Page 29 of Please Send Snow
I turn back and our eyes meet in the mirror for an instant.
It feels like someone just flash-fried my soul.
What is happening to me?
“Yes,” I say, tearing my eyes away. “Let’s just get it and move on.”
“They don’t have coats or boots for Maddie,” Dylan says. “They’re all for little kids.”
“We’ll go next door then,” I say firmly, marching for the front of the store before she can argue.
Maddie gathers up her clothes, including some underthings that I deliberately do not notice or think about in any way, except to see that they are still new in the package, which is good. I’m all for thrifting, but I draw the line at wearing someone else’s underwear. A few minutes later, they join me at the counter where a middle-aged lady is reading a magazine.
There’s a can on the counter to collect donations for something called the Mountain Angels Fund, and a flyer advertising the Angel Mountain Christmas Mingle.
“Maddie?” the lady says. “Little Maddie Foster?”
“Hi, Mrs. Miller,” Maddie says. “You remembered me.”
“I’ll never forget you and your daddy,” the lady tells her warmly. “He bought so many flannels here over the years. And he donated all your things whenever you grew out of them.”
“It was one of our traditions,” Maddie says, her cheeks flushed with pleasure.
“I’m going to tell Aggie you were here,” Mrs. Miller tells her. “Have you stopped by the factory yet?”
“No, not yet,” Maddie says, looking a little sad.
“You be sure to do that,” Mrs. Miller tells her as she rings us up. “The ladies will be so glad to see you.”
“I will,” Maddie says softly.
Dylan almost knocks over a rack of sunglasses, and I miss the rest of the conversation, but Maddie is silent as we leave, a heaviness about her that I haven’t seen before. Even Dylan seems to pick up on it and stays uncharacteristically quiet himself during the short trip along the cold stretch of sidewalk.
It was interesting, what the lady said about Maddie and her dad. Heiress or not, it sounds like she came by her own generous impulses honestly. It occurs to me that there might be more to Maddie Foster than I expected.
“Here we go,” I say, opening the door of the boutique for her.
There aren’t any dented brass bells to jangle over this door. The place is almost offensively well-heated and it smells like what you’d get if there was an earthquake in a perfume shop.
“How may I help you?” a slender woman in a cream-colored pantsuit trills as she floats up to me, completely ignoring Maddie.
“Miss Foster needs a good coat,” I say, gesturing in Maddie’s direction. “Something appropriate for winter in the mountains.”
“Of course, sir,” the lady simpers. “Shall I bring out some options, dear?”
“Yes,” Maddie tells her. “Thank you.”
“Don’t move a muscle,” she tells Maddie, winking at me over her shoulder as she scurries off.
Her behavior reminds me of my ex, and I’m instantly uncomfortable. I would have thought going up in the mountains on the opposite coast I might get a break from that kind of attention. But when you have money, there are women all over you, seemingly wherever you go. It’s like they cansmellmy bankaccount balance.
What about Maddie? She’s a woman, and nothing about her has made me uncomfortable.
Honestly, I’m not really sure why she isn’t giving methat vibe. Maybe it’s because she’s got plenty of money of her own.
But it doesn’t matter, I’m going to keep my guard up anyway.
Somehow.
