“You just stared into the void for thirty seconds when asked about honest heroes.”
“I was thinking.”
“You were spiraling.”
“Same thing.”
Mrs. Sanders arrives at two-fifteen,wearing a floral blouse and a tennis skirt, earrings that sparkle in the afternoon light, and an expression that says she’s here on a mission.
“Jessica, honey.” She breezes through the door like she owns the place. “I was in the neighborhood.”
She was not in the neighborhood. The hardware store is four blocks in the opposite direction, and Mrs. Sanders doesn’t go anywhere without a purpose.
“Can I help you find something?” I ask, even though we both know she’s not here for books.
“Just browsing.” She makes a show of examining the new releases table. “These covers get racier every year, don’t they? In my day, a shirtless man was scandalous. Now they’ve got tattoos and everything.”
“They’re popular with the readers.”
“I’m sure.” She picks up a book, squints at the back cover, sets it down. “You look tired, hon. You eating enough? I’ve got fig cake at home. I could bring you some.”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Sanders.”
“Mmhmm.” She moves to the romance section, trailing her fingers along the spines. “I thought the committee meeting went well Thursday.”
Here it comes.
“We got a lot planned,” I say carefully.
“I’m sure you did. Couldn’t help but notice you and Scott Avery had some...tension.”
“There’s no tension.”
“Honey, I’ve been married for forty-seven years. I know tension when I see it.” She pulls out a book, examines it, puts it back. “You know, I’ve known that boy since he was eight years old.”
I go still. “What?”
“Scott. His grandmother lived here—Vera Avery, out on Marsh Road. Sweetest woman you ever met. Scott used to spend summers with her when he was young. Before his parents’ marriage fell apart.”
This is new information. I try to keep my face neutral. “I didn’t know that.”
“Most people don’t. He doesn’t talk about it.” Mrs. Sanders turns to face me, abandoning any pretense of browsing. “His daddy was a piece of work. Mean man. Said terrible things to hismama, and to Scott. He called her soft and foolish for believing in love.”
My chest tightens.
“Vera was the only one who let Scott be himself. He’d come down here every summer, spend three months reading on her porch, helping her garden, being a normal kid instead of whatever his daddy was trying to make him.” She shakes her head. “When Vera passed, about fifteen years back, something in Scott closed up. He got hard. Started acting like feelings were weakness.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re looking at him like he’s one thing, and I’m telling you he’s something else underneath. Something he’s been hiding for a long time.” She fixes me with a knowing stare. “You’re a romance reader, Jessica. You know how this works. The grumpy ones are always soft in the middle. They’re just scared.”
“This isn’t a romance novel, Mrs. Sanders.”
“Honey, everything’s a romance novel if you’re paying attention.” She pats my arm. “That boy’s been fixing things around your building, you know.”
I stay silent. Because I do know.
“The back door. That light in your stockroom. Mr. Sanders mentioned Scott put in an order for weatherstripping last week—said it was for a ‘boardwalk property.’” She raises her eyebrows. “Just something to think about.” Mrs. Sanders heads for the door. “Oh, and, Jessica?”
