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I sighed. I was glad I didn’t. He’d clearly been in a serious relationship since then. Maybe even married, and I didn’t care what Grandma said. We didn’t know for sure if he was single or dating someone.
I mean, he had a daughter.
I cared way too much about this.
I shook my head to dislodge those thoughts and get back into the painting zone.
No, I didn’t care.
I didn’t care about Mason Black, the phone call that never happened, or the fact that he was my new neighbor.
And if it meant erecting a new, ten-foot-tall fence so I never had to see his stupid face again, then so be it.
CHAPTER TWO – IMMY
Old Biddies Book Club
“Here you go, Mr. Buckland.” I set the thick paper bag on the counter. “That’ll be forty-two-ninety-three, please.”
“Thank you, Immy.” He unfolded his battered old leather wallet and pulled out two twenties, then counted out three dollars in change. “You’ll put a smile on Emily’s face.”
I smiled at the mention of his wife, who was currently bed-bound after breaking her ankle. “I’m glad I could find her the paint she was looking for.”
He winked as he took his change. “So am I. I’ll see you next week, I’m sure.”
“I look forward to it.” I beamed at him as he took the bag and left, throwing a wave over his shoulder. I returned the wave even though he couldn’t see it and busied myself again with the order book.
I had no idea how we’d ended up with so many crafty people in this town. Art by Numbers, the family store, had expanded over the years. Back when my grandparents had opened it, it’d only held your basic paints and brushes. Now, we owned two stores side-by-side and stocked everything.
Paint. Brushes. Pencils. Canvases. Knitting yarn and needles. Crochet things and cross-stitch kits and everything else arty you could ever imagine. The second store was the ceramic painting room where I taught the kids every weekend and occasionally slipped off to during my lunch hour to do a little something for me.
It was like paradise for me. I wandered through the store, taking stock of everything that was available. Thankfully, the stock crisis of the weekend had been well and truly averted, and I’d gotten a stark reminder of why Grandma was not allowed to do that anymore.
She forgot.
Not because her memory was going, but because she had the concentration of a squirrel.
This store had been my safe place for as long as I could remember. As a teen, I’d retreated here, painting in the back room, and my summers in college had been spent earning money behind the counter. That was when the ceramics classes had started.
I’d had grand dreams of moving to a city and being discovered and having my own art shows, but instead, here I was. In my hometown, living with my grandmother, running the family store.
And I couldn’t be happier.
I plugged in an order for the few things we needed and sent it to the supplier. The next hour ticked over slowly with only one customer who browsed without buying. It’d been a quiet Monday, so when three-thirty rolled around and it was still dead, I flipped the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ and locked the door.
It took me half an hour to clean the store. When it was done, I slipped out the back and headed toward my car. It was about the only thing I actually owned, but it didn’t stop Grandma Jen stealing my keys and jumping in whenever she thought I wasn’t paying attention.
Honestly, she might be eighty, but she was probably a better driver than I was. I tended to, um, speed. Mostly after being held up by people doing thirty in a sixty.
Some of us have places to be, Karen, okay?
I pulled out onto Main Street into the slow flow of Monday afternoon traffic. It was nothing new. I was seriously considering changing the opening hours to accommodate the flow of customers, but Grandma was a stickler for tradition.
Not that she upheld the tradition, but I digress.
My phone rang, connecting up to the screen via Bluetooth. Grandma’s name flashed on the screen, and I hit the button to answer the call. “Hey, Grandma.”
“Immy? Can you hear me?”
“I’m in the car, not the Yukon.”
“Smartass. You need to go to the store before you get home.”
I sighed and quickly changed lanes to turn left instead of right. “What do you need me to get?”
“Flour, blueberries, butter, milk, and bananas. Oh, and matches.”
I frowned. “All right. Do you want some pork to go with that, Laura Ingles?”
“I don’t think they had blueberries or bananas in The Little House on the Prairie, Imogen.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll get you what you need. Anything else?”
“Yes. I need some wine. And Twizzlers. Also, cheese.”
“Are you hosting the book club again?”
