Page 11 of Something Old

“He didn’t believe in house pets. Thought they made a mess.”

Their eyes locked at that comment, and Madeline bit her lip so hard a white indent appeared. She was trying not to laugh, Grant realized. For half a second, mirth at the whole godawful situation trickled up in him too—but it was quickly stifled by the ever-present heaviness of shame and feeling of being snowed under.

“You must think he was an absolute nutter,” he muttered. And that I’m one by extension, his brain added silently.

Madeline shook her head. “Not at all.”

Now that made him curious. If not insanity, what did she think caused it?

She didn’t elaborate, though—merely swiveled her head again. “Where are all the treasures you mentioned?”

“Mixed throughout. It’s a big house, two floors, plus an attic and crawl space.”

“All this full?”

“And then some.”

Madeline continued to scrutinize the mess with a slightly furrowed brow, but again, she still didn’t look put off. If anything, she appeared to be doing mental inventory or making complex inner calculations—no doubt along the lines of how-long-did-it-take-to-accumulate-so-much-junk and what-the-hell-was-wrong-with-someone-who-allowed-things-to-get-to-this-state.

Self-conscious fury clenched in Grant’s gut. He couldn’t refrain any longer. “I know, I know. Seeing all this, it’s clear my old man was mad as a hatter, right?”

Madeline shook her head slowly. “That’s the second time in as many minutes that you’ve suggested I should think your father was crazy. Did he have mental health issues?”

“Isn’t that obvious?”

Madeline reached out and rested her hand on a pile of stuffed animals in various states of wear, from brand-new to threadbare. Grant cringed. What the hell did a seventy-plus man need stuffed animals for? Grant knew his dad wasn’t a pedophile or something equally awful. Of all the issues he may or may not have suffered, that just really wasn’t one of them. All the same, Grant twitched, thinking how it might look to an outsider like Madeline.

Her shoulders jerked in a half-shrug that was already becoming familiar to him as quintessentially her. “To me, it seems more like he was deeply sad or mourning or something.”

Grant stared at her again—well-aware it probably seemed more like a glare. “All this!” He motioned at the mountains of crap surrounding them. “You think it comes down to being sad? You think it’s that simple?”

A bitter laugh escaped Madeline but died in a heavy sigh. “Simple is the last thing I think grief is. The very last thing.”

Grant still didn’t get it. He’d been sad plenty in his life. He was still feeling heartbroken and kicked around, in fact—but it didn’t compel him to hoard every last piece of useless trash he could get his hands on. Then he thought about the unembellished, hard facts he knew about his father’s life, despite how close-lipped his father was about such things. How his parents had immigrated to Canada when he and his brother were toddlers, only for his father to leave his wife and children within a few years. His subsequent hardscrabble childhood with a depressed mother, trying to keep a roof over their heads. The logging accident that took his brother when they were just teenagers. His marriage to a wife who would eventually desert him the way his father had—leaving him to raise two kids alone, in a gender reversal of his own childhood. What if a fast-moving, aggressive cancer hadn’t taken Grant’s mother, leaving no chance for reconciliation? Would everything have been different? Would Grant’s father have been different? Or had he already been set on the path he’d follow until his own death? Was that why his wife had left him in the first place? It was one of the hardest parts of having your parents die. You didn’t even know all the questions you had until they were no longer around to answer them.

After a moment, as if taking his long silence for disagreement, Madeline tried to explain her position to him. “Places and properties like this . . . they’re all different, but they’re also all sort of the same. It’s like they’re monuments to love, loss, and grief that a person can’t express—maybe can’t even acknowledge.”

A rock lodged in Grant’s chest. He rubbed at it, trying to relieve the pressure.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” He tugged a white bedsheet free from a large shape close to him, sensing it would take Madeline Hart’s sharp attention off him. He was right.

She let out another surprised sound—but this time, it was out of appreciation, not borderline horror. “Well, look at that! ‘Super nice’ is a fitting description, after all.” She craned her head to get a better look. “In fact, it doesn’t quite do it justice.”

Grant stroked the gleaming rosewood top of the curved-drawer dresser, which he had polished to a high shine when he first decided to get the Second Chance Shop’s owner to come and do some appraisals for him. “My grandmother was from Germany. My father inherited all her furniture, dishes, and silver . . . and, miraculously, took decent care of most of it.”

“And there are more pieces like this?”

“Well, ‘more’ is a bit of an understatement.” Grant quirked an eyebrow. “In case you hadn’t noticed, my dad liked to collect the odd thing or two.”

Madeline chuckled—and as she did, her phone rang.

The brief bit of lightness Grant had been experiencing dimmed. This was her exit call, no doubt. He hadn’t missed the fact that she’d texted someone before following him down the drive earlier. And he was right. She couldn’t answer her phone quick enough.

“Hello! Thanks so much for calling back on such short notice!”

After a moment of listening to whoever was on the other end of the call, Madeline added, “Yes, I’m so glad I heard it ring. I would’ve hated to miss you—but no, thank you anyway. I won’t need you, after all.”