Window Dressing

“I think it’s a shame to get rid of her—”

“I know, it breaks my heart.” I ran my fingertips over the scarred wood. “This is where my son did his homework while I cooked supper. Where he frosted his first Christmas cookie. Where—” I stopped, suddenly embarrassed by my emotional display, as well as the deepening grin on his face.

“You sound like a hell of a mom,” he said. “My mom was like that. I miss her.”

“She doesn’t live nearby?”

“Actually, she died a few years ago.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, just as his bagel popped up.

“That’s okay. It was cancer. By the time she went, it was a relief just to know she wouldn’t be in pain anymore.”

I felt immediately more comfortable with him. I reminded him of his mother. That was safe. That was a role I knew how to play.

“Sit down. I’ll get you some butter,” I said as I put his bagel on a plate. He slid into Gordy’s side of the booth, which just made things more comfortable still.

After my bagel popped up, I slid in across from him. My mother would not approve of this familiarity, nor would she approve of the sweats I was wearing. I could almost hear the lecture she’d give me on preserving decorum and boundaries. It was like she was in my head and I couldn’t get her out.

“I’ll rip her out for free if I can have her.”

“Excuse me?” I said, wondering how he’d get Bernice out of my head and, more puzzling still, why he’d want to keep her.

“This booth. I’ll take it out for free if I can have her.”

“Oh—the booth.” Of course he was talking about the booth. “For free? Really?” Roger would be overjoyed at this perk, although I would have preferred that Quint was ripping my mother out of my head for free. Oh, hell, who was I kidding? I’d pay.

He shrugged. “What can I say. I have a thing for breakfast nooks.”

I saluted him with my coffee cup. “I’ll be glad to see her go to a good home. Now, what about the floor? How much do you think that will cost?”

“Well, that depends on what you have in mind…”

Over toasted bagels slathered with cream cheese swirled with honey, we discussed ceramic tile versus vinyl flooring with a smattering of laminated wood tossed in. I had no idea what I wanted—after all, it’s not like I was going to be walking on the new floor. Or sweeping it. Or scrubbing it. I looked at the old linoleum that shined only because I was willing to wax it once a month. Finally, a new kitchen floor and it wouldn’t even be mine.

“I could take you shopping,” Quint said.

I looked up at him, wondering how he knew I was bummed. How he knew that shopping would cheer me up.

“I could even get you a discount in a couple of places.”

Oh, of course. He was talking about flooring.

“Does that service usually come with the contract?” I asked with a careless laugh to hide my embarrassment.

He shrugged, his mouth quirking again. “That’s one of the cool things about being your own boss. I can do pretty much anything I want.”

“I bet you can,” Moira shamelessly purred from the back door.

“Hello,” Quint said, flashing his brief, kilowatt smile.

“Quint, this is my friend and neighbor, Moira Rice. Moira, Quint Mathews.”

Quint rose as Moira sashayed into the kitchen, looking spectacular and mussed in a long silk robe the color of champagne.