“Yep.” Quinton buckles his tool belt around his waist as he glances to my dad. “Anything I need to know before we start?”
“About?”
“Your dad? The project?”
Huh. Look at us having a civil conversation that doesn’t involve Maisey.
“No, not really. He was a capable man before... I’m sure this will be great for him.”
“I’ll do my best to keep up, then.” He shoots me a smirk before walking over, slapping a hand on my father’s shoulder. “Ready to get your hands dirty, Hank?”
“Dying to, son.”
I can’t take my eyes off them both. It’s like giving my father something he’s done for his whole life was the key to keeping him in the here and now.
All of our fussing and trying to keep him safe at home feels like the exact opposite of what he needs.
I huff a shocked breath and turn back to the rolls of canvas and container of brown paint. Which is kind of useless for the images the play director has requested. Damn, I’m going to have to go and get more.
“Quinton?” I call across the gym space.
“Yeah?” He turns back, sliding a carpenter’s pencil behind his ear as his gaze finds me.
“I need more paints. You two okay here?”
“Course. Take your time.”
He turns back, hands moving as he explains what he needs my father to do. Who, right now, is enraptured in the task he is getting the rundown on.
I pick up my bag and slide it over my shoulder, sipping the coffee Maisey brought in as I walk from the gym and head back to the truck.
Outside, snow is falling in short, gentle bursts. The street that the school is on is glistening with the white assault.
I start up the truck and head for the Village Store. The one-stop shop for all things in Grafton. Always has been.
I find a parking spot and swing the truck into it. Killing the engine, I slip inside.
“Morning, Celeste. Hear you’re busy with the artistic endeavors for the school play.” Mr. Nolan winks at me like he has my entire life, every damn time I’ve stepped foot inside his shop. I think he thinks it’s friendly.
I have news for him.
Mrs. Nolan pops out of an aisle with an armful of cereal boxes. “Oh! CC, I thought that sounded like you. How are you, darling?”
I chuckle. Now Mrs. Nolan, I like.
“I’m good, here let me help you with those.”
I take half the pile of boxes precariously perched in her arms into my own.
“Thank you, sweetheart. Tell me, you met that new neighbor of yours yet?” Her eyes are lit up as she smiles over the remaining boxes in her hold.
“Yes, and don’t go getting any ideas.”
She laughs, so hearty it makes something small and light and happy tumble through my own lips.
“Oh, I would never.” She rounds the counter and places the boxes on one end where a half-price ticket is taped to the front of the counter. I narrow my gaze at her and help her stack the boxes in their groups.
“Thanks, hon. But I’m guessing you didn’t come in to help me rearrange the cereal. What are you chasing?”
