Page 16 of Something Old

“Yeah, hi . . . I just, well . . . how’d your big day go? Was it all right?”

“Pretty good, thanks.”

“Quiet now, though.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I’m closed, so—”

“No, I meant, no big after-party or anything?”

Madeline could only shake her head.

“Oh, well, that’s all right then.”

“Did you come for any specific reason, Grant? I was heading home and—”

“Well, yeah. I was wondering if you’d sold any of that furniture of mine like we talked about, you know . . . through word of mouth, sight unseen and all that.”

For Pete’s sake! Maybe she had been wrong. Maybe he was out of his ever-loving mind. He read her face, and above his scruffy not-quite-bearded-but-more-than-stubbled jaw, his cheeks flushed. “That was a joke. I was kidding. Sorry.” Then almost to himself, he muttered, “Hell, I’m making a mash of this.”

Boots, bored, slinked back the way they’d come and darted beneath the fence. Madeline wanted to follow his lead.

“I didn’t know if you’d have other plans, so I came to see if you wanted to have a glass of wine and snacks at my place to celebrate,” Grant said in such a rush that all his words blurred together—or maybe it was Madeline’s shock muddling what she was hearing. Maybe he was perfectly coherent. “But I totally get it if you don’t. Either way . . . ” The hand he’d held behind his back whipped into view, revealing an extravagant bouquet of roses—yellows, pinks, corals, and reds. Old-fashioned and gorgeous. “These are for you. I thought they suited you and the store, sort of vintage looking or something.”

Don’t cry, you ninny, Madeline commanded herself. Do. Not.

Aloud she said, “What an unexpected treat. They’re beautiful. Thank you.” She took the flowers and buried her nose in them.

“They look really nice with your, uh, outfit.”

Madeline looked down at her vintage 40s navy peplum jacket and skirt. “You think?”

“Yeah. It’s a bit weird to see you in real clothes, though.”

Madeline laughed. “T-shirts are real clothes, Grant.”

“You know what I mean.”

She cocked her head. In the fading sunlight, his sandy beard was shot with glints of copper, gold—and silver. It was very attractive on him. She blinked at that observation and batted it away. “I wasn’t sure about this suit, actually.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “When you’re young, you can wear any old thing you want, and it looks cute and on purpose. I worry I’m getting to an age where ‘retro’ just looks like I haven’t kept up with fashion.”

“Not keeping up with fashion! Oh, dear.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know. It’s stupid.”

“Not at all. It’s your business, right? And don’t worry. You look very cute—oh, and purposeful.”

“Ha-ha.”

“I’m serious. You look—you are, I mean—very pretty. If I was someone who noticed or commented on those types of qualities. . . .”

Madeline crossed her arms, amused and a smidge uncomfortable—aware of a warmth rising in her own face that had nothing to do with a hot flash. “Flatterer. You’re just trying to make sure I won’t bail on my offer of free help.”

“Absolutely.” He cleared his throat as if being humorous and slightly flirty was an effort that had worn him out. “Now . . . are we on or what?”

“For celebratory wine and snacks at your house?”