The Prodigal Valentine

Sometimes, life was just plain cruel.

The bell over the door jingled. Mercy glanced up as a young mother with two very small boys in tow pushed her way inside. “Timmy, stay with me,” the mother said to the older boy, an adorable curly-headed blond, then smiled her thanks when their part-timer, Trish, helped the mother settle her youngest into a collapsible stroller before leading them back to the baby and toddler section.

“So what do you think?” said Cass, one of Mercy’s partners, leaning her tall, Eddie Bauer-ified frame against the case. Cotton sweater, cord skirt, shades of beige. Her feathery blond hair swept over her shoulders when she pointed to one of the photos. “Those heart-shaped balloons would look great tied in bunches in the centers of the displays, wouldn’t they? We could give them away to the kids when they came in.”

“Valentine’s Day sucks,” Mercy muttered, slapping down the next page.

“Hey. You’ve been grumpy all week. What gives?”

“PMS?” Mercy said without looking up.

“Nope, your chocolate binge was two weeks ago. Try again.”

“Yeesh, you keeping track of my cycles now or what? So I’m just in a weird, rotten mood, okay? And sure, the balloons are fine.” She flipped another page, keeping half an eye out for the little blond dude, who’d wandered back out to the front and was now holding a low, intense conversation with a panda bear in the stuffed animal display.

“And how about,” Cass said, “a bunch of large foil hearts on the wall behind the cash register—”

“Don’t press your luck. I’m having enough trouble with the balloons. What?” she said when the blonde poked her arm.

“What’s his name?”

“Who?”

“Whoever’s brought on this sudden, rabid hatred for Valentine’s Day.”