CHAPTER NINETEEN
The following weekend, Harvey went to Devlin’s Furniture store and purchased everything in pairs—matching bedside tables for both bedrooms and a round coffee table for the living room. Of course, he went on a day Skye was working so she could not only help him pick out the pieces but also get the commission.
“You OK with making such a big purchase?” she asked.
“I invested well and saved a lot when I worked for Birch-McHale,” he said. “Don’t worry, I can afford it.”
She smiled. “I think these are going to be such great additions to the condo.”
He nodded in agreement. “It’s high time I treated myself.”
Something about the way he said myself echoed an assertiveness, as if he’d been lost or neglected and was admonishing himself for it.
After Harvey left, Patrick approached her.
“Nice job,” he said.
“Thanks,” she replied.
“So who’s the lucky guy?”
“Huh?”
“You clearly knew him.”
Skye’s face heated up like a hot plate and turned as red. “Oh. He’s, um . . . he’s not my boyfriend, if that’s what you’re asking. He’s . . . he’s just a friend,” she said. God, those had to be among the worst four words in the English language, right up there with I don’t love you; your credit card bounced; and we’re out of chocolate. The reality that they seemingly were every other kind of partner—roommates, painter-assistant, to name two—fell on her like a practical joke.
Patrick didn’t respond. But she could have sworn that he smirked.
“I followed the protocol,” she said, afraid he was about to reprimand her. She remembered the employee-training handbook—which she’d read cover to cover—in particular the rule about selling to family and friends. They were allowed to sell to that person (and thus receive a commission), but they were not allowed to ring the customer up or buy the merchandise themselves as a means of exploiting their discount.
“I know you did,” he said. After all, he was the one who handled Harvey’s payment after Skye handed Harvey off to him.
Feeling like the walls were closing in, Skye averted her eyes and said, “Well, OK. I need a bathroom break. Excuse me.” She practically broke into a sprint off the showroom floor and into the back, locked herself in the restroom, and gripped the sink, taking deep breaths. Why in the world had Patrick’s questions rattled her? When she picked her head up and faced the mirror, she knew the answer: I am in love with Harvey. And it showed.
She hadn’t expected to fall in love, with him or anyone else. Hadn’t wanted it. Of course, she hadn’t expected Vance to come into her life when he did, but she was craving romance that time. No—she was in dire need of an escape hatch from her life. Admitting to herself that she was in love with Harvey was like cleaning out a closet and finding a precious work of art that had been previously hidden. And it was valuable. Whereas previous crushes had introduced themselves with a bang, falling in love with Harvey was a knock at the door. But what to do about it?
And if it showed, if someone like Patrick could see through her facade, then could Harvey see it? Because she saw no sign from Harvey that the feeling was mutual. And why should it be? She’d been a fool and had been duped by the same man who’d duped Harvey’s wife. She was a reminder. He was just too nice a guy to punish her for it.
And she didn’t want to risk her heart being shattered again.
Skye used the bathroom, washed her hands, and stopped at the watercooler in the break room for a few swallows before returning to the floor. Get back to work, she ordered herself repeatedly. The store had been busy all morning—Saturdays in retail were typically like that—but had died down since. When she reemerged, the store was empty save for its employees. They gathered in the living room display near the entrance, doing their best not to succumb to sitting on the sofa or leaning against the armrest of the love seat. While her coworkers Barbara and Gary—both in their fifties—talked about their spouses and children, Skye remembered Vance insisting that he didn’t see the need to “produce progeny,” as he called it, or “spawn,” and Skye wondering out loud if she’d missed out on something when motherhood passed her by.
You could adopt, Vance had offered.
How had she not noticed the red flag, waving so close to her face it was practically smacking her? You could adopt. Not we. Not us, together, happily ever after. How had she not picked up the inconsistencies in his rhetoric, beckoning her to be with him but giving her no indication that he intended to follow through for the long haul?
More baffling, she had so easily denied it all. Excused his behavior. The depth of her desperation and willful blindness made her ill. She left for another cup of water in the break room and put Vance Sandler out of her mind. When she returned, a woman entered the store holding a stack of brochures. Skye greeted her.
“I work at the metaphysical bookstore downtown,” said the woman.
“Yes,” said Skye, smiling. “I know where it is.” Harvey had pointed it out to her when they did the paint job for the new co-op bookstore on the next block. That something in Billings rang familiar pleased her, even though she’d never been to the store.
“Excellent!” said the woman. “Well, we’re having a very special guest next week. She’s a renowned feng shui teacher and expert. We thought your store would be the perfect place to leave some brochures in case your customers would like to get some free tips and consultations for their home. There’s even a drawing for a free space clearing.”
Skye had heard of feng shui (she had always pronounced it fen shwee, but this woman pronounced it fun sway) and had always wanted to learn about it, but dismissed it after Summer called it “new age nonsense.” Sure, she’d used Yankee Candles around Top Drawer and incense in her own apartment, but that was her own kooky superstition, right?
“Oh,” said Skye, “I don’t think we’re allowed to, but I’ll ask my manager.”
Skye fetched Patrick, who told the woman that accepting community brochures and advertisements of any kind had to be approved by corporate first, and gave her a toll-free number to call. She thanked both of them and headed back toward the parking lot.
Something filled Skye at that moment, ignited in her gut, and threatened to burst out of her chest. “Wait!” she called out, catching up to the woman just as she had pushed the door open. “Can I have one of those?”
“Sure,” she said, and handed two over. “One for you, and one for a friend,” she winked.
Skye smiled. “Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome. Hope to see you there.”
“Me too.”
Skye folded the brochures and tucked them into the pocket of her blazer. For the remainder of the day, she kept placing her hand in that pocket, making sure the brochures didn’t slip out. She’d had ample opportunities to move them into her purse stored in a locker in the break room, but for some reason she wanted to keep the brochures close to her. She didn’t even read it, choosing instead to wait until she got home from work, like a special treat or reward at the end of a long day. She could hardly wait.