Page 17 of Something Old

“Well, ‘house’ is a generous term, but . . . yes.”

“All right. Let me run these beautiful things into the store and put them in water, then we can head out.”

“Your cat’s gone. Will he be all right?”

“I thought you didn’t like him.”

“Well, I don’t, but just because he’s an asshole doesn’t mean I want him hit by a car or something.”

“I leave a window open for him, so he goes back and forth between my house and the shop all day. He’ll be fine.”

Grant nodded.

Minutes later, she was in the passenger seat of his truck, buckling her seatbelt.

“How did you know?” she asked as he shoulder-checked and pulled out onto the road.

“Know what?”

“That I didn’t have anything on celebration-wise.”

He kept his eyes fixed on the road. “Well, you pretty much straight out said you have no people—and I know you spend a lot of time alone. Plus, you volunteered to work evenings with me in the hell hole . . . not exactly something someone with a busy social life would do.”

She didn’t ask how he knew she spent a lot of time alone. No doubt, her only ever referencing Boots as a friend gave her away.

“Well, it’s very nice of you. Thank you.”

He shot her a wry look. “Don’t say thanks ’til you’ve tasted the appetizers. I’m not much of a cook.”

*

Grant’s house was a bit of a shock, especially after seeing his father’s place and misattributing it to him: tiny, immaculate, portable. Perhaps three hundred square feet total, not counting a small covered porch at the entrance, just large enough for the large wicker chair and footstool it held, and another, larger, deck off the front of the home. It was a masterpiece of simplicity and beauty, with corrugated metal siding and massive windows trimmed with gleaming pine planks.

Madeline practically held her breath as she stepped through the beautiful wooden door—a carved work of art, portraying huge, leafy ferns, with a burnished brass knocker and matching knob. The intricate door stood out—in all the right ways—against the tiny house’s simple, modern lines.

Aware of Grant’s proximity in the small space, she studied the interior with growing delight. The open-concept living space featured a kitchen on one wall and a library of bookshelves interspersed with three floor-to-ceiling windows—one of which was actually a patio door leading to the front deck—on the opposite wall. A natural gas fireplace glowed cozily in one corner. A large dining table made from a live edge cedar slab filled the center of the room, surrounded by four wide-seated chairs. A comfy couch, complete with built-in recliners, lined the remaining wall. Above her head, a ladder rested in a latch, ready to be pulled down should anyone need access to the loft bedroom. Because the space had a twelve-foot ceiling and the loft only ran about a quarter of the length of the room, it felt airy and spacious—a funny description for such a tiny home, yet fitting.

“Do you mind?” She motioned at the only separate room—its door slightly ajar.

“Be my guest.”

Madeline opened the door wider and peeked in. A luxurious little bathroom met her eye, complete with a Japanese-style soaker tub crafted out of cedar and copper. It was perfect in the condensed space, deep and round as a barrel, and practically called out, Grab a book and a glass of wine. Have a soak.

“Oh,” Madeline breathed, striding back to the center of the main room. “My daughter would absolutely adore this place. It’s . . . captivating. Just . . . amazing.” She was being effusive, for sure, but she meant every word.

“Oh, you have kids—or a kid, I mean?” Grant asked, his smile suggesting he was pleased by her response to his home.

“No,” she croaked. “Not now.” She was floored that she’d brought Lauren up. She never did, especially not to strangers. She couldn’t stand the explaining or the cringing condolences. The tiny home—another dream of Lauren’s—had lowered her defenses. “I did, though. Once. A daughter, Lauren. She . . . died.” Even after all this time, saying it aloud was like trying to swallow a razor blade.

Graham pulled a chair out for her. “The worst thing about grief is how it hides in everyday, inane moments, then, when you’re least expecting, it jumps out and knocks you flat.”

She nodded but thought, yes, he’d nailed it exactly. Or one of the many worst things about grief anyway.

“Red or white? I figured you for red, but then I second-guessed myself.”

Madeline smiled shakily. He wasn’t going to ask her anything awkward or awful—and he’d guessed she liked red wine. “Definitely red.”

He grinned. “Me too.”