He steps around the counter and takes my hands, his grip steady and grounding.
“You’re not costing me anything,” he says.
I want to believe him.
But as I look around the store, at the shelves he stocked and the business he built, something cold settles in my chest.
Grady accepted me but the town hasn’t. If this continues it won’t matter how kind my husband is. His livelihood will suffer and I’ll be the root cause of it all.
Grady
A week after marrying Rose I can no longer deny the obvious. Locking the front door of the store I flip the sign to closed.
It’s not even noon.
The street outside is quieter than it should be for a weekday, and that tells me everything I need to know. I stand there for a moment with my hand still on the latch, listening to the silence settle. I have enough money in the bank to keep this place shuttered for months if I choose. I built it that way on purpose. I did not survive Charleston and Austin and the lean years out here by relying on other people’s goodwill.
If Porterville wants to sulk, it can sulk.
Rose is what matters.
She did not say much this morning, but I know the signs. The careful stillness. The way her shoulders tighten when she thinks she’s being watched. I married a woman who learned how to endure long before she learned how to hope, and I will not let this town teach her that lesson again.
I am halfway through tallying the week’s losses when the door rattles.
I do not bother turning the sign.
The rattling turns into a knock. Then another.
When I finally open the door, Luther Morgan is standing there with his hat in his hands and his jaw set like he’s bracing for a blow.
“We’re closed,” I say flatly.
“I can see that,” he replies. His eyes flick past me, into the store, then back to my face. “Thought I might talk to you anyway.”
“If this is about customers,” I say, stepping aside to let him in. “You can save your breath.”
He snorts softly.
“I figured you might say that.”
Luther has always been a thorn in my side. We compete for the same business, the same shipments, the same slice of a very small pie. He is not a cruel man, but he has never been a warm one either. Seeing him here now sets my teeth on edge.
“I am thinking of closing for a few days,” I say, returning to the counter. “Focus on my wife. Let people remember what it is like when they can’t get what they want.”
“That so,” he says.
“I can afford it,” I add because pride is a reflex. “This shop will weather it just fine.”
“I know it will,” Luther says. He shifts his weight, then surprises me by adding, “That’s not why I’m here.”
I finally look at him properly.
There is something different in his expression. Not pity. Not curiosity. Something closer to understanding.
“She is a good woman,” he says. “Your wife.”
My shoulders stiffen.
