“Jordan? Are you stuck? Damper’s not stuck, is it? The last fellow said the damper was—”
“I heard you,” I say. My voice is steadier than my hands.
I back out of the flue, careful, scraping my way to the opening. Not graceful. I tumble onto her living room drop cloth, dusted in soot from scalp to bootlaces, the black powder already drifting to every surface in sight. Mrs. Pelletier doesn’t seem worried. Teachers have seen worse.
I peel off my respirator, swipe at my face with a rag—a cosmetic improvement, at best. Mrs. Pelletier is perched on her floral sofa, hands folded, waiting like she’s expecting news of an incoming tornado.
“What exactly did Elaine say?” My words are measured, too careful.
“Oh, you know Elaine. She’s always got the scoop.” Mrs. Pelletier waves a hand—a teacher’s way of saying I’m being vague because it matters. “Something about a real estate agent looking at the property. And Maddie’s thinking about Boston, since her family’s there.”
Boston. It just sits there, heavy, unmovable.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Pelletier says, “what do you think about a chimney cap? Elaine’s nephew swears by his. Keeps raccoons out. Do I have raccoons? I don’t think so. Do you see evidence of raccoons?”
I don’t see any raccoons. What I see is the inside of my head, replaying every conversation with Maddie in the last few months, double-checking for signs I missed: the way she organizes displays, the shortness in her answers, the way she stares at the ledger like it’s a locked door.
“Chimney cap’s a good plan. Keeps out weather too. Snow, rain. And raccoons, if you had any, which you don’t. Probably.”
“Stainless steel, then. Not copper. Copper turns green, and this is a historic house. Historic, Jordan.”
I finish up the way I always do: thorough, but with a chunk of my mind a million miles away. I check the damper, sweep the firebox, gather the soot with a dustpan that’s seen better years. Mrs. Pelletier tails me from parlor to kitchen, talking about lighthouses and ABBA, the church committee, her haunted fridge.
I nod, make the right noises. My jaw is locked so tight, I half-wonder if I’ll ever get it loose again.
Outside, sun’s doing its best to pretend it isn’t July, but it is, and the air is wet as soup. I sling my kit into the truck, not gentle, let the rods rattle, shoving the drop cloth into the corner with zero folding. The truck door fights me. The seat is punishingly hot. I just sit, hands on the wheel, trying to ignore the hollow behind my ribs.
Selling the store. Boston.
I start the engine. The radio’s spitting out some pop song about doomed lovers, and I kill it with a jab of my finger, because timing like that is a punchline.
I tell myself I need a box of screws. Three-inch, Phillips, deck screws. Low stock, absolutely. Definitely not an excuse to goto Springs & Bells, where Maddie might be waiting behind the counter, possibly making choices that would gut the heart of this town I’ve spent years pretending was just a workplace.
Nope. Nothing to do with that.
I point the truck at Main Street, at that green awning and hand-painted sign, and I don’t let myself notice my hands are trembling. Soot, I tell myself. That’s all.
There’s something about the bell at Springs & Bells Galore. It rings out clear, like glass, slicing through the background clatter of the store. I’ve heard it seven thousand times, but today it slices through me. Surgical.
The place smells as always: solvent and sawdust, with a persistent ghost of that one spill Drew made in the stockroom. Underneath that, something sweet and sharp: Maddie’s jasmine lotion, leaving a trail down every aisle.
Back in the stockroom, Melvin’s voice grumbles through the wall, punctuated by the metallic clatter of pipe fittings. Business as usual. I barely notice.
Maddie’s at the counter, lining up a display of drawer pulls, hands moving fast, mind somewhere else. Her pale hair’s pulled back, a smear of paint on her wrist like a badge of whatever project she’s survived. She doesn’t look up when the bell rings.
I could turn around. Come back later, armed with a better excuse. Instead I go right to Aisle 4, pull a box of three-inch screws off the shelf, and bring it to the counter.
She clocks me as I set the screws down. For a split second, she looks surprised, then she smooths her face into the smile she wears for customers: bright, bulletproof, not quite real.
“Jordan! Hey. Just, uh, picking up screws, I see. How’d Garland Street go? Was Mrs. Pelletier’s flue a nightmare?”
“Not bad. Squirrel nest, but nothing tragic.” I lean on the counter, arms folded, making no move toward the register.
“Great. She was on about drafts last week.” Maddie keeps lining up the drawer pulls, finish by finish, moving her hands as a shield. She’s not looking at me. I watch her anyway.
The silence lasts. Maddie straightens a price tag, then straightens it again.
“You okay?” I ask, deadpan.
