There’s a pause hanging in the air. We both know what I mean. It’s not just a job.
“Your family business.” He finally names it.
I let out a deep breath. “Exactly.”
We sip our coffee, watching each other over the rims of our mugs.
“So—” Grant murmurs and then swivels his head around, assessing my house. “Mind if I suggest the next project?”
I drop my chin and smile. “What did you have in mind?”
“Are you emotionally attached to your light fixtures?”
I look up at the ceiling, taking in the ancient brass contraptions that I’ve always thought were ugly. “Not at all.”
“You want to come down to the store on Monday and pick out some new ones? I’ll offer you adiscount and install for free.”
“You do electrical work?”
He tips his chin back, swallowing the rest of his coffee in one large gulp. “I do it all, Sadie.” Then he takes his mug over to the sink, where he rinses it out and puts it in the dishwasher.
“But why do all this work for me?”
He moves closer, not touching me, just close enough to feel intentional.
“Because I want to be,” he says.
“Be . . . what?”
“Around,” he answers. “Until you decide what you want.”
I take a step back, pressing my backside into the counter. “You might be waiting a while.”
He smiles softly. “Some things are worth waiting for.”
He says it easily, like waiting has never cost him anything.
I watch him grab his things, step out my front door, and disappear down the sidewalk. His truck roars to life, and it’s not until he drives away that my pulse slows.
My hand moves to pull a knob before I can stop it. Lying inside the kitchen drawer is an old photo. A teenage boy with blond hair and an easy grin wearing a light blue football jersey, looking at the girl he’s holding. She looks like a blade of grass touched by morning dew. She’s laughing, ignorant of what the next decade of her life will bring.
How long has that girl been waiting—thinking patience was the same thing as faith?
And what has she been waiting on?
15
SADIE
It’s strange,but having the list tucked in my back pocket makes me feel like someone handed me a permission slip, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, I need the permission right now.
“Sadie! What do you think about this?” Sophie squeals as she holds up a purple lipstick.
My eyebrows arch. “For?”
“For me,” Sophie answers. “Duh.”
It’s Saturday, and Sophie had me meet her in Dallas. Someone had an old Volkswagen Bus for sale, and Sophie wanted me to determine if they were asking too much for it, as if working in accounting for the last seven years has somehow made me an expert in all financial aspects of life, including car values.
