Page 27 of Eight Years Gone

He set it on the table as he left, regretting that for just a second, it had felt like they might be getting somewhere before Ben walked into the shop.

Seven

Grace hurried into Simplicity—her typical pace as she tried to keep up with her life. Between editing the pictures she’d taken for Travel’s New York City Edition, taking almost-daily client meetings for next year’s wedding and event season, plus trying to keep up with the shop’s needs, time was short. Jen helped for a couple of hours every afternoon, but another part-time helper was under strong consideration.

Shoving her purse under the counter, Grace walked to the back, where she blinked at Aunt Maggie.

Nearly all the table arrangements for tomorrow’s baby shower were lined up on the workspace as Aunt Maggie continued working on the remaining few. “Aren’t you speedy today.”

Aunt Maggie grinned as she sat on her favorite stool, looking pretty in a pink sweater and jeans with her black hair tied back with a piece of white ribbon.

Grace was taller and blond like her mom had been, whereas Aunt Maggie was a couple of inches shorter and darker-haired, but all three shared the same Wilson family traits: crystal-blue eyes and small, dainty noses.

Sometimes it was hard to believe that if her mom had still been alive, she would have been nearly sixty—Aunt Maggie’s newly minted age that they’d celebrated with a big birthday bash late last month.

Aunt Maggie fiddled with one of the flower’s petals. “These are coming together so nicely. You picked out a great combination of flowers. I think Christy and Gabby will be pleased.”

Grace sidled up next to her aunt, wrapping her arms around her shoulders in a hug as she kissed her cheek. “They’re beautiful. As always.”

Aunt Maggie wrapped an arm around Grace’s waist for a quick embrace. “Thank you, honey.”

Grace moved to her aunt’s opposite side, picking up some of the green filler, placing it in the next vase to create a similar look to the ones Aunt Maggie had already made. “I’m surprised you started with the table arrangements before the main centerpiece. That’s not your usual process.”

“The centerpiece is already in the fridge.”

Grace blinked at her aunt again as she smiled. “What time did you get here this morning?”

“Asa and I got back from the warehouse with the flowers at our usual time. Jagger had everything put away within twenty minutes. He helped me clean up the stems and did the dethorning while I worked on the centerpiece. He put it in the fridge before he left.”

Grace slid a pretty white hydrangea into the arrangement, adding height to the look as they moved their conversation into uncomfortable territory. Over the last week, it had felt like Aunt Maggie brought up Jagger every chance she could get. “Oh.”

“Did you check out the ramp?”

She stopped again. “What ramp?”

Aunt Maggie gestured to the alleyway door. “Take a look.”

Walking over to the door, Grace pushed it open to the chilly morning air. Huffing out a surprised laugh, she stared at safety treads on wide planks and two sturdy railings. “This is amazing.”

“It sure makes getting in here a heck of a lot easier. If I need that walker the doctor keeps trying to push on me, I won’t have any trouble getting inside.”

Grace laughed again, thrilled she could cross another worry off her list as she stepped onto the first couple of thick boards. “It’s really pretty—stained and everything. When did Asa have time to do this?”

“He didn’t. Jagger did.”

Her smile dimmed. “Oh.”

“He said he used Todd’s tools and the empty space in the garage,” Aunt Maggie continued. “When Asa and I pulled up this morning, Jagger was securing it in place. He made it long so the pitch would be gradual. My tired bones appreciate it.”

Closing the door, Grace returned to the table, picking up the next hydrangea to add balance to what she’d started. “That was nice of him.”

“He’s been so helpful. He’s taken a lot of the burden off both of us.”

Jagger had turned into Aunt Maggie’s lifesaver. If Grace chose to admit it, he’d been hers too.

Brandon, their high school helper, always did a nice job, but Jagger’s fast pace and efficiency were unmatched. Things in the processing room had never run smoother—or at least not for some time.

On Monday, she’d confessed to Jagger that Maggie’s stress was making her MS worse. In a mere few days, he’d made several of their problems disappear. “Yes, he has.”

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