but I wanted an explanation.
“Did you know my grandmother? What did she say about me?”
But Murphy, the shittiest cop I knew, was done talking. He left, the door slamming shut behind him, the vibration causing a few more shards of loose glass to fall with a crash.
I sighed.
Some days I really wondered if this place was worth the trouble. I headed outside first with a broom and dustpan, intent on cleaning the sidewalk before someone got hurt and sued me. Before heading back inside, I eyed the sign.
My beautiful sign. Ruined.
I pressed my lips into a tight line.
Like hell.
Mr. Peterson sold me a bucket of paint at a discount, shaking his head and muttering about disrespect and in his day...something about a belt.
There were probably other things I should have been doing besides fixing my sign, and yet, in that moment, I could think of nothing more important.
Only once I’d eradicated all the nasty red did I stop to leave messages with a few window places, then I returned to my sign while I waited for a callback. Once the covering layer dried, it was time to stencil in my store name again.
On My Way.
And if people didn’t like it, they could suck it.
By the time lunch rolled around, I’d heard from one glass place, too busy to help. Who knew if the others could? I couldn’t leave the windows gaping open, so I did my best with tape and cardboard. Not ideal. If I couldn’t get it repaired today, I’d think about nailing plywood over them before dinnertime.
Would that be enough? Would the vandal strike again? They might if this was personal. Was this act of violence against my shop a holdover from a few months ago when the town was convinced I was a witch? The Rousseau family had a history and reputation. I’d been trying to change it, but prejudice wasn’t an easy thing to overcome.
Since I couldn’t exactly do much until the window was fixed, I decided to head into the back and play with my pottery wheel. I was elbow deep in mud when I heard thumping from the front of the store. I’d locked the door and taped the windows, but that wouldn’t stop someone determined to come in.
With my lips pursed and gripping the cane I’d found in the umbrella stand at home, I edged out and then stopped. Brigda, a contractor I’d met previously when she was renovating the bookstore across the street, was in my front window, knocking out the broken panes of glass.
“What are you doing?” As she worked, it occurred that I’d not even thought of calling her. I would like to think it wasn’t because I was sexist. To be honest, though, I did have to admit, when I thought of handy men, they were, well, men.
“Heard you had a spot of trouble. I’m here to fix it.”
“Thank you.” I couldn’t help but beam at this sign of girl power in solidarity. And here I thought Brigda didn’t like me.
“Don’t thank me. Thank the boss. He pulled me off another job to come fix your mess.”
Apparently my first impression was correct. “Kane called you?” How did he know? Then again, in a town this small, who didn’t was a better question.
“Boss told me to get my ass over here pronto.”
“I appreciate it. How much do you think it will cost?”
“For you? Nothing,” she said with a curl of her lip.
“Excuse me?”
“Boss is covering the bill.”
“Oh no. Kane’s not paying. This is my problem. I’m the one who will be covering the expense,” I hastened to say. It was one thing for him to order one of his subcontractors to help, but I wouldn’t let him pay.
“I would love to overcharge you, but I’ve got my orders,” was her sour reply.
See if I got her any matching plaid socks for Christmas as a thank-you.
“Is Kane back in town?”
“Dunno.”
“Did—”
She cut me off. “Do you mind? I’d like to get this done before dinner.”
Annoyed, I returned to my spinning wheel and my very lopsided bowl. Maybe I could pretend it was an eclectic ashtray? Did anyone even buy those anymore?
Going stir crazy, I decided to go for a drive. It seemed polite to let Brigda know. “I’ve got to go out for a bit. I’ll be back in about an hour.”
“Don’t care,” was her muttered reply.
I wasn’t even sure where I was going until I turned onto the road leading into the mill. Once a place abandoned, the D’Argent family business