“Old project, actually. Pine Cottage. It needs... quite a bit of work.”
Recognition flickered across his face. “Hilda’s place? You must be her niece.”
“Great-niece,” Meryl corrected automatically. Then she frowned. “How did you...”
“News travels in a small town.” He smiled, the expression crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Frank Grayson. I knew Hilda for forty years. She was a good woman.”
“Meryl Aldwick,” she replied, suddenly conscious of how visible she was here. Not anonymous. Known. Connected.
That was a new feeling. One she kind of liked.
Frank nodded toward her list. “Deck screws, you said? For the porch?”
“Yes. And joist hangers. Post brackets. Carriage bolts. Possibly more things once I understand what half of those actually are.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Frank chuckled as he guided her along an aisle. “The porch has definitely seen better days. And I should know. I spent many an evening sitting on it with your aunt, enjoying a cold beer.”
“You knew her well?” Meryl asked, intrigued by her great-aunt’s life here, of which she’d only ever had tiny glimpses.
“We enjoyed each other’s company,” he replied with a wistful smile. “Now, let’s check out this list of yours.”
“Thank you.”
He scanned the list, nodding. “Yep, looks good.” He looked up. “Spencer mentioned you might be popping in and gave me a brief idea of what you needed.”
That caught her off guard. “Spencer. He did?”
Frank’s mouth quirked. “He stopped by earlier. Said he’d been helping you and that you’d likely be along sometime with a list.” He handed the list back. “And here you are.”
“Here I am,” she said, not sure how she felt about Spencer talking to Frank about her.
“You’re in good hands,” Frank went on, already reaching for a box from the shelf. “Spencer knows what he’s doing.”
“Very good hands,” she murmured as Frank led her through the aisles, pulling items from shelves with the confidence of someone who could find what he needed blindfolded. As they walked, he asked practical questions about the cottage. How bad was the water damage? Were the joists still sound? Had she checked the roof yet?
The questions were direct but not intrusive, focused on the house rather than on her. It felt different from city small talk, where people were trained to seem interested. Frank simply wanted to know what Pine Cottage needed. What she needed.
“Hilda mostly came in for gardening supplies,” he said as he set a box of screws on the counter. “Had quite the touch with roses.”
The rose bush. The one that had nearly swallowed the front path.
“There’s still one there, at least,” Meryl said. “It’s gone a bit wild.”
Frank nodded. “Old Duchess of Wellington. Hilda’s favorite. Needs a firm hand, but worth the trouble.”
Frank said it in the same tone Spencer used when he talked about timber, matter-of-fact, with the easy certainty of someone who believed some things were worth saving simply because they had been made well in the first place.
Meryl found that unexpectedly difficult to dismiss as sentimentality.
As he rang up her purchases, more customers entered the store. To Meryl’s surprise, most of them nodded to her or offered a brief morning greeting as they passed. Not nosy. Just being friendly, even to a stranger.
“You’re staying at the cottage?” Frank asked as he bagged everything.
“For now,” Meryl answered, deliberately vague. “Just until I get it in better shape.”
He seemed to hear what she wasn’t saying, but let it go. “If you need anything else, you know where we are.”
“Thanks,” she said, and meant it. If Frank hadn’t helped her, she’d probably have spent the whole day trying to find everything on her list.
