Page 6 of Can't Take Moore

Me:Hey, I’m going to send you a message from a different number. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be using this one.

He replied before I even had the chance to plug his contact information into my new phone.

Dean:Thanks! I’ll keep an eye out for it. Safe travels. Hope the move goes smoothly today.

His text was another example of how different living in Mooreville would be. The only contact we’d had after the closing were a few messages later that afternoon about the installation of the rink in the pole barn. After confirming that I didn’t need a permit, Dean had recommended a contractor to do the installation. I hadn’t been certain which day I was going to leave Chicago, so I hadn’t told him when I was moving. Yet Dean somehow already knew today was the big day. Probably because I ordered my furniture from a local store and the delivery date had filtered through the town’s grapevine.

After firing a quick text off to Dean, I climbed out of my SUV. After the drive, I wasn’t up for unloading the personal belongings I’d brought with me. So I wandered around the outside of my new home while I munched on my muffin and sipped at my tea.

When the delivery truck arrived twenty minutes early, I decided the lack of privacy was worth the benefit of great customer service. I’d already experienced it when I’d stopped at Leaves & Pages. The woman who’d taken my order had been so kind, and I’d loved how her husband and the teenager I’d assumed was her son had hovered around her. She definitely deserved the help since she’d looked as though she was ready to pop out the baby she was carrying any day.

And it wasn’t as though I wasn’t used to people being interested in my life. Every single citizen of Mooreville could stick their nose in my business, and it would still be a fraction of the people who followed everything I did on social media.

Striding toward the driver’s side of the truck, I beamed a smile at the man who climbed out. With his wiry frame, gray hair, and heavily lined face, he was the opposite of what I expected from someone who spent the day moving furniture. But I understood why when two brawny guys who were younger versions of him piled out of the other side.

“Are you Vienna Frost?” he asked as the other two headed toward the back of the truck to lower the liftgate and open the rear door.

I nodded. “I am.”

“I’m Victor Reinhold, of Reinhold’s Furniture.” He stretched his hand out to shake mine.

“Nice to meet you.”

“With an order like yours, the pleasure’s all mine.” Turning toward the house, he planted his fists on his hips as he scanned the front. “Heck of a place you got here. I’m glad you picked my little store to help you fill it.”

“Thanks.” I ducked my head as I admitted, “I haven’t made it inside yet.”

“Want me to give you a tour while Mark and Mike unload your stuff?” he offered with a grin. “I know the previous owners, so I’m familiar with the house.”

I hadn’t realized I was nervous about walking through the door of my new home by myself until I knew that I didn’t have to. “That would be wonderful.”

Mr. Reinhold led me up the steps and waited for me to find the key I’d tucked into the bottom of my purse when I’d received it in the mail from Dean. After I unlocked the door, it swung open with a slight creak.

He peered at the hinges. “I’ll have one of the boys put some WD-40 on these to get rid of that squeak.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

“Don’t be silly.” He waved off my concern as I walked past him into the house. “It won’t take but a minute since I have some in the truck.”

“In that case, thank you very much.”

He beamed an approving smile my way. “You’re quite welcome.”

Over the next hour, Mr. Reinhold gave me a tour of my home while his sons unloaded the truck and moved my new furniture around until each piece was exactly where I wanted it to go. Before they left, he made sure the door hinges were properly lubricated and fixed a few other small things he noticed around the house. As I walked them outside, Mark asked, “Heard you had an ice rink put into the pole barn?”

“It’s synthetic ice.” His brows drew together at my answer, so I offered, “Do you guys want to see it? I was planning to go take a look anyway.”

Mike nodded. “Definitely.”

We circled around the house to walk across the back lawn toward the pole barn. The company I’d ordered the panels and dasherboard system from had sent a staff member to supervise the set up, and they’d sent photos when the job was complete, but I was excited to see the rink in person.

When we reached the barn, the brothers reached for either side of the doors, pulling them open at the same time. I let out a little sigh of satisfaction upon seeing the NHL-sized rink. At two-hundred feet long by eighty-five feet wide, it was big for a personal rink but still a little smaller than I would have preferred. An Olympic-sized rink would have been better for setting up a short track for speed skating, but the extra fifteen feet in width wouldn’t have fit in the pole barn.

Mr. Reinhold let out a low whistle. “Wow.”

“It’s as big as the rink you used to play on in high school,” Mike said.

I slanted a glance at Mark. “You skate?”

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