She led me through the house, dispassionately indicating bedrooms and bathrooms, a laundry room, and a linen closet. Her own bedroom was on the main level and was painted a beautiful and indulgent dark green.More throw pillows decorated her bed, and that fact alone charmed me. She had artwork on her walls—photographs, if I wasn’t mistaken—of the landscape, gorgeous mountains, a sunset, rows and rows of apple trees.
There were two additional bedrooms upstairs, plus an office. All with furniture, but sparsely decorated. When I stepped into the final guest bedroom to check out the walk-in closet, Joan practically lunged to stop me.
I grinned down where she clutched my arm in a panicked grip. Whispering, I asked, “Is this where you keep your sex toys?”
She rolled her eyes. “No. That would be too far from my bed and make no sense.”
My brain misfired momentarily at the thought of Joan having a sex toy collection and what I’d be willing to do in order to enjoy that with her.
“It’s worse,” she said, pulling me out of my sex toy–induced distraction.
“Well, that just makes me want to see it even more.”
Sighing, she released me.
I opened the sliding pocket door and immediately jumped back. “Ahhh!”
“I warned you.”
I shot her an incredulous look. “No. No, you did not. If you had said, ‘Ian, there are a thousand weird-ass, scary baby dolls in that closet,’ I wouldn’t have just felt my soul leave my body.”
There weren’t a thousand, but there were at least a hundred. The closet shelving was absolutely filled with dolls, some layered two or three deep. They were all around a foot tall, and most looked antique, like they were beloved by a Victorian child before the doll came to life and murdered the entire household.
Synthetic hair, mostly shiny and coiled, in all colors adorned their heads. Some wore bonnets, and most donned frilly dresses. Their terrifying glass eyes stared back at me as I slowly slid the door closed.
“Why do you have all these?” I asked.
Another sigh left her. “I don’t really remember how it started. I think I got one as a present when I was a kid. I probably carried it around or braided its hair or something, so my family assumed I liked it. They kept getting them for me. Mom and I were at an estate sale, probably fifteen years ago, and she saw this vintage doll dressed as a farmer, in overalls with an apple basket. She showed it to me, said it reminded her of all the dolls I had growing up. I must have said something encouraging, like, ‘Oh, that’s cute.’ Well, she went back and bought the doll and gave it to me for Christmas that year.”
“Oh, no,” I breathed, knowing where this was going.
Joan nodded. “I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I thanked her and told her how much I liked it. From then on, everyone in the family started buying them for me. Birthdays, Christmases, and randomly whenever they’d find one at an antique store or a flea market. My dad pulled the ones from when I was a girl out of storage in the attic and gave them to me for mycollection.”
“Joan.”
“It makes them happy to give them to me,” she explained. “I can just hide them back here?—”
“Where they can’t get you in your sleep.”
Her lips twitched. “And no one has to ever know that I don’t actually like or collect dolls.”
“Yeah, but what about my emotional damage as a result? I’m going to have nightmares.”
She laughed, and the sound loosened something inside my chest that had been strung tight since the night of the wedding. Deep down, I’d been worried I’d never hear it again. That I might have scared her off, out of my life—and Georgie’s—for good.
Three months ago, I couldn’t have known how essential she’d be. How I’d wake up thinking of her and rearrange my schedule so I could run with her or have lunch together. My life was prioritized around my nephew, but I worked pretty damn hard to fit Joan and her family in where I could. Becausethatwas what I wanted.
I’d missed her this week. Missed talking to her. Missed hearing about her day.
This woman who collected dolls against her will because she didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. Joan was kind in quiet ways, thoughtful when it mattered. She had a good heart—a fierce heart—for the people she loved.
And I wanted to count myself among them.
“Let’s go eat,” I said. “You can tell me about your week and judge my cooking skills.”
Her blue eyes sparkled. “Can’t wait.”
But before I could walk past her, she clutched my hand and squeezed. “Please don’t say anything about the dolls to my family. I don’t want to?—”
