“Just got that green lamp in last week,” Vivian says from the top of the ladder. “I’ve been debating whether I want to keep it.”
“If you want it—”
“Nope,” she interrupts, unhooking one of the chandeliers from the ceiling. “If I kept every piece I loved, I’d go out of business. I tend to trust these decisions to fate. If someone buys it, it’s not meant to be mine.”
“Good.” I walk over to the ladder and reach up to take the light fixture. “Because I want that lamp.”
The front door jingles and a blond woman steps inside carrying a couple of to-go coffee cups and a waxed paper bag bearing a doughnut logo. Vivian’s face visibly softens as they smile at each other, making me think they’re in love—or at least want to be.
“Perfect timing, babe,” Vivian says. “I need help getting the crystal chandeliers down. Rachel, this is my girlfriend and business partner, Lucy.”
“Hi, Lucy. Nice to meet you,” I say. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You just keep shopping.” Vivian leans down to kiss Lucy. “Rachel will be paying our shop rent and electricity this month.”
I laugh. “Do you have any old board games?”
“We try to stay away from those because they don’t sell unless they’re in mint condition,” Lucy says. “Are you thinking about using game boards as art?”
“Yep.”
“Go on Etsy. Someone there can paint and age a Parcheesi board to look like it’s a century old for a fraction of what you’d pay for vintage.”
As Lucy and Vivian take down the rest of the chandeliers, I rummage through a bin of old paintings. There are a couple of pastoral scenes, some seascapes, a few flowers in vases, but the one that grabs my attention is a quirky painting of a gathering of bears dancing in the woods in the moonlight. It’s whimsical, but not like something meant for a child’s room.
“What’s the backstory on this painting?” I ask.
“It’s a print I picked up on half-off Wednesday at a thrift store in Sandusky because I liked the frame,” Vivian says. “The original was done by William Holbrook Beard, an Ohio artist who was known for putting animals in humanlike situations. If you like his style, you can easily order prints of his other work online.”
I’m not sure how Mason will feel about the bear painting, but I like that it doesn’t take itself seriously and the frame is ornately carved and painted gold. I decide to buy it. If Mason doesn’t like it, I can always hang it in my bedroom.
Next, I find a pair of wooden badminton racquets and an old croquet set. I don’t know how to play either game, but when I ask Lucy for her opinion about buying them, she nods vigorously.
“My mom and her cousins used to play badminton every summer. Back in the day, everyone had a net,” she says. “I feel like badminton and croquet have been replaced by cornhole, but the nostalgia factor is high.”
An hour later—after the breakables have been secured in Bubble Wrap and I’m full of guilt for spending so much money—we load my purchases into the back of the truck. I hand Vivian one of my brand-new business cards. “If you get any more chandeliers or anything else I might like, please let me know.”
“You got it,” she says. “You might already be aware, but Milan also has a few great antique shops. And I’ve heard that one of the resorts over in Huron is renovating and will be selling off all the old stuff.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I say. “If you ever come to Kelleys, look me up.”
“Same. Don’t be a stranger.”
On my way out of town, I stop to buy a bottle of wine for book club and grab a perch sandwich from a restaurant called Jolly Roger’s before heading to the island. I leave everything in the truck and go to the brewhouse in search of Mason. I find him in the office.
“I’m going to need—”
“Wait,” he says, a smile lighting up his face. “Come with me.”
I follow him to the brewery, where he pours two small glasses from one of the tanks. Correction: one of the maturation tanks. Which I know from listening to that brewing podcast. I take a sip. Even though I still don’t know what I’m supposed to be tasting, this beer is better than his last attempt.
“This is—”
“Great, right?”
“Better than great.”
“I knew it,” Mason says, more to himself than to me. “This is the one.”
“Hope you saved the recipe.”
“Crap.” His smile slips and I feel a shot of disappointment drop into my stomach. Until he bursts out laughing. “Of course I saved the recipe.”
“Jerk.” I punch him lightly on the shoulder. “That was not funny.”
“It was a little funny.”
“Fine,” I say as we return to the office. “It was … a little.”
At his desk, he folds his laptop into a tablet and holds it up so I can see the label for the new beer. It’s oval-shaped with a navy border. In the top part of the border, it says LIMESTONE BEER COMPANY, and at the bottom, KELLEYS ISLAND, OHIO. In the middle is a fish with bluish-silver scales and orange spots, intersected by an orange banner that says LITTLE FISH LAGER.
“I used to call Piper my little fish.”
His smile isn’t quite so wide as it was. It’s softer. Sadder. There’s no one on the planet more in need of a hug than Mason and I’m tempted to give in to the urge. But I’m afraid he’ll curl up emotionally, like an armadillo sensing danger, so I leave him alone. “It’s perfect. Fitting for the first beer of your new brand.”
“Thank you.”
“I bought a bunch of stuff today,” I say. “But there’s no rush to unload.”
“We can do it now.”
It takes us a few trips to carry everything into the taproom, and we agree to leave the lamps and chandeliers wrapped until the cabins are ready for them. Mason brings in the bear painting.
“Where did you find this?” he asks, holding it up for a closer view.
“At an antique shop in Port Clinton. What do you think?”
“It’s weird, but … I kind of love it?”
I smile. “I’m glad. Me too.”
The truck bed is empty, and it’s nearly time to pick Maisie up from school, but neither of us leaves the taproom. We stand there in silence and it feels like something more is supposed to happen. Like maybe, if he were someone other than Mason Brown, we’d be kissing each other’s faces off. But he’s him, and I’m me, and that doesn’t happen.
“I should go get Maisie.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Thanks for helping me unload,” I say, lingering at the door. “And the beer is … it’s really great. You should be proud.”
* * *
Mason is still at the brewhouse when Maisie and I are preparing to leave for book club. On impulse, I leave a foil-wrapped plate of cheesy orzo with asparagus and sun-dried tomatoes in the oven for him, along with a note on the counter. I grab the bottle of wine from the fridge on our way out the door.
“Mama, you look fancy,” Maisie says as she climbs into her car seat.