“No, no.” Clare hung up, staring numbly at her phone. How could it be over, just when she’d made the decision to start her life?
It was over because it was supposed to be over.
It was too risky. Even if Mattie and John agreed to lease the store to her and to go in as partners, it was still risky financially. This was the universe’s way of telling her to go back into the house, fire up her computer and be responsible.
Clare began to edge toward her car instead of heading into her house, thinking of one possible solution that might get her that store. Yes, she knew she shouldn’t do it. For Katie, she had to be responsible.
But she thought of her daughter’s outburst, and knew that it wasn’t true.
For Katie, she had to follow her heart.
No, for herself. She had to do it for herself.
She was no longer willing to live with the emptiness.
She deserved more, and she was going to take it.
Maybe there was no way to make it work with Griffin. Maybe she had to let him go. But dammit, she wasn’t going to lose out on everything. Not this time.
This time, she was fighting for it.
As she got in the car and turned on the ignition, she realized that it felt really, really good to fight for something. Not just for
something.
To fight for herself.
* * *
Griffin still had not moved from Norm’s chair several hours later when a battered pickup truck pulled in and parked behind the building. Someone wanting frozen peas for a midnight snack?
As he sat there, he heard the shuffle of tired feet, and he looked up to see Ophelia round the corner, holding Norm’s cap in her hand.
He immediately stood up. “Ophelia, I’m so sorry—”
“Can it, young man.” She waved him off. “Sit yourself back down for a minute.”
Griffin sank back into the chair while Norm’s widow shuffled across the porch and eased herself down into the swing. She leaned back with a soft groan of relief, and began to swing gently. “We used to sit here, you know,” she said. “As long as it was over fifty degrees, we sat out here after the store closed. Norm liked to watch people drive by. He wanted to know who was going where.”
Griffin smiled. “He knew everything about this town, didn’t he?”
“He sure did.” Ophelia looked tired, and her face looked far more wrinkled than before. She was still wearing her nightgown, and a ratty pink robe covered in roses. “He was the pulse of this town, just like his father before him.”
“He was a good man.”
“He was.” Ophelia opened her purse, and dug out a key. She held it out to him. “Go inside and get us a couple beers, will you? Get a couple from the cooler in the back room. Those are the coldest.”
“Sure thing.” Griffin took the key and hustled over to the front of the store. The key barely fit the rusted lock, and he couldn’t get it to turn. “Is there a trick to this?”
“Yep.” Ophelia continued to swing, watching him struggle, but never offering to help him or tell him the trick.
He finally got the key to turn, and he opened the door. “Got it.” He was actually a little proud of himself for getting the door open. He had a feeling Ophelia had watched many people struggle unsuccessfully with it, amused by their failings.
The store was eerily silent as he walked inside. Shadows fell across the shelves from the parking lot light outside, casting darkness where there were usually people and noise and activity.
Norm’s stool was behind the register where it had been every time Griffin had walked in. But now, it was empty. The red seat was bare, worn from years of use. Griffin could almost see the older man there, giving him a knowing smile.
The place was stocked, the shelves full, indicating a healthy business. Stock was expensive, and most small stores like this one had a lot of empty space. But not Norm’s store. Griffin suspected Norm knew exactly what his town needed, and he always had exactly that on his shelves. Nothing less. Nothing more. He probably even matched the sizes of the diapers to the ages of the babies in the town.
Griffin pushed open the swinging door to the back room. The place was packed with crates and boxes, all on top of each other, with no markings or labels. It looked like utter chaos that hadn’t been inventoried in a hundred years, which it probably hadn’t been. The store was likely run in a manner that defied every business school class Griffin had taken, and every business decision he’d made. And yet, it worked perfectly.
It almost made Griffin wish he had the balls to run a business by the seat of his pants as well.
On the far wall was an old-fashioned freezer, the kind that might store a deer that was going to feed the family for the winter. Griffin lifted the lid, and inside was an assortment of beer. All of it Birch’s Best, of course.
He grabbed two, and then picked up a third. On his way back out, he set one on Norm’s stool. “Safe journey, my friend.” He raised his beer in salute, then headed back outside.
Ophelia was still sitting on the swing, her frame diminutive and fragile. But she smiled when Griffin handed her the beer. “Thanks.”
“Any time.” Griffin resumed his seat and took a drink. It wasn’t as bitter as last time. He wouldn’t call it smooth, but it worked. “What happened tonight?”
Ophelia took a long drink. “He said it was his time.” She was staring off into the distance, a faraway look on her face, as if she could see her husband smiling down at her from the heavens. And maybe she could. “He took my hand, and he said, ‘Ophelia, you’re not done here, but I am. I found my son, and it’s time to go.’” She rubbed her palm thoughtfully. “He said he would always be holding my hand. If I needed him, to just close my eyes, and he would be there.”
Griffin’s throat thickened. “I believe him. I could feel him on his chair in there.”
Ophelia nodded. “He’ll always be on that stool.”
Griffin cleared his throat. “Do you need money to keep the store running? It would be my honor to help you out.”
“Oh, no,” Ophelia said, laughing softly as she looked at him. “I’m not going to run it. I only do the deli.”
He frowned. “Who’s going to run the store?”
“His son.” Ophelia nodded at the sign over the front of the store. “Wright & Son. It has to be a son.”
Griffin had never heard anyone talk about Norm and Ophelia having children, and he sure as hell hadn’t seen any son running around helping out. “Does he live around here?”
She smiled. “Not yet, but he will.”
“When’s he coming?” Griffin leaned forward. “If you need help until he gets here, I can maybe arrange something to help keep things going.”
Ophelia’s smile faded. “You don’t understand, do you?”
“Understand what?”
“You’re the one he found. You’re the one who’s going to run it.” She gestured at the store. “You’re the son.”
Griffin stared at her, completely confused. “What are you talking about?”
“You.” Ophelia leaned back against the swing and gazed out into the night again. “We talked about it the day you arrived. Norm knew that you were the one, but he said you weren’t ready. Tonight, he said you were.”
A chill rippled down Griffin’s arms. “You’re trying to tell me that Norm died tonight so that I could take over the store?”
“Yes, of course.”
Yes, of course.
The old man had died for
him?
Sweat began to trickle down Griffin’s back, despite the cool breeze. “Ophelia, I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. I’m buying a business in Boston, and I’m headed back down there tonight. I don’t belong here. This isn’t my town, and I sure as hell can’t run this store.”
She looked at him, and he felt the intensity of those silver eyes bearing down on him. “Norman was never wrong about anybody.”
“Well, that may be true, but—”
“Feel the night,” she said, returning her gaze to the invisible scene only she could see. “Can you feel how fresh that air is in your lungs?”
Griffin was too tense to breathe any damn air. “Listen, Ophelia, I’ll be happy to give you money—”
“There’s an envelope under the register with your name on it,” she said. “Go get it.”
Griffin stared at her, a sense of foreboding growing in his chest. “Ophelia—”
“Get it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He lurched to his feet and went inside. He stood at the counter for a minute, feeling weird about going into Norm’s space. He looked at the beer sitting on the stool. “What the hell were you thinking? How the hell could you tell Ophelia I would run the store?”
The stool, of course, did not reply, and Griffin finally walked around the corner. He stepped around Norm’s perch and crouched so he could see under the register. In the far back was a large manila envelope.
Griffin withdrew it, and on the outside was his name, scrawled in shaky lettering. He leaned against the counter and opened it. Inside was a thick contract. He pulled it out, and saw it was a purchase and sale agreement for the sale of Wright & Son to Griffin Friesé. It was dated two days ago, and already executed by both Norm and Ophelia. “Son of a bitch.”
Then he saw the price, and he started laughing. It was too high by at least one zero. “Fleecing me from heaven, eh, old boy?”
He flipped the pages, and a piece of paper fell out. He picked it up and saw it was a handwritten note. Chills ran down his spine for the second time that evening when he realized it was from Norm.
Griffin, don’t underestimate yourself. Norman P. Wright
Shit.
“Just so you know,” Ophelia said from the doorway. “There’s a clause in there that says I run the deli, and that I live upstairs. Non-negotiable.”
“I’d never kick you out.”
“Good.” She smiled. “Then get to bed, young man. The store opens at seven, and you should be here by six.”
“I’m not going to buy Wright’s—”
“Why not?” She marched into the store. “What’s wrong with you? Marry Clare. Adopt Katie. See your daughter all the time. Run a business. Play softball. What in God’s name is wrong with that?”
He stared at her, and he couldn’t think of a damn thing.
Ophelia smiled. “See? It’s all good.” She picked up a pen. “Sign it. We’ll all pretend that it was executed before he died. Then we avoid all that hoopla about wills and estates and everything.”
He didn’t take the pen. “My daughter is counting on In Your Face.”
Ophelia grabbed a New York Times, rolled it up and then smacked him in the side of the head. “She’s counting on her dad. She doesn’t need a damn business!”
Griffin looked around the store. He pictured all the people coming in and out. He imagined himself sitting in Norm’s seat, looking over the crowd. For a moment, rightness swelled inside him, a sense of belonging, of finally coming home.
Then he thought of Clare, of Brooke, of Boston, and he shook his head. Clare had trusted Ed to be what he wasn’t, and if Griffin tried to stay, it would have the same result. He wouldn’t be able to commit, not the way they all deserved. He wouldn’t make a promise he couldn’t keep, not to Clare, not to Brooke, not to Ophelia, and not to the entire town of Birch Crossing. “No.” He set the contract on the counter. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
Ophelia dropped the newspaper on the counter. “Keep the key so you can come back and sign it later. Remember, the door opens at seven. Be here early.”
“I’m not—”
Norm’s widow clasped his shoulder and reached up on her wobbly tiptoes to kiss his cheeks. “Welcome, my boy. We’ve been waiting for you.” Then she turned and disappeared through a door at the back of the store. He listened to her feet slowly work their way up the steps, pausing every so often, and then he heard no more as Ophelia entered the home that she’d shared with Norm for fifty-three years.
He wanted the kind of peace she and Norm had shared. He did. But to try to step into Norm’s shoes, to pretend he could be that man who took care of an entire town on every level...he’d be an imposter. It would be a lie, and everyone, including himself, would find out soon enough. He would fail, and everyone would suffer for it.
He would stick with what he did best. The place he was meant to be.
“I’m sorry, Norm,” he said to the stool. “But I can’t make your vision into reality. Forgive me.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a checkbook. Then he wrote a check for the full amount of the purchase and sale, left it on the counter, and walked out without signing the contract.
He couldn’t offer himself, but Ophelia could have his money.
It would have to be enough. For all of them.
It took only forty-five minutes for Clare to drive to the southern tip of Black Bear Lake to the cabin that belonged to Harlan Shea. The building was dark, the lake was still, the pine trees thick, giving Harlan’s cabin a feeling of isolation and loneliness that was in stark contrast to the effervescent energy of his sister.
Keeping her headlights trained on the house so she could see her way across the rocks that seemed to discourage rather than welcome visitors, Clare hurried across the bumpy terrain and banged on the door. “Harlan! Wake up! It’s Clare Gray!”
The door opened so quickly she lost her balance and almost tumbled into the half-naked brother of her best friend. Harlan was wearing only a pair of cut-off shorts, and his dark hair was tousled from sleep. She was surprised to see how muscled he was, but she instantly decided that he fell short of Griffin.
Griffin.
Sudden tears burned in her eyes, and she fisted her hands to will the emotion away.
Harlan’s eyes were alert. “What’s wrong?” he asked, taking her arm and drawing her inside. “What happened?” He looked out the door, as if to make sure there was no one chasing her.
Clare pulled her arm free of his protective gesture. “Can you call Mattie and John right now?”
“Now?” Harlan turned back toward her, a look of confusion on his face. “It’s almost midnight.”
“I know. That’s why we have to talk to them now. It’s about the Bean Pot.”
He sighed. “They already accepted the offer—”
“Did they sign the paperwork?”
He rubbed his eyes. “No, I FedExed it to them today.”
“So, call them now! Please.” She grabbed his arm. “They can change their mind, right?”