“And what interest would that be?” Mike asks.
“Why, your happiness of course.” Like it’s the most obvious thing.
“Of course,” he says, and he realizes he might be coming across a bit ungrateful. Because regardless of how little Mrs. Richardson (or really anyone in Amorea) had to do with him and Sean, she does just want to see them both happy, even if it’s come at a snail’s pace, something that she’s chided him about on several different occasions. “Look, I know you’re—”
“May I use your phone?” she asks, prim and proper. “I’d be happy to pay for the expense.”
He’s amused by her and the idea of the expense of a single phone call. She would pay for it, too, because she doesn’t like owing anyone a thing. Debts aren’t something she collects, she’s told him many times before. But if someone happens to owe me a favor or two? Who am I to say no to that?
He doesn’t think she’d say no to that at all.
Being in debt to someone else is beneath her. Having others in her debt?
She’s magnanimous about it, certainly.
“Make your phone call,” Mike says. “I’m sure I owe you some way.”
“I’m sure you do,” she says. “How wonderful for you. Ladies, if you please.”
It’s only then that Mike sees their arms are filled with bundles of different shapes and sizes, and he wonders what he’s gotten himself into. The rest of the Amorea Women’s Club giggle amongst themselves as they move into the bookstore, not allowing Mike to see what’s in the bundles and bags they carry.
“No,” they tell him. “Stay away. Mrs. Richardson wouldn’t like it.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
They tut at him and shoo him away.
He goes back to dusting the shelves while Mrs. Richardson mutters into the phone. He hears little snatches of the conversation—Why, you’ve seen him! You absolutely must fix this!—and he thinks maybe he should be worried, but figures she has to weigh a buck ten at best and thinks he could take her if she tried to strong-arm him into anything.
She hangs up the phone and smiles at him.
He doesn’t like that smile too much.
“You’re lucky you have me,” she says quite seriously.
MIKE’S SITTING in the office chair, brought out into the middle of the store, arms folded across his chest as he glares at everyone standing around him. “I’m not shaving it off,” he says.
“I told you he wouldn’t,” Donald says, shaving kit splayed out on the counter next to them. “Even when he comes in for a trim, he’s very careful with it.”
“My goodness,” Mrs. Richardson says, like it’s the most unbelievable thing she’s ever heard. “You allow him to leave your shop looking like this? By choice? And here I was thinking he did this at home by himself. Oh, this is so much worse than I ever thought. How you’ve gotten this far shows just how forgiving that young man of yours truly is. Shave it! Shave it all off.”
“You come near me with that thing,” Mike says, turning his glare to Donald, “and I’ll tell the others you’re counting cards at poker night.”
“Well, I never,” Mrs. Richardson says. “What a terrible thing to do, Donald Franklin. Cheating at cards? I’ve never even heard of such a thing.”
“I’m more scared of her than I am of you,” Donald tells Mike. “You can hurt me physically. She can hurt me emotionally.”
“And I would do it, too,” she says, and the ladies titter behind her in agreement.
“Well maybe Sean likes it,” Mike says, struggling valiantly not to blush. He’s thirty-six years old, for god’s sake. He doesn’t have to justify himself to anyone. He scratches his wrist and refuses to meet anyone’s gaze. “You ever think of that?”
“Well, I suppose there’s no accounting for taste,” Mrs. Richardson says with a proper sniff.
“How about a trim?” Donald says, intervening before Mike’s lips even start twitching. “A trim that brings him from mountain man to debonair bookseller. Why, I think that sounds like the perfect compromise!”
Mrs. Richardson gives a rather unladylike snort. “The Good Book shows us that miracles are possible, so I suppose I can attempt to believe in one now.”
“It’s not that bad,” Mike says. Sure, he’s been lax as of late, and maybe he didn’t pay as close attention this morning as he normally does, but he was distracted. That stupid dream was rolling around his head and he’d decided to forgo coffee at the diner this morning, knowing Oscar would give him shit for looking like he did. But then he frowned at himself in the mirror, replaying that thought over in his head, because he doesn’t know any Oscar, it’s Walter who he sees at the diner, and Walter’s as sweet as they come, never giving anyone shit.