“Yep.” She says it with the artificial cheer of a flight attendant calling turbulence “just a little bumpy.” “Just busy. Inventory next week. Melvin’s been…” She jerks her head toward the stockroom, where Melvin’s losing another battle with plumbing. “Melvin.”
“Mmhmm.”
Quiet again. Longer this time. Maddie sets down a drawer pull and lets go of the act. She just stands there, hand flat on the counter.
“I’ve been thinking about selling the store,” she says finally, barely above a whisper. “Maybe the house too. I’ve been talking to a real estate agent.”
I don’t even realize I’m gripping the counter. My knuckles bloom white.
“Say that again.”
She meets my eyes. Her gaze is cold lake blue, steely, with something wild fighting underneath—a look of someone at the cliff’s edge, calculating if the drop is survivable.
“I’m thinking about selling. The store. The house. All of it.”
“Why.”
“Because Sleighbell Springs was Drew’s home. Not mine. I followed him here, Jordan. I stayed because we had a life, and then he died, and someone had to keep going. But it was never…” She breaks off, comes back harder. “Everything I touch here is his first. Store, house, garden. The town sees me as his widow, a stand-in for a life I can’t get back. I’m tired of being a placeholder.”
“That’s bullshit.”
I mean to sound harsh. Instead it comes low, almost gentle.
“It’s not bullshit. It’s the truth.”
“That’s your truth. Not the truth-truth.” I uncross my arms, lean in, elbows planted on the counter. “Last winter, school theater reno. Who ran point? You. The holiday window display that doubled traffic? You. Mrs. Hemsley comes in for hydraulic cement, and you hand her exactly what she needs. You didn’t inherit that from Drew, Maddie. You built it.”
She clamps her jaw shut, furious and scared.
“Being useful isn’t the same as belonging. I’ve been useful, sure. That doesn’t mean I belong.”
I want to argue, list all the reasons she’s wrong. But Maddie doesn’t respond to speeches. So I wait.
“Give me one month.”
She blinks. “What?”
“One month. To prove it. That this place is yours. That these folks are yours. That Sleighbell Springs moved on the minute you decided to stay.” I don’t blink. “One month. Then if you still want out, I’ll help you pack. I’ll load the truck. No guilt, no Melvin glaring out the window, just… clean break.”
She stares at me, working through disbelief and maybe some tentative hope. Her fingers rest on the counter. If I reached, I could touch them.
“That’s…” She shakes her head. “That’s absurd.”
“Probably.”
“And completely unnecessary.”
“Almost definitely.”
“And you don’t even know what you’re suggesting.”
“Nope.”
A beat, then another.
“One month,” she says, reluctant but maybe, just maybe, a little curious. “But I’m not promising anything.”
“I don’t want promises. Just time.”
