Page 28 of Keepsakes and Kismet

Callum’s hand stills. “In Waterton? What is it that you do?”

“Guess you’ll have to stop by next week and see.” I throw him a wink on my way out.

Chapter 7

Callum

Unplayed Voicemails: (8)

Hey, Cal, it’s Tammy. And Jeff! Can you believe it was fifteen years ago to the date when we surprised you boys with Columbus Crew tickets? With all the jumping up and down, it was impossible to get a clear shot, but the blurry picture popped up on my phone today. We practically had to drag you out of the stadium, because you didn’t want to say goodbye.

It’s funny how the tides turn. Now, we’re the ones having a hard time saying goodbye. Even when we visit him, it’s always “see you later” or “until next time.” Do… Do you ever visit him? A few months ago, we saw a hacky sack nearby, and we thought you might’ve gone to the… Sorry. Just had something stuck in my throat.

Well, we won’t say goodbye to you either, Cal. For now, we’ll say, we love you. And we’re here, waiting for you, whenever you want to see us.

* * *

Am I stalking her? This definitely feels like stalking, but she told me to come to her office. To my surprise, it’s in the town square. I’ve passed it multiple times, and if I’d been paying attention to anything other than a work assignment, I would’ve seen it.

I glance at my watch. 8:00 a.m. She said “stop by next week,” and first-thing-Monday-morning is technically next week, in the way that stores jump the gun by putting up Christmas displays before Halloween. But I couldn’t wait any longer; my curiosity nearly killed my cat. Literally. I exhausted Zebra with my nervous energy, and now she won’t even look at me.

The idea of finally getting answers from Peyton kept me up even later than usual last night. I didn’t try to look her up on my own. I want her to tell me. I’m buzzing with anticipation as I run through all sorts of employment scenarios in my head.

I’m nearly positive they’d train on accents at Quantico. Unless her American accent is also fake, and she’s a sleeper cell spy. But a covert operation in Waterton seems unlikely, and good agents don’t invite you to their base, so that’s out. I also crossed criminal-on-the-run off my list. Kevin does background checks on staff, and jail time would’ve come up.

My list of options is so whittled down that I only have professional prankster business??? and victim of memory loss???? left.

The decal on her glass door says “Good Taste” in sage-green letters, nearly identical to the color of her eyes. From the outside, the space looks nice. Ivory and green pumpkins rest on a couple of hay bales, which are covered with plaid flannel blankets. Yellow lights line the border of the window, reflecting off the pane.

I check myself out in the glass, sighing at my work uniform. Peyton has seen me in khakis and a white polo a concerning number of times. Nothing I can do about it now. I twist the watch on my wrist nervously—I have an inspection after this. While I could rearrange my schedule, I try to visit establishments during their slowest times of day if I can. No use adding stress on management during peak hours.

Should I wait outside for a while? Overhead lighting is on inside the shop, but I don’t see anyone inside.

No. I’m going to go in. I think.

Stop looking in the window like a weirdo.

A bell chimes when I walk through the door. The forest green wallpaper is the first thing I notice. White birch tree branches appear to be painted on the paper, and the attention to detail on the shading is nice. A few plants hang from the ceiling in ivory netting. I take a seat next to a copper-colored end table in one of the leather armchairs by the front window.

“Shit!” A woman’s voice cuts through the silence. I’m not familiar with the low, annoyed tone, so I mind my business and stay seated, bopping my knee up and down.

“Double shit!” That’s Peyton’s voice, and I get up to follow it.

I navigate around cardboard boxes stacked to half my height until I find them in a walk-in closet.

A blue-haired woman holds the bottom of a small ladder that’s clearly only for display, scooting it back and forth underneath the ceiling. On top of the ladder is…

“Peyton? What’re you doing up there?”

The woman with blue hair startles, nearly letting go of the decorative ladder, and Peyton lurches to the right. I immediately grab the middle of the ladder to steady it.

“Jesus, Callum! You scared us!” Peyton shrieks, hugging the top of the ladder.

I’m grateful they can’t see what’s surely a blush climbing up my neck. “I’m sorry. I heard a commotion and wanted to make sure everything’s okay… I mean, you, um, invited me to visit. Remember?”

The blue-haired woman quickly glances my way. “You’re Peyton’s Callum? Oh my God! Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you, because of… well. Um, sorry, again. Nevermind. Anyway, I’m Romy. How’s Christopher? You probably don’t remember me, but I used to take lessons from him.”

Her awkward introduction-apology doesn’t even register, because I’m too busy focusing on the part where she referred to me as Peyton’s Callum.