Falling for Max (9 page)

“Stop it. Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“You’re planning my wedding to Max Crawford in your head right now.”

Her aunt sipped her tea, the picture of innocence. “I’m just eating my cookie. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Tori rolled her eyes and took the whole cookie bucket. She was surrounded by hopeless romantics.

Chapter Nine

Max smiled at Fran Benoit as he closed the door to the Whitford General Store behind him. She was in her usual spot behind the counter, knitting what looked like a sock. Or maybe a mitten. She had on a checked flannel shirt and her long gray hair was in a braid, as usual.

“Good afternoon, Max.”

“Hello.”

That was usually the only conversation they had, until it was time for her to add up his purchases and give him his total. Despite her penchant for gossip, especially where he and his basement were concerned, he liked Fran. He often heard her conversing with others and she seemed warm and friendly, and she genuinely cared about the people in town.

He wandered the aisles with a handheld basket, grabbing a few perishable items. Like most people in Whitford, he drove into the city once or twice a month to stock up at the big grocery stores, but there were always things like milk and ice cream that didn’t keep well, long-term.

Skipping the ice cream, because eating at the diner had the numbers on his bathroom scale creeping upward, he grabbed two half-gallons of milk and a package of American cheese. He also picked up a loaf of regular white bread, as well as a loaf of the raisin bread somebody in town had been baking for the store to sell. It made thick, delicious toast in the mornings. After a moment’s consideration, he grabbed a second loaf.

As he unloaded the items onto the counter, he realized that, after seven years in Whitford, being something of an outsider was starting to bother him, and that was his own fault. It was time to stop talking
at
people and start forming relationships. Plus, he was trying to put off going to the town hall, even though it had been two days since he and Tori had come up with a reason to drop in.

“Did you know Caroline Dobson?” he asked.

Fran looked startled for a second, almost dropping his cheese. “Sure. She and Pete lived out... Well, in the house you live in now, actually. He passed away some time ago and she moved south to live with her daughter. What was her name...Brenda! That was it. She went off to college and met a boy. Never moved back. Nice enough people, though I didn’t know them well. Caroline would come in, of course, but she was a bit of an...she was a quiet one. Kept to herself, mostly.”

She was a bit of an odd duck.
The fact she hadn’t said the words meant she’d used them about him—not that he blamed her—and she felt bad about it. It wasn’t the first time he’d been compared to his grandmother, though. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, even if it came from a higher generational branch. “I’m Pete and Caroline’s grandson. Brenda is my mother.”

She narrowed her eyes, planting her hands on her hips. “All this time you’ve been here and you didn’t tell anybody?”

“Nobody asked.”

“You’re a quiet one, too, aren’t you?” she said, and he laughed, not missing what she was saying. “I know she sold the house and moved down with Brenda because her health was suffering, but nobody ever mentioned it was her grandson who bought it.”

“Nobody else would buy it and she was trying to hold off on the surgery, so I bought it. My parents moved into my old room and Grams moved into their first-floor master bedroom.”

Fran’s eyes softened and she covered his hand with hers in a surprising gesture. “You make it sound so practical, but you’re a good boy, Max Crawford.”

He made it sound practical because it
was
practical, but he wasn’t going to argue with her. “Anything for Grams.”

“So you came to Whitford as a boy, then?”

“Not very often and, as you said, we kept to ourselves mostly. But I remember going to the diner for ice cream once. That was a long time ago, and it wasn’t as nice as it is now.”

She shook her head. “All this time, I had no idea you were one of us.”

He opened his mouth to point out he was not only born in Connecticut, but had spent the majority of his life there, but he thought better of it. This was obviously the beginning of a new relationship with the General Store’s owner, and he wasn’t going to ruin it. Being
one of them
didn’t sound so bad.

The bell over the door rang and he was surprised to see Tori walk in. She was wearing a Trailside Diner T-shirt, but she’d pulled the ponytail holder out of her hair. He could still see a slight ridge across her hair where it had been cinched.

“Max!”

She sounded happy to see him, which thrilled him in a way he couldn’t really define. Maybe it was simply nice to have friends who were glad to see him. “Hi, Tori.”

“Hi, Fran. Do you have any cream of chicken soup?”

“There should be a couple of cans on the shelf. The mushroom’s gone, but I had ordered extra of the chicken.”

Max turned to watch Tori walk down the aisle, his gaze drifting slowly south. She kept herself in shape, that was for sure. It was probably a side effect, in addition to socializing, to working at the diner.

Fran cleared her throat and he whipped around to face her. She had an eyebrow raised and the speculation was clear as day as she looked from him to Tori and back. Busted.

Thankfully, she didn’t say anything, but went back to ringing up and bagging the last few items he’d bought. He pulled out his wallet and waited for the total.

Tori came back, setting two cans of cream of chicken soup on the end of the counter. “I’m taking both so, with the cream of mushroom gone, there’s a big gap on the shelf now, Fran.”

The other woman shook her head. “I hate that. My order best come in soon. And now whoever keeps messing up my canned goods might be tempted to screw around again.”

“Somebody’s messing with your canned goods?” Max asked. What could one do to canned goods?

“I like the cans in alphabetical order.
Somebody
in this town likes them shelved by color.
Color!
Does that sound normal to you, Max?”

He couldn’t say he’d ever been asked to define normal before, but he had to agree with Fran to a point. His canned goods were shelved by type and then alphabetically from there. “I think you should shelve them however you like, since you own the store.”

“Damn straight.” She pointed a finger at Max, but turned her gaze to Tori. “Max here’s a good boy.”

While Fran made his change, Tori poked him in the side with her elbow. He looked down at her—realizing for the first time he was quite a bit taller than she was—and she gave him a questioning look. He just gave her a small smile, reverting to his man-of-mystery shtick.

“Here you go.” Fran counted back his change, giving his hand a little squeeze after that crumpled the paper bills. “You know, if there’s something you’d like to have that I don’t stock, you just let me know. I can probably order it. And you give your grandmother my best.”

“Thank you, Fran. I will.”

He stepped out into afternoon air that was quickly cooling and sat on the old wooden bench to wait for Tori.

* * *

“You should snap that man up.”

Tori looked toward the door, thankful it had already fully closed behind Max. “I’m not looking for a man right now.”

“A young, pretty girl like you?” Fran shook her head, taking the money Tori held out to her for the soup. “You could have any man you wanted.”

“If I wanted one.”

“I know you went out with that young man who tried to open the tanning salon down the road—as if anybody around here’s going to pay money for fake sun—so I know it’s not a matter of you liking men or not.”

“I’m just taking some time to work on me, Fran.”

The older woman frowned and handed Tori her change. “Did you read that in one of those shiny magazines with the supermodels on the cover?”

Tori just laughed and shrugged. “Maybe. I have to run, but I’ll see you later.”

Max was sitting on the bench outside the store, with his bags at his feet. She sat next to him, cans of soup on her lap, and leaned back. “Aren’t you the golden boy all of a sudden?”

“I asked her if she knew Gram. The more I come into town, the more I like it. I guess I should start being part of the community.”

“Have you gone to town hall yet?”

“No.”

“I practically wrote you a script, Max. You’re considering building a garage, though you haven’t decided yet, and you’d like to know what the fees are for a building permit so you can add those to the projected costs.”

“Why can’t I just ask if I can...get a fishing license or something? That’s simple.”

“Because everybody gets their fishing licenses at the General Store. And because you don’t fish. If she does, you’re screwed. It’s easy enough to think about building a garage, but then change your mind. And not many women want to talk about construction over dinner.”

“I need to put my groceries in the cooler.”

“You have a cooler?”

He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Of course I have a cooler. It’s in the trunk. How else do you keep your perishables cold until you can put them in the fridge?”

“I leave that errand for last, but I’m not usually procrastinating about asking somebody out to dinner.”

She got up and followed him to his car. He popped the trunk, then carefully packed his milk and cheese in the cooler with multiple ice packs. Then she laughed at the look he gave her when she tossed her cans of soup in next to the cooler.

“I’m going to walk with you. I’m not going into town hall, but I’ll hold your hand to the front door.” When he arched his eyebrow at her, she rolled her eyes. “Not literally.”

He slammed the trunk lid. “I feel ridiculous.”

“It’s nerve-racking, asking somebody out on a date. But I feel like if I don’t push you, you’re going to chicken out and then you’re going to give up and go hide in your basement some more.”

They followed the sidewalk around the town square, moving at about half of Tori’s regular pace, and it was hard not to hold his hand in the literal sense. The poor guy was so nervous.

“It’s childish to make up a story to talk to a woman.”

“Trust me, Max. It’s perfectly normal. Have you ever been to a bar? At least you’re just telling a little fib about a garage and not lying about who or what you are.”

“It would be nice to have a garage. The shed’s small and I have to half-empty it just to get the lawn mower out. Then I have to drag everything out and repack it with the snowblower in front when winter comes.”

“Well, there you go. Now it’s not even a little fib. Though I think actually building a garage so your excuse to talk to Nola is legit is a bit extreme.”

He stopped walking suddenly and shoved his hands in his pockets. She followed his gaze and didn’t see anything but the barbershop’s pole. He’d seen it before, since he got his hair cut there, but he was staring at it as if it was the most interesting thing on the planet.

“What’s the matter, Max? What are you trying to figure out?”

“We’ve gone all through how to ask her out and how to talk to her and we even covered knowing if I should try to kiss her good-night or not. But what do I do if she says no?”

“Hey. Look at me.” She put her hand on his elbow and forced herself to be silent until he gave up on the barber pole and looked at her. “If Nola isn’t interested, we’ll find somebody else who is.”

“No, I mean, what do I actually say if she says no.”

“Have you
ever
asked out a woman? You said you’ve had previous relationships.”

“They asked me out.”

“Okay.” No pressure, there. No wonder he was treating the walk to the town hall like he was on his way to the gallows. “Let’s go sit in the park for a few minutes.”

There was a bench in the middle of the town square, which was thankfully empty at that time of day, and they sat down. Because they were literally in the middle of Whitford, she sat at the opposite end of the bench instead of closer to him. The gossip squad thinking they were a couple wasn’t going to help Max’s dating prospects any.

“Nola is a wicked sweetheart,” she said. “So if I had to bet money, I’d say if she’s not interested, she’s going to say she’s really busy. Or that she’s seeing somebody, which she’s not, but you wouldn’t really know that. So smile and say maybe another time.”

“Maybe another time.”

“Or just smile and thank her for the information about the building permit. Just smile. You have a great smile.”

He flashed it for her and she was relieved to see him relax a little. Though she understood he was feeling out of his element, she also thought he was putting way too much pressure on himself.

“Okay,” she said after a few minutes. “Are you ready?”

When they got close to the town hall, she wished him luck and kept on walking. But she didn’t get very far before she looked back to make sure he actually went inside. She turned in time to see the antique wooden-and-glass door close behind him.

Part of her was tempted to keep on walking, right to the bank building and her apartment. But she knew he’d want to talk to her about how it went when he came out. Plus her soup was in his trunk.

So she found a good vantage spot to wait, which allowed her to see through the big glass windows along the front of the town hall. They were talking, no doubt about the hypothetical garage, but she could tell by his body language that Max was slowly relaxing.

Then Nola handed him a slip of paper, on which Tori assumed she’d written the information he’d requested, and she watched his shoulders stiffen a little. It was go time.

Through the window, Tori saw Nola smile and nod. They talked for a few more minutes, and then she watched Max take out his phone. Nola smiled as he took her picture and Tori’s stomach tightened up.

They were exchanging contact information, which meant Nola had agreed to go on a date.
Operation— Makeover Max
was on its way to being a success.

But as she watched Max smile at Nola, Tori couldn’t shake the feeling she was on the losing end of this proposition.

* * *

Max peered through the magnifying glass suspended on a telescopic arm to paint the tiny trim of a headlight mounted on the smoke box of an N scale 2-6-6-2. Though he usually preferred to work in HO scale, he occasionally painted N scale engines—which were so small they fit in the palm of his hand—as a special favor or for more money.