J.P. silently disagreed. His time—and the chance to avoid a run-in with Nora—was priceless. He was just about to fork over the discrepancy in the form of two crisp bills when Howie, the owner of the store, finally came to the rescue.
“How’s it going, Eugene?” He flicked the light off. “What can I do for you?”
J.P. could feel the pressure in his jaw as his back teeth met. This wasn’t going to be a quickly resolved dispute over pricing, he could tell.
“Well, you see, Howie, I think this here paintbrush has been mismarked. It’s not worth more than two dollars tops, but the register rings it up at twice that. That’s practically highway robbery.”
“You don’t say?” Howie picked up the brush in question and turned it over in examination, all to politely humor the man, J.P. figured. “You sit tight while I go double check that for you.”
“Sorry,” the cashier mouthed to J.P., and when her eyes zeroed in on his, recognition flooded her gaze.
Great. Now Nora’s friend knew he was here, acting all shady and shifty. It wasn’t like J.P. could do much more to disguise himself, but he’d hoped to get through the transaction swiftly without much chit-chat.
“Hey, aren’t you…?” She wagged her index finger at J.P., attempting to place his name.
“Hopefully not in a hurry,” the old man interjected with a gruff laugh. “It’s going to take Howie a while to find that dang brush. It was way on the bottom, near the rollers. Maybe I should go help him.” He started to shuffle out of line, but J.P. seized him by the elbow.
“You know what? How about I do that for you?” He didn’t like being so exposed out in the open like this. It was easier to hide in an aisle than in a line. “Where was it?”
“Paint aisle. Number four.”
With a nod, J.P. whirled around on the heel of his work boot.
Nora faced him about ten feet back, her arms loaded down with spray bottles and microfiber cloth. Their eyes locked. She drew the items tighter to her chest.
With his momentum already propelling him forward, he skittered to a stop just shy of smacking into her.
Then, without a word, J.P. shot around her, head down with determination leading his steps.
No use in hiding now, he thought. At least he had a reason for not really acknowledging her. The checkout line was a few people deep and the sooner he solved the elderly man’s paintbrush pricing problems, the faster they all could get out of here.
But being in the vicinity of Nora made it difficult to breathe. J.P. was always waiting for the next scuffle, the next unpleasant conversation. He found himself expecting the worst, and that was a feeling he didn’t like.
He glimpsed Howie scanning the shelves on the fourth aisle, just as Eugene had said.
“Any luck?” J.P. trotted closer.
“Yep.” Howie flicked the bristles against a mounted price tag. “But it’s actually $4.99, which is a whole dollar more than it’s ringing up.”
That wasn’t going to make the old guy happy. “Not sure he’s going to like the sound of that.”
“He wouldn’t, if I had plans to tell him.” Howie passed the brush off to J.P. and asked, “Would you mind taking this back up to the front and telling Tillie to give it to him for two bucks? I’ve got a delivery I need to coordinate in the back and the driver just called to say they’re pulling in.”
“Sure thing,” J.P. said with a nod. So the friend’s name was Tillie. “That’s generous of you to give him a discount.”
The man clamped a hand on J.P.’s shoulder as his salt-and-pepper mustache bowed up at the edges in a knowing smile. “Sometimes it’s easier to give up something that doesn’t cost you all that much just to make things a little better for someone else.” He winked, one twinkling blue eye getting lost behind the apple of his cheek.
J.P. felt that statement land in the hollow of his gut.
Like giving up early morning music?he mused to himself.
There, in the paint aisle of the local hardware store, J.P. vowed to take those words to heart.
Chapter Eleven
Thank goodness for Sundays. Apparently, even J.P. got the memo and decided to give it a rest.For once.
It was nothing short of heavenly to wake up to the pleasant warble of birds outside her window rather than the not-so-pleasant bass of J.P.’s outdated boom box rattling and shaking her walls.
