Well, shoot. That kind of melts my shriveled-up heart. He’s buying his grown daughter a blouse for an interview? That’s a really sweet thing for a father to do. My dad can’t be bothered to call me on my birthday, let alone shop for my clothes.
I scan through the racks and pull out two blouses that have quite a bit of blue in them, holding them both up so he can get a look at them. He squints his hazy blue eyes and uses one gnarled finger to push his glasses further up his nose.
Before he can make a choice, the front door opens with a jingle and a woman walks in. I smile and say hello over Mr. Barrett’s shoulder. She takes one look at the old man and heads in the opposite direction to start shopping.
“I like that one, but not floral. She hates flowers.” She sounds like my kind of woman. “Do you have it in plain blue?”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, no. Just in blue floral.” I hold up the other one that is plain blue, just a different style. “How about this one, then?”
Mr. Barrett frowns, pointing first at the plain blue, then the floral. “I want that blue in that style.”
I shake my head. “We don’t have that. You either get this one in plain blue, or that style in floral. Which will it be?”
Mr. Barrett whacks his cane against the floor, his version of the toddler foot stomp. “I want that blue in that style.” His voice is getting louder again.
I paste on my fakest smile. “I’d love to help you make that happen but I can’t do miracles on company time.”
The woman snorts on the other side of the room. Mr. Barrett’s eyes narrow again, and I might be hallucinating, but it seems like his lips are twitching. “I guess I’ll take the plain blue.”
I put the floral blouse back on the rack and check the size on the plain blue. “Great choice! This is a large. It would usually fit a women’s size ten to twelve. Does that seem right for your daughter?”
“She’s a little smaller than that I think.”
I push blouses across the rack and find a medium, holding it up for his inspection. “This look better?”
“The other style would look better,” Mr. Barrett snaps.
I hug the blouse to my chest, irritated with the man, but also quite liking him. I know what it’s like to feel that grumpy. To be that exasperated with life and people in general.
“Do you want the blouse or not?” I ask bluntly.
Mr. Barrett harrumphs and it takes everything in me not to burst out laughing at his grumpy expression. “Fine,” he finally mumbles.
I spin on my heel and march to the register, finally letting out the genuine smile I’ve been holding back. I wrap the blouse nicely and ring up the sale. Mr. Barrett pulls out a checkbook—a checkbook!—and asks me for a pen. I gape at him, but manage to find a pen below the register. I don’t even know if we take checks.
“Why do you look like a fish?” Mr. Barrett asks suddenly.
I look up from the ancient relic known as a checkbook and see he’s studying me. I point at his checkbook, brutally honest. I feel like Mr. Barrett would appreciate honesty above all else. “I’ve never seen someone use a checkbook.”
He huffs. “You young things have no idea. Put you in a box without your precious smartphones and you wouldn’t be able to find your way out.”
He’s not wrong. “Put you old people on a computer and you wouldn’t be able to send an email,” I toss right back.
His lips twitch again. “Can’t find your way back home without directions squawking at you from your phone. You ever seen a paper map?”
I frown. “A paper map? Like what my mom would print out when she looked up directions on MapQuest decades ago?”
Mr. Barrett snorts, and I can’t help but laugh with him. Who would have thought my kindred spirit would be an eighty-five-year-old man in Heaven, Mississippi?
“You young things are worthless.”
I shrug, not even a little bit offended. “It’s okay if you don’t like me. Not everyone has good taste.”
Mr. Barrett hands me his check with a wink. I take it—and hope Silas won’t kill me for taking a check as a form of payment—and hand him his purchase.
“Tell your daughter good luck from a worthless young thing.”
Mr. Barrett whistles as he leaves the boutique. The woman on the far side of the store watches him go, then turns to me with a wide-eyed stare. “He scares me,” she whispers.
