off down the aisle toward his crew, already pulling out his phone, already back in the day’s business.

I look back up at the brushed nickel fan turning overhead. It does sound quiet. Good blade pitch. It’ll move a ton of air in the shop.

I take a photo of the model number, re-chain the ladder where I found it because I am a responsible person who respects store policy, and I walk toward the registers to check out.

His crew is two aisles over, loading more PVC into the flatbed cart. One of them, young and broad-shouldered, with an easy grin, glances over and catches my eye and looks away quickly, like he knows exactly what just happened and finds it entertaining.

I face forward.

Thursday, he’d said.

Three days.

That’s fine. Completely fine. I have a shop to run and an endcap that still needs tweaking. Three days is nothing.

I check out and push through the door into the morning heat. Larkin is loud and bright and entirely indifferent to the fact that Silas Coulter told me he’ll be in my shop on Thursday, like it was a simple logistical fact and not the thing that is currently making it slightly difficult to remember where I parked.

Three days.

Completely fine.

Chapter eight

Norah

The electricians arrive at seven-fifteen. Silas isn’t with them.

Two men come in carrying heavy red toolboxes and a work order on a tablet. I step back to let them in. Professional. Unbothered. A woman who ordered a ceiling fan installation and is receiving a ceiling fan installation.

The broad-shouldered one with an easy grin is the same one from the hardware store. The one who caught my eye over the flatbed cart and looked away too quickly. He notices me the same way he did then—aware, entertained, keeping it to himself. I decide I like him for his discretion even while I’m annoyed by what the discretion implies.

“Fan’s still boxed up in the back,” I say.

“Yes ma’am,” he says. The grin stays exactly where it is.

The other one is older, more serious, already moving toward the back with the brisk purpose of someone who lost interest in small talk years ago. I appreciate that about him immediately.

I lead them to where I stashed the box and go back to closing. Register first, with the satisfying click when it balances cleanly and the receipts stacked and squared. Then I dim the lights along the front aisle but leave the lamp on the counter bright. I move fast to get out of their way before they come back up.

The last customer left twenty minutes ago. Normally I like this hour. Tonight I keep listening to the sounds from the back room, tools clinking together and the occasional low exchange between the two men. I try not to agonize over wondering if I misunderstood when Silas said he was coming.

I straighten a display near the window that doesn’t need straightening and then straighten it again.

Seven-forty five comes and goes.

I move to the biography section and pull three books that have drifted out of alphabetical order. Then the literary fiction, where someone has shelved a Zadie Smith between two Updikes, minor for most people but enough to irritate me. I work slowly, more slowly than necessary, because keeping my hands busy is preferable to checking the time again.

He said Thursday. It’s Thursday. He said he’d come with them.

He didn’t.

I’m fine with this. Completely fine. I blow out the candle on the counter, the cedar one I picked up the other day. Smoke curls from the wick for a few seconds. A sigh escapes me, and I move to the back shelves where the remainders and sales rack live, because I can always find a shelf that needs work.

The broad-shouldered one finds me in the back at eight-fifteen. He leans against a shelf, in no hurry. He looks around the shop with obvious appreciation.