Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
I set a hand on his strong, firm bicep, and I squeeze it. “Are you thinking of her right now?”
Another steadying breath. “She used to send me these emails, Mabel. She called them Monday Agenda, Tuesday Report, Wednesday News. That sort of thing. At the end of each day that I was on the road.” He still doesn’t look my way, just gazes at the sky as if that’s easier. “She liked to walk to this store. It was…a benchmark for her, I think. They have really good cheese, so I get it.” He laughs, but it feels forced.
I rub his arm, letting him know to keep going.
“Anyway, it just got harder at the end. She’d freeze up. It happens,” he explains. “And sometimes, she’d fall. Eventually, she had to stop walking here.”
My heart cracks in two. “I’m sorry. That must have been so hard for her.”
He gives a tight nod and a tighter, “Yeah.” Then he squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again, like he’s resetting. “I should be over it.”
“Corbin,” I say, gently chiding him. “You don’t have to be over it. Ever. I don’t know if we can get over grief. You can only go through it, and sometimes you realize it repeats in new ways. With new memories.”
“It does.”
I think for several seconds. “Do you want me to get something there for you? I can go back in and get your favorite. What’s your favorite cheese?”
His confident smile returns. “Gouda.”
“That makes sense. It’s a little nutty,” I say.
He laughs. “But I’m all good. I have plenty.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
But I’m pushy sometimes. I hold up my thumb and forefinger. “What if I just got you a slice?”
“Fine,” he says, relenting, but like it wasn’t hard to give in.
I pop back in. “Abe, I’d like one slice of Gouda.”
He arches a bushy brow. “One slice?”
“Fine, make it five,” I say.
“That’s more like it.”
After he slices the cheese, he hands me five pieces wrapped in paper, and I give them to Corbin when I leave. “See? Now you got a gift for today.”
He takes a slice of cheese, rolls it up, and takes a bite. “I did.”
I smile to myself. This man does so much for me. It’s nice to do something for him.
We pop into other stores, and when we pass the town square, I’m vaguely tempted to give some treats to the guys playing chess, but the looks they give me are withering. Another time. I stop in the home decor shop and give a box to Mariah.
“I feel so alive now,” she says brightly.
“You made my day,” I say.
Corbin nods to the box. “When you try her pistachio cookies, you’ll really be saying that,” he says, selling me, and selling us.
Mariah grabs one, takes a bite, and smiles wickedly when she’s done chewing. “I’ll take one a day.”
Next is Rise and Grind, and I steel myself for some kind of laugh at my expense as I march straight up to Joni behind the counter. “Just a little gift for my neighbors,” I say, handing her a box.
She takes it with a smile as big as her frizzy hair. “Sweetheart, this is really lovely. And it’s good to see you too, Corbin. But did you two hear about—”
Before she can finish, an espresso machine hisses, and it doesn’t sound good.
Joni swivels around and then groans in despair. “No, no, no, no, no. You turned it the wrong way,” she says to an employee, then rushes over to fix the espresso mishap. As she’s working on the machine, she waves us off. “Thanks for stopping by. That was really kind of you.”
When we exit, I replay her words as worry wiggles through me. “What do you think she heard?”
He shrugs. “No idea. Probably nothing.”
“I hope so.”
We pop into a few more shops, saving the toughest one for the end.
It’s knitting club day again at the yarn shop, according to the poster promoting their meeting times in the window. My stomach flips upside down like a pirate ship ride as I open the door. The ladies in the knitting club are perched on comfy sofas in the back of the shop, needles clicking. One works on a sparkly white beanie, the other a red-and-green sweater, and another a pair of mittens. One of them says something about needing some magenta chenille yarn for a Christmas scarf she wants to make, which is impossible to find, while another says she plans to wear her Christmas sweater to an upcoming punk rock show. Okaaaaay.
But the conversation stops when my shoes creak on the floorboards. Their eyes are filled with question marks as they stare at me as I stride past rows of yarn. A woman behind the counter gives me a curious stare.
I square my shoulders. “Hi, I’m Mabel, and this is Corbin,” I say, motioning to the man next to me. He gives a quick hello.