Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“I know you’re not from around here,” Carla said warmly. “And I’m gonna guess that you’re a friend of Greta Russakoff’s. How’d I do?”
“Does Greta only own one sweater or something?” Truman muttered, looking down at his chest. It wasn’t even a particularly recognizable sweater, just a cream-and-brown wool knit.
Carla winked. “My son made that sweater.”
“What?”
“Yup. He sells ’em in the back.”
Carla gestured past the grocery section to where a few shelves of home goods gave way to a wooden display of knit wool sweaters in the same style as the one he wore.
“Oh, wow, how weird,” he said. “I mean, the coincidence, not the sweater. Or not that your son makes sweaters. I mean—”
“I know what you meant,” Carla said kindly.
Truman felt his cheeks burn.
“Er, I was just wondering. Do you know of an author called Agatha Tark?”
Carla cocked her head in thought. “Don’t think so… Was she the one did those mystery books?”
“That’s Agatha Christie,” Truman said gently. “These are fantasy books. Thanks anyway.”
“If it’s books you’re after, you should go talk to Maisey and Don over at the Queen Bee.” She pointed out the window.
“Okay, thanks.”
Once he’d paid, he realized that he’d bought too much to carry home easily. He tucked a few small items in the pockets of Greta’s jacket and shoved the handles of two bags up over his wrists, grabbing the others in the most balanced way he could.
“You gonna be all right?” Carla asked. “I could lock the store for a sec and drive you.”
Truman was so touched by her kindness that he almost teared up.
“That is so nice of you, thank you, but I’ll be fine. See you soon, I’m sure!”
And he skedaddled out the door before she could see the tears that threatened at basic human kindness.
He hadn’t always been that way. Somewhere around six months ago was the first time it had happened. He’d been left on the verge of tears when a little girl approached him at the grocery store and told him she liked his shoes. He’d thought little of it, assuming he was just in a strange mood. But it had happened several times since.
Now he wondered if deep down he’d known that Guy was not kind. Was, in fact, so starving him of kindness that the small offerings of others echoed inside him like a pebble dropped into a well.
Did Guy bestow all his kindness on his partner? (For some reason, Truman had been calling him Roger in his head.) Or was he stingy even with him?
Better question: what did you do when all the recent moments of love, desire, and partnership in your life were revealed to be betrayals?
Still better question: how would he ever trust himself again, when he’d proven such a phenomenally bad judge of character?
***
Truman couldn’t see going into a bookstore with five bags of groceries (especially since he was an inveterate browser and it really required both hands and no time pressure of melting ice cream), so he decided to go back to Greta’s, put his shopping away, and come back out.
He’d made it within three blocks of home when a vehicle slowed to a stop next to him.
“Truman?”
It was Ash.
“Hi.” Truman tried not to sound out of breath and gently suggested to himself that he work on his cardio.
“Hi.”
Truman was very taken with Ash’s slow, deliberate delivery, as if he thought deeply about each thing before saying it, but at the moment, he felt like his arms were going to detach from his body imminently.
“I was just going to your place. Greta’s place, I mean.”
“Oh yeah?”
Ash nodded. Truman bit his lip.
Ash blinked like he was waiting for something. “Did you want to get in?” he said finally, as if that had always been implied.
Truman weighed the likelihood of his arms falling off against the likelihood that this florist was going to murder and dismember him and got into the van.
“You’re not going to cut me up with shears and then turn my limbs into avant-garde floral arrangements, are you?” he asked.
“No,” Ash said evenly. “I’m more into traditional arrangements.”
Truman snorted a laugh. “Sorry.”
“It’s the van, I know.”
“Well, it’s the stranger thing, really, but the van doesn’t help. This is what you use for deliveries?”
“Yep, it’s refrigerated in the back. I realize that’s another strike against it.”
“Yeah, maybe don’t put it on your branding. Great for groceries, though.”
The corner of Ash’s mouth quirked up in the tiniest smile.
“So, serial killing aside, why were you going to my place—Greta’s place?”
They pulled up outside the house.
“I was bringing you some things. For the cold weather.”
Truman felt the tears from earlier threaten once more. He cleared his throat and slammed the door to give himself a moment to get it together.
What was wrong with him? New Orleans was a congenial, friendly town. Why was he acting like he’d never experienced human kindness before?