She knew what Dean would say about all this. It was just stuff. Clothes did not make the man. But looking at Dean’s clothes, she could see all the man had made. These were the garments of the hard-working, unpretentious, loyal, and sometimes genius, in her mind, man that was Dean Tucker. Flannel, denim, corduroy, cotton, and wool. Not a fine fabric in the mix. Everything was tough but also soft with wear and in good shape because he cared.
J.J. saw Dean as clear as day, standing with her.
“Pack ‘em up. They’re just collecting dust. There’s a young kid out there who needs some of these duds.”
And he was right. J.J. grabbed as many shirts as she could in one bundle and put them in the box she’d lugged in. The jeans went in next. She was about to tape it shut—it was best to be fast—when one item caught her eye.
“That son of a gun,” she said out loud.
The oldest flannel, the one he’d told her he’d thrown out, was buried in the middle of the newer ones she’d diligently acquired for him over more recent years.
J.J. picked it out of the lot.
“Well, you survived me twice. Dean saved you, eh? Fine.”
J.J. had a pile on the kitchen table, stuff to keep. Photo albums, the fancy silver from Dean’s grandma, and now, this one flannel. Buffalo plaid, for goodness’ sake; he always looked like young Santa in it. The flannel that irritated her the most was the one she wouldn’t part with.
“You win on this old thing, Dean. You win.”
She’d have the boys go through the shed out back, grab any tools they still wanted, and that was it.
Dean didn’t make furniture or collectible crafts. He built decks, roofs, room additions, and staircases. She couldn’t pack that up. She couldn’t give the boys some chest of drawers he carved or a table he’d turned.
But Dean’s work was all over the county. J.J. took comfort in that.
The rest of the stuff was in the garage. She’d have Goodwill come get it.
A couple of hours of work had reduced a couple of decades of life into the pile on the kitchen table.
She was at once relieved that she’d made it through this job and also slightly panicked. If there was nothing to do anymore as Mrs. Dean Tucker, was she still Mrs. Dean Tucker?
J.J. shook it off.Dean wouldn’t want me to be wallowing, and I’m not going to, darn it.That kind of thinking won’t get me anywhere.
A knock at the door was well-timed to interrupt the flow of tears that was sure to follow if she kept standing in the house and reminiscing.
J.J. opened the door to find Libby looking strange, and next to her, Stone Stirling, in full Stone Stirling billionaire business attire.
“Uh, hi?”
“We need to talk to you.”
“Look, if this is about your Range Rover, I said I’d pay for it. But I want a local estimate. I’m not doing some jacked-up East Coast repair fee. In fact, I may try to buff it out myself. We all don’t have a billion dollars sitting around. And getting Libby involved? That’s just, I don’t even know what.” Her melancholy had swiftly moved over for a fiery dose of outrage.
“What are you talking about?” Libby looked confused.
“His car, my cart hit his car. And to be honest, I’m not even sure if I am liable for that, but even so, I’ll pay.”
Stone Stirling was smiling.
Why was he smiling?
“Can we come in?”
“Yes, sure.”
J.J. stepped back, and Libby and Stone were now in her cozy family room. She wondered when the last time the billionaire had been in a room this small, if ever.
“I’m not here about the car. It’s not your problem, truly,” Stone said.
