Page 1 of Fall Into Love

Off the Rack

Emma

The first thing I notice is that the door is already unlocked.

I stand frozen on the sidewalk with my key held out, coffee going cold in my other hand, and stare at the little brass handle of Marigold’s like it personally betrayed me. I locked it. I know I locked it. I have a whole ritual—lights, register, back deadbolt, front deadbolt, jiggle the handle twice because my anxiety demands proof—and I did all of it last night at closing, same as every night for the last year since I signed the lease and hung my name over the door.

Well, not my name. Marigold’s Boutique, in the hand-painted gold script I paid way too much for and would pay for again in a heartbeat.

Maybe I forgot? People forget things. Normal, well-adjusted people who aren’t running on four hours of sleep.

I push the door open. And my heart just…stops.

The space is destroyed. My careful little world, turned inside out. The rack of autumn cardigans I steamed and arranged by color yesterday is tipped over, sweaters puddled across the floor. A display table is on its side. The basket of hand-knit scarves is dumped out and scattered. My shop items are everywhere. Hair clips. Earring cards. The bowl of candy I keep by the register for customers is flung across the hardwood in a spray of fall-colored mints.

For a second I can’t move. I stand in the doorway with my steaming coffee and let the cold feeling rattle down my spine.

Then I think: Derek.

His name echoes in my mind before I can stop it, and I hate that it does. I hate that a year out of my life and my brain still keeps him on speed-dial for the worst moments. But it’s already happening. I hear his voice, that patient, deceptively reasonable, you’ll see voice he used every single time I said I wanted something for myself…

A boutique, Em? In a tourist town? That’s a cute hobby. Call me when you want a real life.

He wouldn’t, though…would he? He’s three hours away in Seattle with his consulting job and his ergonomic everything and his sour opinions about my ‘little store.’ He’s not the kind of man who drives to Hemlock Point in the middle of the night to knock over sweater racks.

But some ugly, tired part of me whispers: You don’t know what kind of man he is. You just know what kind he was to you.

I set my coffee down on the one table still standing, and I take out my phone. And since I don’t know what else to do, I dial the number for the sheriff’s office with shaking hands.

Sheriff Dale Rutherford arrives twenty minutes later, which, for Dale, is basically a sprint. He’s got to be seventy-eight by now, and he’s been the main form of law enforcement in Hemlock Point since before cell phones, and probably even before crime. Which around here mostly means tourists parking in the loading zone and one memorable summer where somebody kept, quote, ‘stealing’ the mermaid statue off the marina and moving it three feet to the left. He ambles through my door in his tan uniform, thermos in one hand, and surveys the wreckage of my life’s work.

“Well, now,” he says. “Somebody made a mess.”

Thank you, Sheriff. Truly. What would we do without you?

“Someone broke in,” I say. “During the night. I locked up, I always lock up, and I came in this morning and—” My voice cracks as I stop to gesture at the wreckage.

Dale nods slowly, sips from his thermos, and steps carefully over a fallen cardigan. “Emma, isn’t it? You’re the Jones’ girl. Bought the old stationery shop.”

I’ve known this man my whole life, but sure, let’s do a quick introduction. “Yes. I’m Emma.”

“Your daddy used to run the hardware down Main a ways,” he says fondly. “Good man. Terrible at cribbage.”

I love my dad. I miss my dad. This is not the moment to reminisce about said dad, but I don’t have the heart to say so, so I just say, “Shouldn’t you dust for prints, or…?”

“Is anything missing?”

That stops me. I haven’t actually checked, and now that I look—really look—the register is closed. I hurry toward it and pop it open with trembling hands. And, surprisingly, the cash is right there. All of it. The float, the extra twenties I keep clipped in the back, all untouched. The little card reader is even still plugged in. My laptop, sitting in plain sight on the back counter where I left it.

They didn’t take the money. Or valuables.

“That’s…weird, right?” I say. “Why would they trash the place and not take anything worth something?”

My earlier accusation rings in the back of my mind, but I don’t mention it. Not yet.

Dale hums and wanders toward the back. “Kids, probably. Or the wind.”

I gape at him. “The wind?” He can’t be serious. “You think the wind did all of this?”