Page 33
The woman stared at her. “I’m beginning to understand how poorly prepared I am for this assignment.”
Erin laughed and carried both options to the counter, where Ingrid was finishing with another customer. “This one is quiet enough for a hotel room. This one may leave the guests next door wondering why their vacation isn’t going nearly as well.”
The woman laughed and left with both.
Ingrid tucked the receipt into the customer’s bag and then began restocking the gift bags. She had arrived at nine, an hour before the doors opened, carrying a container of Dutch butter cookies she placed beside the coffeemaker. They moved around each other the way they always did—Ingrid anticipating which displays would thin out fastest, Erin catching the customers who needed more than a product recommendation. When Erin disappeared into the consultation room with a woman who had questions about sensation after a hysterectomy, Ingrid handled every register transaction and greeted two new browsers.
Between the consultation and a couple debating silk versus satin blindfolds, Erin pulled her phone from her back pocket. No messages. She put it back and helped the couple by answering a question about rechargeable battery life.
Checked again. Nothing.
Her house had been too quiet that morning. She’d woken at five-thirty with her arm stretched across cold sheets, reaching for a body that was twenty minutes away in a rented house too large for one person. She had slept beside Claire for two nights, and her own bed already felt like it was missing a mattress.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered, shelving a returned display model.
“What is?” Ingrid appeared beside her carrying four boxes of replenishment stock.
“Nothing. Talking to myself.”
“You do that. Regularly.” Ingrid set the boxes on the counter and began slicing tape with a utility knife. “Usually about pizza.”
Erin’s phone buzzed against her hip. She finished adjusting the display, moved a price card two inches to the left, then pulled the phone out with what she considered admirable restraint.
Have you eaten anything, or are you surviving on coffee?
Erin grinned at her phone. Bold of you to assume I made coffee. Ingrid made coffee. I’ve been riding her coattails since nine.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. I'd like to bring you lunch. What sounds good? And please tell me what Ingrid likes—I’m not arriving empty-handed.
Erin pressed the phone against her chest for a moment, then typed her order and asked Ingrid whether she wanted the turkey club or the soup from the café on Third.
“The soup. And whatever that chocolate thing is they do with the hazelnuts.” Ingrid didn’t look up from the invoices. “Your friend has good manners.”
“She does.”
Ingrid turned a page, adjusted her reading glasses, and said nothing else. The small, satisfied curve at the corner of her mouth said plenty.
Claire pushed through the front door at twelve-forty carrying two brown paper bags in one hand and a cardboard drink tray in the other. Her camel coat was unbuttoned, her hair loose beneath a charcoal scarf, and her boots—different ones today, flat-soled and practical—left damp prints on the floor.
Erin was explaining the differences between massage oils to a woman in her early sixties who had driven over from Ridgway hoping to surprise her girlfriend that evening. Erin kept her attention on the conversation but tracked Claire in her peripheral vision as she set the bags on the counter beside Ingrid and produced a small bakery box.
“The hazelnut thing, which looks divine,” Claire said quietly. “And the soup is underneath.”
Ingrid opened the box, inspected the pastry, and nodded once. “She needs to do everything in her power to keep you.”
Claire’s mouth twitched. She shed her coat, folded it over the back of the velvet chair nearest the register, and settled there as though she’d been visiting the boutique for years.
Erin returned her focus to the Ridgway customer and opened two bottles so she could test a drop of each on the back of her hand. She recommended the lighter oil, explaining that it stayed smooth without becoming sticky and washed easily from sheets.
“Do you think I should buy the candle too?” the woman asked.
Erin smiled. “How surprised do you want your girlfriend to be?”
The woman added the candle.
Erin turned. Claire watched her from the velvet chair, legs crossed and chin propped on one hand. She looked quietly impressed, as though watching Erin work had revealed another part of her worth knowing.
Seeing that admiration on Claire’s face touched Erin more deeply than she expected.
