It wasn’t as if she wasn’t used to be laughed at. She had grown accustomed to criticism, having been married to Jay. He had routinely put her down, making fun of her desire to learn everything she could about home repair. When he had heard she intended to open a hardware store, he had actually made a special trip to see her—to tell her in no uncertain terms that she was making a terrible mistake and that she’d only end up looking like a fool.
Weren’t couples supposed to be on the same team? Wasn’t a husband supposed to support his wife, rather than diminish her? Of course, their marriage had ended by the time he’d offered that final business advice, but he’d been equally unsupportive during their married years.
She had put up with so much condescension from her husband—had smiled despite the pain—that she still suffered from a lack of confidence. Sure, she hid it well, but she felt it nonetheless. She hated to admit it, but Ethan’s actions had added insult to injury. She hardly knew him, but he had hurt her.
With a sigh, she pulled her eyes away from him, just as he spotted her in her car. He paused, his hammer lifted in the air, and nodded her way. She pretended she hadn’t seen him and backed onto the road.
At the hardware store, she was quieter than usual, still preoccupied with thoughts of her neighbor. She realized with a start that she’d better get with the program, since she had expected her big paint order to arrive first thing. A glance at the clock on the wall confirmed it was late.
Rather than agonize over that late paint, she got busy tidying up the store and tending to customers. Finally, she heard the distinct ring of the bell in back, alerting her that a delivery truck had arrived. She hustled to the back of the store, unaware that Ethan had walked in just as she left the main floor.
Angie, behind the register, spotted him and hurried over. “Anything I can help you with?” she asked cheerfully.
“I need to pick up some roofing nails,” he told her.
With a nod, she directed him to the nail bins and then smiled. “How’s the house coming along?”
“Real good,” he said.
She passed him a small, paper bag and left him alone to select his nails, and then hurried back to the register to ring up a customer. She was just bagging up the order when Marcia came running from the backroom, her face flushed.
“Angie!” she cried.
She turned to see the look of abject terror on her boss’s face. “What’s wrong?”
Marcia passed her a sheet of paper. “Look at the order.”
Her assistant scanned it and shrugged. “I don’t understand…”
“They’ve brought us two hundred gallons of mustard yellow paint!”
“That can’t be,” Angie mused, scanning the sheet again. Suddenly, her eyes widened. “Oh, dear Lord! Did I put an extra zero behind the twenty?” She glanced up at her friend, her eyes clouding at the realization of what that extra zero meant. “The bill is eight thousand dollars,” she whispered, incredulous.
Marcia nodded. “Two hundred gallons of premier paint, at forty dollars a gallon.”
“Eight-thousand dollars,” Angie repeated. “Wait!” she said, and then took a deep, cleansing breath. “They’ll take it back. Of course they’ll take it back. It was an error…”
Marcia shook her head sadly.
“They won’t take it back?”
“It’s a special order…”
Angie slumped over and braced herself against the countertop, on the brink of hyperventilating. “What are we going to do?”
Marcia sighed. “I don’t know.”
Angie looked hopeful. “We’ll sell it! That’s what we’ll do. We have to…”
“It’s mustard yellow, and not a particularly attractive version of an already ugly color,” Marcia reminded her defeatedly.
“Oh, why couldn’t it be white paint?” Angie moaned, and caught Marcia’s eye. “I’ll pay for it. I’ll work extra hours. I’ll…” She shook her head vigorously. “I’ll … sell a kidney!”
Marcia saw her friend was near the breaking point. “You will not,” she said with a sigh. “We’ll figure this out.”
“You should fire me,” Angie said, and began crying.
Marcia wrapped an arm around her friend’s shoulders. “I’m not firing anybody.”
Of course, she knew those words might be premature. If she couldn’t pay for the paint, or manage to sell it, the business might very well cease to exist and everyone would be out of work. She hadn’t arranged to purchase the paint on credit, so she knew she’d have to call the paint supply company at once, in hopes she could make arrangements to pay it off over time.
She hurriedly placed the call, but found the customer service agent unsympathetic. “I have a copy of the order. We filled it as written. Since you don’t have a credit account with us, we can’t offer one with this particular order. If you’d like to fill out an application for credit for future orders…”
“No, thank you,” Marcia murmured.
“Payment is due one week after delivery,” the overtly cheerful voice told her. “We’ll expect payment by next Friday, the fifteenth.”
Marcia sighed worriedly. “But…”
“I’m sorry.” Click.
“Well?” Angie said hopefully, watching her with expectant eyes.
She shrugged. “There’s nothing they can do.” She attempted a smile. “Well, we have twenty gallons sold already, so that only leaves…”
“One hundred eighty cans of mustard yellow paint,” Angie muttered dejectedly.
Marcia immediately placed a quick call to the customer, Mrs. Dunneford, who had ordered the twenty gallons. She came into the store soon after. She eyed the paint, studiously considering the dot of color on the top of one of the cans. “I’ve changed my mind,” she declared finally.
“Changed … your mind?” Marcia said, stunned.
She nodded. “I don’t like it. It’s too … mustardy.”
“But you knew that when you ordered it,” Marcia pointed out, attempting to keep her voice cordial.
“It just didn’t look so…”
“Mustardy,” she said, and then attempted a reassuring smile. “I’m sure it’ll look great in your studio. If you’ll just give it a try…”
She shook her head briskly. “I don’t like it.”
“But it was a special order. I can’t send it back to the factory.”
“Well, perhaps if I’d received the order on time,” she said with an unconcerned shrug and then turned on her heel, calling out a breezy goodbye. “I think I’ll check out paint swatches at the home improvement store on the other side of town.”
Marcia watched her, devastated, as she flounced out of the store. “Angie, I’m going to lunch,” she said numbly.
“Okay,” came the muted reply.
“Two hundred cans of mustard yellow paint,” she muttered testily as she grabbed her jacket to leave. She suddenly felt so claustrophobic, she feared she might hyperventilate if she didn’t get out of the store.
“Marcia, will you be gone long?” Angie asked with a wince.
“I’ll be back at one,” she called, attempting to keep her voice steady. It was difficult. She felt as if she might suddenly collapse on the floor, so heavy was the burden of that eight thousand dollar bill.
***
Ethan paid for his purchase, glad Marcia hadn’t noticed him in the store. Of course, he’d hidden in an aisle at the front and made of point of keeping out of her field of vision. Fortunately, an employee other than Angie had rung up his order.
He had heard the exchange between Marcia and her employee about the incorrect order, and his heart went out to her. An unexpected bill to the tune of several thousands of dollars could be the undoing of any new business—particularly a small one like Better Half Hardware.
Back in his truck, he called Thomas on his cell phone. “Hey,” he said, “I need you to do me a favor tomorrow.”
“What’s that?” his brother-in-law asked.
; “You know Better Half Hardware? It’s downtown.”
“Yeah, I think I know it. What about it?”
“I need you to go into the store tomorrow and place an order for paint,” he instructed.
“Why? We always get our paint from Tadd’s.”
“I know, but this is a special situation.”
“Okaaay. So what specifically am I supposed to buy?”
“Just tell ‘em you need two hundred gallons of paint.”
Thomas gave a short laugh. “What the heck do you need with two hundred gallons of paint? Your house is on the small side…”
“It’s not for my house,” he said, and then was quiet for several seconds. “Actually, you’d better buy two hundred twenty gallons of paint. If you order the two hundred, Marcia is bound to be suspicious…”
“Wait a minute!” Thomas cried. “I’m buying this paint from your neighbor?”
“Well, yeah. She owns the store.”
Thomas sighed. “Look, I’m confused.”
“Don’t worry about anything,” Ethan said. “Just go into the store tomorrow and buy the paint.”
“What color?”
“Tell ‘em any color will do.”
***
The next day, Ethan was working on his roof when his cell phone trilled in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw his brother-in-law’s number on the screen.
“Hey, Thomas, did you buy the paint?”
“Yeah. Uh, Ethan, have you lost your mind?”
“What do you mean?”
“What the heck are we going to do with two hundred gallons of mustard yellow paint?”
“It’s not all mustard yellow,” he pointed out. “The other twenty cans are…”
“An assortment of odds and ends,” Thomas said with a beleaguered sigh. “An assortment of paint that cost over eight-thousand dollars,” he blustered. “And I don’t have a clue what we’re going to do with it. Unless … are you using it in the interior of the downtown building?”
“Heck, no!” Ethan gasped. “I actually want people to come in and rent that office space—not run ‘em off.”
“Then, why the paint?”
“Don’t worry about the why,” he said. “I need to get back to this roof. Looks like we may have some rain this afternoon.”
“Ethan, I’m going to ask you again. What are we going to do with two hundred cans of paint?”
He was silent for a moment, apparently in thought. “I don’t know. Call Gwen and convince her that mustard yellow is the new trendy color of the season.”
Thomas gave a rueful chuckle. “Yeah, like anybody can tell Gwen anything.” He paused. “By the way, you never did tell me how things went with her. Did she take, your, uh, news well?” He grew momentarily silent, but roused himself. “Did you end things once and for all?”
“What do you think?” Ethan said, aghast. “If you’ll recall, I did mention to you that I have feelings for someone else.”
“Yeah, you did. How’s that working out for ya?”
Chapter Thirteen
Marcia sat in the chair at her dining room table, in a daze. Could it really be true? Someone had come into the store this morning and purchased two hundred gallons of that hideously hued paint? Just like that.
One of her employees had called her early, to inquire if it was all right to sell the mustard yellow paint in one fell swoop.
All right? It was an answer to prayer!
She glanced heavenward and mouthed a ‘thank you.’ Clearly, divine intervention was the only explanation for the sell of that paint—that ugly, ugly paint—in a single transaction.
Hurriedly she dialed Angie, to give her the news. She suspected her assistant was still in a state of worried agitation. Until that phone call, alerting her that the paint had sold, she could scarcely get herself out of bed this morning. She could only imagine the weight of Angie’s burden.
She placed the call, relieved her friend was home to hear the good news. “Are you sitting or standing?” she asked her in a rush.
“Standing,” she said in a fearful, tentative voice.
“Well, sit.”
“Oh, this can’t be good,” Angie said worriedly.
“Oh, it’s good all right. It’s great, actually.”
“Go … on,” she prompted.
“The paint is sold!”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“Are you serious? Really? Don’t toy with me, Marcia. My heart can’t take it.”
“I’m telling you the truth. I can’t believe it myself.”
Angie’s voice broke with relief when she spoke, “Well, we definitely have a guardian angel, don’t we?”
“I have to think so,” Marcia agreed cheerily. “Anyway, I wanted to let you know. I know how worried you’ve been. Now try to enjoy your weekend. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Are you taking the whole weekend off?” Angie asked.
“I believe I am,” she declared. “Stuart knows our home numbers if anything comes up.”
After hanging up the phone, she hurriedly dressed in a pair of overalls and headed outside. She had recently noticed that the gate to her back yard appeared to be drooping and she needed to get the hinge adjusted before the damage to the wooden slats was irreparable.
After a quick detour to her garage for her tool box, she dashed around to the gate. It was really sagging now, and she stood back, to assess the damage. She realized she’d need to reposition the top hinge, so that when she pounded in the nail, she’d get good purchase.
Reaching for a screw driver, she removed the screws holding the top hinge in place. She repositioned it, struggling to keep the gate in an upright position. She knew if she lost a grip on it, it would tip over and potentially tear out the lower hinge.
Once she’d reattached the new hardware, she struggled to hold the heavy gate straight, in hopes she could then attach the new hardware to the support post that was flush with the house. It was rough going and she glanced around, wondering if Mr. Grambel might be in his front yard to offer a hand. He wasn’t.
With a shoring breath, she hoisted the gate slightly higher, bracing it against one thigh, as she wrestled to install the new hardware onto the post. She was about to give up, when suddenly, the weight of the wooden slats was taken from her.
“I’ve got it. Pound it in,” Ethan instructed.
Startled for a second, Marcia froze, but then rallied and hurriedly affixed the hardware to the post. Once done, she stepped back and met Ethan’s gaze. She was about to thank him for his help, but he spoke first.
“You could have asked me for help, you know.” He glanced behind him. “I was just out front, unloading my truck.”
“Oh, well, I didn’t see you.” She looked at the gate, as if assessing her work. She was stalling for time, but finally met his gaze. “Besides, you have enough to do around your own place.”
He stood back to regard her thoughtfully. “You don’t like to ask for help, do you?”
She wanted to avert her eyes from him, but forced herself to maintain eye contact. Why was it difficult for her to do that? she wondered. She was an honest person, of good character, yet, she struggled to maintain eye contact. She hadn’t been like that before … Jay. Yet another epiphany, she realized with a shock of awareness. She gave a quick shake of her head, which Ethan noticed. He also noticed the deep, penetrating sadness in her eyes.
“Marcia, are you all right?” he asked softly.
Remembering his initial question, she said quickly, “No, I guess I don’t like to ask for help. Thank you … for the help.”
“Well, I’m right over there whenever you need me,” he said, scrutinizing her face, and seeing the sadness still fixed in her eyes. He wished she would talk to him, but doubted she would. Perhaps later, if he ever regained her trust.
With a sigh, he turned to leave. To her surprise, and his, he abruptly spun back around. “Are you willing to talk to me yet?” he asked in a rush.
She spread her hands in a gesture of confusion. “Talk to you about what?”
He raked a hand through his hair and gave her a glance that clearly conveyed that he knew she was playing dumb. “Look, I know I should have told you who I was and what I did for a living when we first met.”
She pinned him with a look, but couldn’t maintain the eye contact this time. “It must have been pretty funny, hearing me giving all that home repair advice…” she murmured, staring at the ground.
“No!” he said adamantly. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
She attempted a neither-here-nor-there shrug. “It doesn’t matter. Anyway, thanks again for the help.” She turned to leave.
He took her arm and turned her back around. “First, you know a lot about home repair—so stop diminishing your abilities. I’ve seen your place. I know what you can do—and it looks to me like you can do just about anything,” he added.
She thought she heard admiration in his voice, but figured she had to be wrong about that. “Sure,” she muttered dubiously.
“You’re doubting your abilities?” he said, incredulous. “For Pete’s sakes, you took your house down to the studs and remodeled the whole thing. I couldn’t have done a better job. I’m speaking the truth, Marcia.”
She glanced toward him hesitantly, meeting his gaze again. “So, why did you let me go on, giving you advice about things you know far more about than I do, when you could have prevented me from making a … fool of myself?”
He sighed with regret. “Look, you’re no fool.” He cocked his slightly, winced. He could see she was embarrassed, and he knew it was his fault. “I’ll tell you why I let you keep talking—why I wanted you to keep talking.”
She nodded, urging him on.
“I … well…”
“What?” She folded her arms across her chest; her eyes now alight with a challenging gleam. She forced herself to hold a steadfast gaze.
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