Page 8 of Something Old

Chapter 7

Grant glimpsed the woman through the door’s multi-paned window. She was beside a huge, old-fashioned shop counter, speaking animatedly and gesturing with her hands. He looked a little closer, not wanting to knock if she was with someone he knew. Greenridge was a small place that way, and he had no interest in talking to her with some busybody in the room—but the dim store appeared empty. It struck him as beyond stupid to talk with your hands while you were on speakerphone. The listener couldn’t see you, obviously, but whatever.

He knocked, and she startled, then turned and opened the door with a warm smile, almost like she’d been expecting him. It threw Grant for a moment—as did the view of freshly painted walls and full shelves beyond her. The place smelled good too, nothing like the rank mustiness and not-quite-clean odor that often went part-and-parcel with stores that sold old crap. No, this was peppermint fresh, lemon clean, and vanilla cozy. Somehow it was the scent of optimism, promise, and new starts all rolled into one—and since any and all of those things were miles back in his rearview mirror now, it made him grouchy. Or grouchier, rather. He grunted—literally. Then huffed, “You the owner?”

Behind him, out of the woman’s sight, he sensed Grover twitch as if embarrassed by his owner’s manners. It was pretty bad when your dog—who ate other animals’ feces every chance he got—thought you weren’t polite company.

The woman’s eyes widened, but she didn’t step back. He would’ve. “Yes.” She stuck out her hand. “Madeline Hart, sole proprietor of The Second Chance Shop. Is that what you’re looking for?”

Was what what he was looking for? Her eyes—a warm hazel-brown with green flecks, he happened to notice—widened still larger. When the silence stretched, she popped an eyebrow.

“Uh,” he stammered.

“Sorry, is it me you’re looking for? Like you want to talk to the owner of the store?”

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Sorry. I . . . ” He’d been about to explain how he went long periods without talking to anybody, so was always strange the first few lines of a new encounter. He suspected that would only make their already awkward exchange even more bizarre, however.

“I’m Grant. Grant Graham.”

Madeline grinned. “That’s great! So you’re like, what, a secret superhero?”

He looked at her blankly.

“You know . . . the alliteration? Clark Kent, Peter Parker—Grant Graham.”

Her long-sleeved T-shirt suddenly registered. It bore a faded picture of Wonder Woman. He stared at her chest—then realized what he was doing and jerked his eyes away. Feeling like a weirdo, he blurted the first thing that came to him—which was the wrong thing on every level, of course. “Aren’t you a bit old for comic books?”

“Aren’t you a bit young to be such an old curmudgeon?” she fired back.

Curmudgeon. It was a good word, but he didn’t think it was the time to compliment her vocabulary. “No, I think we’re around the same age.” He winced. What a dumb thing to say. Plus, he had no idea if it was true or not. She could be in her thirties—or her fifties. Women seemed to age better than men. Or better than him. He was forty-nine and usually felt half that—but not in a good way—or double it, also not in a good way. Thus, everyone else’s age was a mystery too.

Madeline gave him a once-over. “Exactly my point.”

Grant was at a loss. He’d come on a mission. How had things gotten so off track already? He’d better cut to the chase before something else this Madeline person said threw him off target again. “I have some things I’d like to sell on consignment. The sooner, the better.”

“Um, I’m pretty . . . well-stocked at the moment, but maybe you could leave a card.” Her gaze flickered over him, perhaps evaluating his raggedy appearance. Shoot! He should’ve changed out of his grungiest work clothes at the very least. “Or you could take my card.” She retreated into the store, heading back toward the massive old shop counter that impressed Grant despite himself. “Might be easiest.”

Grant followed her inside, gesturing with a hand for Grover to lie down and stay. “Some of it’s really nice—or it could be—but I have no idea what to do with it.”

“Do you have pictures of the items?”

“No . . . It was impractical to try and capture it photo by photo. It’s easier if you come to see for yourself.”

She winced and looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think that will work. I’m opening soon, and—”

“Oh, come on! Please!” Grant raked his hands through his hair—and must’ve looked deranged because now she did step back from him. And she casually withdrew her phone from her pocket.

Grant sighed heavily. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could be easy, could it? “Look, I’m not crazy. I’m not dangerous. I’m just . . . at my wits’ end. My father left me his house. It’s crammed full of you-name-it, and—” He sighed explosively again. Now he’d been about to dump all his failed marriage problems on this stranger. He really needed to get out more, if only so he didn’t completely lose the ability to be a normal human being in public.

“And?”

“And nothing. It doesn’t matter.” He shook his head again. “You can bring anyone you want with you if you’re concerned about that. I’m safe. It’s safe. I promise. I just need someone who isn’t a complete numbskull and who knows something, however little that something is, to tell me if any of the junk is worth keeping or if I should burn the lot of it.”

To his shock, Madeline laughed. Her laugh was low and rolling and made him think of Janis Joplin—who was actually before his time, but he’d been an old rock junkie back in the day. Come to think of it, Madeline’s voice was deep and husky in general. Quite out of keeping with her time-softening features and rosy cheeks.

“What’s so funny?”

She laughed again. “You just have a hilarious way of asking someone to help you, that’s all. First, you call me old. Now you give me the high praise of not being a ‘complete’ numbskull.”