Page 69 of Something Old

Monika strode in, a cashmere cape swirling around her skinny thighs, along with an almost visible cloud of perfume. Madeline groaned inwardly. What rotten luck! She hadn’t seen her since Christmas Eve, and that encounter hadn’t been a treat either.

“Ohhh,” Monika drawled. “What a surprise to find you here, Gwen, dear . . . Not! I have to say, you’re a bit of a concern. It’s like you’re becoming one of those lonely grandmother types who frequent the same shops over and over so they have someone to talk to who can’t just walk away from them.”

Madeline’s mouth literally fell open. She just . . . couldn’t. What the heck was this woman’s problem?

Monika gave Gwen a long, pitying once over. “I mean, you’re even wearing sweatpants. In public. Don’t get me wrong. I feel you.” She lowered her voice to a whisper as if they were sharing a fun secret. “I’ve given up too—but God, at least I don’t show it.”

Madeline put both hands on her head and pressed her fingers into her scalp. Do not go postal, she commanded herself. Do. Not.

The soft shush of a leather sole on the wood floor distracted her from her outrage for a welcome moment—Grant, slipping into the shop from the back door. He’d apparently overheard Monika too, and he gave Madeline a comical, wide-eyed look of horror.

Sadly, Gwen’s expression of horror and shame did not seem put on—and wasn’t funny.

“Yes, you’re always wonderfully put together, Monika,” Madeline said smoothly, grateful Grant’s surprise appearance had distracted her from her rage. In her head, she added, it’s almost enough to make you appear human at first glance, then continued again, out loud, “But I’m not sure where else you’d expect Gwen to be.”

Gwen and Monika shot her similar what-do-you-mean looks, and Madeline pushed on. It definitely wasn’t how she’d planned to introduce the idea to Gwen, but necessity was the mother of invention, right?

“Obviously, she dresses appropriately for work, and since she’s a gardening expert, who’s taking over the shop’s yard, I’m not sure what you expect her wardrobe to be exactly.”

“She’s . . .” Monika’s eyes pierced Madeline, then stabbed Gwen. “Is that true? You work here?” She said “work” the way someone else might utter “defecate.”

“Um,” Gwen started and shot Madeline a deer-caught-in-headlights look of panic.

“Why would I make something like that up?” Madeline asked—thinking it was a good question. Monika should consider why someone might be tempted to stretch the truth on behalf of someone else. Then she added, factually, “Those Christmas centerpieces you bought as gifts a few months back—those were Gwen’s creations.”

Gwen had created fifty of them, ten at first, which sold in one day, then another fifteen, same thing, and so on, and so on. The only limiting factor in how many they’d been able to sell was that it had only occurred to Gwen to bring them in on the seventeenth of December.

“Is that so?”

Gwen seemed to find her voice. She straightened up and gave Monika a sweet smile. “I’m so happy you like my work.”

Monika grunted something noncommittal. “Anyway, I’d love to chat, but I can’t. I need to grab one of those weird monster dolls. My niece is desperate for one for her birthday. I don’t really understand the fad, but you know . . . What’s a favorite auntie to do?”

That, at least, was a quality in Monika that Madeline could relate to: love for a child. She quickly helped Monika find the perfect one-eyed, snaggle-toothed Aisha creation, then locked the door behind her.

“Phew, that’s better!”

Gwen laughed nervously. “Tell me about it.”

Madeline shot her a look. “More like you should tell me about it. Monika’s dislike for you is off the charts—like borderline psychotic. What did you do to her?”

Madeline had been speaking facetiously, never dreaming Gwen had actually wronged Monika in any way—but to her surprise, Grant laughed, and Gwen flinched.

“Seriously? You mean you actually did do something to her?”

“No, of course not.” Gwen’s tone was the closest thing to scoffing Madeline could ever imagine for her.

“Unless you count stealing her boyfriend in high school and going on to have a thirty-year happily-ever-after as something,” Grant said, his eyes creasing with humor.

“Wow, it’s always the quiet ones,” Madeline teased—then really thought about it. All that venom over a spat about a boy from thirty years ago? “Your husband must’ve been some catch.”

“Not really.” Gwen blushed furiously. “I mean, yeah, he was, I guess—but that’s not why she hates me.”

“Correct,” Grant chimed in. “It was that Gwen dared to take something Monika saw as hers. It was never about Mick. It was about perceived ownership and entitlement, not anything as inconsequential as . . . love.”

“Right. Exactly!” Gwen exclaimed.

Madeline looked from her still-newish friend to Grant, then back to Gwen again. Their way of speaking altered slightly when they were together; she could hear the teenagers they’d been, even though they were both nearing fifty.