She was talking to herself, but that was okay. I did that myself on occasion.
Bringing my focus back to Sian, I had another thought. “You know, it couldn’t hurt to tell what’s-his-name––”
“Chris,” she corrected softly.
I knew it was Chris, but her being automatic with her answer, and the way she sort of sighed on his name, was nice. “It couldn’t hurt to tell Chris what you’re thinking.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, nodding, talking to me but not really listening. She was all up in her own head. “Couldn’t hurt.”
Benji straightened up from where he was leaning on the counter, walked over to her, took gentle hold of her elbow, and steered her into the living room, helping her sit in the chair closest to the fireplace. Once she was seated, he darted over to the mantel and flipped a switch; then flames whooshed to life, flickering steadily in seconds. “The apothecary sells so many things, and there’s no singular vision,” he imparted, not missing a beat, taking a knee beside her chair.
“Agreed.”
“You don’t have a mission statement or any real branding, and neither does the Etsy shop. People don’t know what you sell, or why.”
“True,” she admitted, sounding almost dazed. Epiphanies could do that to you, though, as they came out of nowhere and whomped you over the head.
“If you, you know, closed Starfish and rented the space to one of the five other people dying to put a store in there, you’d get rent, and you could still have your business online, and the number of changes you’d have to make to a virtual storefront, to brand it and give it a new direction, would be minimal.”
She nodded.
“You could easily make it a tea-and-mug shop, like you’ve mentioned a million times. That would be specific, and if you made gift sets, offered a ‘pick your tea and mugs’ kind of thing, I could see that taking off.”
More nodding.
“Once the baby comes, you won’t be running around with me and Delly anymore anyway, but you could still do the invoicing and other things,” he continued brightly. “If you wanted to, that is. But whatever you do, it would be stuff you could do from home.”
She lifted her head and looked at Benji, over at me, where I stood leaning on the kitchen counter, at Delly, who smiled at her, and then back at Benji. “I’ve been so scared.”
He nodded.
“And a bit scattered because of the baby.”
“I know,” he whispered, remaining close to her. When she reached for him, he took hold of her hand and held it gently between both of his. “But maybe talking to someone new, like Shaw, was just the catalyst you needed to make a plan. I, for one, love the idea.”
Releasing a deep breath, I saw her eyes fill before she turned her head to face the fire. She was a proud woman, and I was familiar with the breed, as all the women in my family were the same. My mother never cried in front of us. There was always something in the other room she had to take care of as soon as she started sniffling.
We were all silent a moment, so the pounding on the back door was loud and jolting.
Turning to look, I watched as the door opened and a man who looked like he’d probably drowned at some point and then come back to life—it was creepy how pale he was—stepped into the kitchen. The water dripping off the end of his nose was impressive.
“Ohmygod,” Sian gasped when she saw him. “What’re you doing here?”
He looked at her, then me, then Benji, finally at Delly, who waved at him, and then back at Sian. “I—Delly said you were hungry.”
“Del!”
“What?” she snapped. “You are.”
“A little, not as much as Shaw.”
The man, who had to be Christopher Rossi, turned to me.
“You should close the door,” I prompted him. “You’re letting all the warm air out.”
He did as I suggested, and I walked over to him and took the two pizza boxes wrapped in a garbage bag as he proceeded to take off his duck boots—smart man—and shed his soaked parka.
Benji darted into the room, pulled a towel from a bucket of rolled ones on the floor of the pantry, and tossed it to Christopher.
He kept staring at me as he walked by, now in only a fisherman sweater, jeans, and socks, and crossed the room to Sian. After a moment of him standing in front of her like a statue, she took hold of his hand, tugged gently, and he went to his knees. Taking the Captain America beach towel from him, she opened it and started drying his hair.
“You’re going to die of pneumonia, and then what will I tell Anton? That his father was so stupid he never got to see him because he went out in the rain and didn’t dry off?”