Читать книгу Unexpected Reunion - Carolyn Greene, Carolyn Greene - Страница 10

Chapter Two

“Thanks for your help yesterday, Paisley. I don’t know what I would have done without you and Savannah pitching in to keep Gleanings open while I was at the hospital.” Ruthie took a seat at the counter in Milk & Honey and gently pushed aside a ceramic Peter Rabbit to make room for her elbows.

Paisley moved behind the counter and flipped the switch to backlight what she called her higgledy-piggledy wall...shelves divided into cubes and filled with various sorts of teapots, spoon collections, antique cups, honeypots, snow globes and porcelain crumpet baskets. A British transplant, Paisley loved sharing bits of her homeland with customers.

In the seating area behind Ruthie, tables were given the illusion of privacy by separating them with low shelves strategically filled with packets of flavored teas, jars of jam, notecards, knickknacks, tea cozies and anything British to entice diners to take home a little memento of their Milk & Honey experience. Over to the side of the store, tucked away in locked display cases, were the real treasures—silver tea sets, rare water pitchers and ornate sugar bowls. The more unusual the better, and if the piece had an interesting story behind it, better still.

On the opposite side of the dining counter, Paisley lit the fire under a cast-iron skillet and set a glass of orange juice in front of Ruthie.

“No problem. I was happy to help,” Paisley replied. Her accent always sounded so elegant and cultured. It was a huge draw for the customers. She refilled the coffee cup of an older gentleman sporting a white handlebar mustache and handed Ruthie a sheet featuring this week’s specials. “We sold a few of Mr. Bristow’s gewgaws yesterday, and a lovely Asian lady was quite excited about a quaint little Japanese doll she found.”

The kissing dolls. Ruthie hadn’t planned to keep them, but neither had she anticipated their sale would hit her so hard in the solar plexus.

“That’s great,” she said, her voice not quite matching Paisley’s enthusiasm. “Was it Chou from the Tokyo Market down the street? Sobo loves to shop there.”

“No, I’ve seen this lady a couple of times before, so I assume she’s local, but I don’t know who she is. Speaking of Mrs. Bristow, what’s the latest on her status?”

Ruthie gave her a full update with the unfortunate news that the redness and swelling on Naoko’s leg showed no improvement.

“She’ll be fine,” her friend reassured. Taking advantage of the momentary lull, she poured herself a cup of tea and flashed a guilty grin before she snitched one of the biscotti from the tin. “The whole church is praying for her. And besides, she’s a tough lady. Remember the time when we were in university, and she climbed up on the roof of our house to replace some shingles?”

“Pop was furious when he found out. He kept going on about her falling and possibly getting a concussion.” Ruthie took a sip of her freshly squeezed juice. “Come to think of it, that was his same concern when she fell off the rose trellis a couple of days ago. He kept telling her, ‘Thank God you didn’t crack your head.’”

“It’s sweet, actually. He’s madly protective of her.”

The acorn didn’t fall very far from the Bristow tree. In that regard Gray was a lot like his grandfather. Ruthie mentally kicked herself for letting her attention drift back to the man who still held the pieces of her broken heart in his strong hands.

She must have cracked her own head to think that she could pray her former fiancé back to God and to herself. But if God didn’t give up on lost sheep, then she certainly wouldn’t give up on Gray.

She focused on the specials menu, then looked over at Mustache Man at the end of the counter, who was digging into a hearty English breakfast. “What he’s having looks good. Is that French toast?”

“Eggy bread? No.”

Ruthie had never heard the refined Paisley snort before. This was a first.

“It’s fried bread. I’ll do a nice British fry-up for you, complete with egg, bacon, sausage, tomato and a dab of beans.” She turned to the skillet and talked over her shoulder. “Now fess up. You’ve deliberately avoided telling me how you fared with Gray yesterday.”

So much for taking her mind off him. Ruthie shrugged. “There’s nothing to say. I’m not really sure what that was about, though. After these past six months avoiding each other, he suddenly wanted me at the hospital with him. Constantly.”

It had been nice to be close to him after all this time apart, but also stressful because there had been so much left unsaid between them.

She fought to keep her voice strong, to look at Paisley directly when all she wanted was to bury her head in her arms and cry like a baby. But she was stronger than that now. She could do this. With effort she could convince Paisley and her friends that she no longer felt anything for Gray. Convincing her own heart was another matter.

“But after he drove me home,” she continued, “he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

“Perhaps he wanted to kiss you goodbye and was just avoiding temptation.” Paisley pulled a batch of scones from the oven, topped one with clotted cream and jam, set it on a scalloped-edge plate and carried it to a pair of women laughing at a corner table.

Ruthie choked back a laugh at her friend’s comment. Big talk coming from a friend who studiously shied away from male attention. But then, Paisley had her reasons.

The minute they were alone again, Ruthie suggested, “Or maybe he didn’t want to lead me on. Not that I’d be interested, of course.”

“Of course.” For some reason, the Brits did sarcasm far better than Americans. It had to be the accent. Paisley deftly changed the subject. “I heard Gray is planning corporate security systems now. What do you say we have him put one in here?”

“What do you say we let him continue to avoid me?”

“He didn’t avoid you yesterday.”

“The same could be said of your police officer friend.”

Paisley set the fry-up in front of her and shot her a blue-eyed dagger. “Don’t try to make something out of nothing.”

Ruthie poked her fork at the delicious looking but heavy breakfast. “What do you put on fried bread?”

“Your teeth.”

The front door chimed, and Paisley turned back to the smoking fry pan. She switched on the vent to draw out some of the smoke. A second later red-and-yellow flames danced along the surface of the overheated oil.

“Oh, my!” Paisley turned in a circle, apparently in search of something to put out the fire.

Ruthie scooted off her stool and ran behind the counter to help. The customer from the end of the counter followed on her heels.

“Get the baking soda!” Paisley cried.

The man snatched a can of something from the prep table.

“No, not that!” Ruthie lunged to grab the can out of his hand, but before she could reach it, he threw the contents on the flames.

Whoof! The pan flared up in a miniature fireball, and baking powder poofed everywhere.

In a panic, Ruthie debated what to do first...tend to Paisley, whose blunt-cut brunette bangs now frizzled like tiny electrified wires, get the customer with the melting handlebar mustache out of the kitchen before he did further damage or try to extinguish the pan before it caught something else on fire. Before she could make a move, someone pushed past her, turned off the gas flames and deftly slid a lid over the hot pan.

Gray, their fast-thinking rescuer, turned on the water, doused clean dish towels with cold water, offered them to the threesome and suggested they hold the cooling cloths to their faces to take away the sting of the heat.

Paisley touched a hand to her cheek. “I don’t think I’m burned. Just a little warm.”

After a quick check of the customer revealed a slight redness near his lip where his mustache wax had melted, Gray turned to Ruthie. He grabbed her by the upper arms and studied her intensely. First her face, then down to her hands, which he turned over to check for burns. She’d been farther away from the fire when it flashed, so she hadn’t felt the effects of the heat. Yet even after he’d finished giving her the once-over, he held on. She wondered if he realized how tightly he gripped her upturned hands.

“Are you all right?” he asked, concern drawing a vertical line on his forehead.

“I’m fine,” she said in a shaky voice, “but Paisley looks weird.”

Along with her bangs, Paisley’s eyebrow hairs had faded from dark brunette to pale brown and corkscrewed in all directions. Her cheeks and nose glowed a faint pink, but it wasn’t clear whether the color came from a burn or stress.

Savannah dashed over from Connecting Threads, her blond hair bouncing on her shoulders.

“I heard a loud whoosh clear across the store,” she said, “and when I looked over here, it seemed as though the whole place had gone up like a dried-out Christmas tree.”

While Savannah bustled from one friend to the other and then the older man, double-checking them for heretofore unnoticed signs of injury, Gray quietly herded the ensemble out of the kitchen.

“It’s a miracle no one was hurt,” Savannah declared. “God must have been watching over y’all.”

Gray fixed his gaze on Ruthie, his expression making it clear he would not be joining in the choruses of “praise God.”

“We need to talk,” he said.

* * *

While her friends cleaned up the kitchen, Ruthie followed Gray back to the Gleanings area. Several new finds awaited price tags, and boxes from the Bristow house still sat near the checkout counter where she had left them yesterday afternoon. There were not yet any customers at this early hour of the morning.

A terrible thought raced through her heart. “Sobo. Did the clot—?”

“She’s the same,” he said, moving his hands as if to erase whatever worry she might have. “It’s not about her.”

Relief flooded through her. But the troubled expression on Gray’s face killed the momentary reprieve. Were they finally going to confront the awkward elephant that had stood between them for the past four years? Worse, was he going to tell her he’d moved on and found someone else?

“It’s about Pop.”

Ruthie touched a hand to her mouth. “Oh, no.”

“No, not Pop, but his stuff. You haven’t already sold the things he brought in yesterday, have you?”

His dark brow furrowed together, and he jammed his hands into his jeans pockets in a sign that Ruthie had come to know meant something was bothering him. Apparently, this was about more than just a few collectible doodads.

“I don’t think so.” She looked inside the half dozen open boxes sitting on and beside the counter. “These haven’t been inventoried yet, but it looks like everything’s still here.”

She paused, remembering what Paisley had said about selling the kissing dolls. Had he come back for them? Did they hold the same meaning for him that they did for her?

“Oh, wait. There was one thing, a pair of knickknacks that used to sit on the piano.”

She watched him, but his intense gaze never flickered. He didn’t remember? Her heart sank a little.

He shook his head. “One of the boxes was full of military stuff from Pop’s service in Korea. Awards and medals, pictures, journals. Some keepsakes. He had set that box aside to put away but brought it to you by mistake.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s here somewhere.”

They started with the stack beside the counter. Few of the contents matched the kinds of things Ruthie sold at Gleanings. She usually focused on antique or unusual one-of-a-kind items bought from estate sales and moving sales, but these would be sold on consignment for the Bristows. The idea had been to spare Pop the trouble of organizing a yard sale when he needed to take care of Sobo. He’d initially pushed aside the stored items in the spare bedroom to make room for Sobo’s rented hospital bed. But his wife’s Japanese decorating taste won out, and soon the room looked as sparse and clean as the rest of the house.

They went through the three stacked boxes of odds and ends first, then moved a fourth from the small pedestal table Pop had brought and set it on the counter. The tabletop’s inlaid design of golden-colored grain beckoned her to trace her fingers around the bent heads of barley.

She clearly remembered sitting at this table on the Bristows’ screened porch, playing Jenga with Gray and his younger sister while a warm summer breeze blew over the trio. Gray had stared intently at the stacked wooden blocks, determined to remove a piece without collapsing the precarious tower. Ruthie had laughed at his seriousness over the silly game, but he’d just refocused his concentration. With a hint of mischief guiding her actions, she’d touched her bare toes to the twisted barley pedestal and given it a nudge so slight the crashing of the tower could have easily been blamed on the breeze.

When his foot came down on hers, she’d suspected she’d been caught. Instead, he’d conceded defeat and promptly invited her to the Byrd Theatre for a 99-cent second-run movie. It was their first date, and he’d held her hand during the entire time the Wurlitzer organ played before the movie started. Ruthie had no memory of the movie, but she could still remember the exact feel of her hand in his, the calluses on his palm scratching her skin. Remembered wishing they hadn’t bought popcorn each time he let go to reach into the carton for a handful of the buttery stuff.

It had been part of the best time of her life. The laughter. The fun. Sharing new experiences together. The discovery that, no matter what activity they engaged in, it was always better when they did it together. And most of all, there was the easy camaraderie. The feeling that they could say or do anything without self-consciousness or censoring.

The rest of the family seemed to approve of their nearly constant togetherness. Since Gray’s parents lived only a few blocks away, it had been easy for him to slip away frequently and come to visit her under the guise of checking on his grandparents. And on occasion, Ruthie would walk over to visit his younger sister, but spend as much or more time with Gray.

But now...well, she measured every word she spoke and guarded every glance she sent his way. It was an uncomfortable balancing act between keeping a circumspect distance and wanting to slip back into that easy way of relating they used to have.

“I knew you shook the table,” he said, breaking into her moment of reverie. He gave her a nostalgic grin edged with regret.

Or maybe she was just hoping for a twinge of regret.

“Then why didn’t you say something?”

He gave a soft chuckle. “I liked your determination to win.”

“Even if my methods were a little hinky?”

He put his hand on hers, bridging the present with the past. “I’m sorry for hurting you. For telling you something so intense in a letter instead of...”

“Instead of by Skype?” she finished for him. The comment had been intended to refer to the thousands of miles separating them at the time, but it came out sounding bitter.

Something between an apology and a grimace crossed his face. “Yeah, I guess even that would have been more personal. More face-to-face.”

He looked away and removed his hand from hers, taking the warmth with it.

“And I guess it was pretty cowardly of me to keep dodging you after I came back home, but I convinced myself it was to protect you from an awkward meeting at my grandparents’.” He returned his attention to her, meeting her gaze directly. “What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry for the way I handled things.”

Sure, it had been unpleasant, but what breakup wasn’t? Even if they’d been in the same room, it wouldn’t have hurt any less. Despite her own pain, she knew whatever had caused him to change his mind about God and a future with her must have been hurting him much, much more.

She shook her head. “No apology necessary,” she said. “That’s all in the past now.”

We’re in the past, she almost added.

“You may not be a Bristow by marriage,” he continued, “but according to my grandparents, you’re still family. We’re going to see each other at family events, so we need to be able to put the awkwardness aside. For Pop and Sobo’s sake, if not our own.”

Ruthie nodded and offered him a wistful smile. “Yeah, it’s been hard juggling holidays and drop-by visits for the times you’re not there.”

“So I’m not the only coward,” he teased. He pulled a cardboard box closer to him and lifted a flap. “Maybe we should meet for lunch sometime. Clear the air about the past and set up ground rules for the future.”

“Rules of engagement, you mean.”

He flinched as if she’d hit him.

She’d intended it in the military sense, of course, but it was only after seeing his reaction that she realized her words could be taken a different way.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” he said with a forced smile. “Maybe we could call them rules of disengagement.”

The joke wasn’t funny, so she didn’t laugh.

The door opened, and a stylish young mother with a baby in a stroller entered the building. The woman spotted the Gleanings sign over the counter and headed toward the shop to browse.

“Feel free to look around,” Ruthie told her. “And let me know if you have any questions.”

Gray’s expression quickly changed to one of relief. “Here it is. Pop’s Korean War stuff.”

“That’s great.” Ruthie bent to look at the assortment of papers, medals, photos and sentimental trinkets. “We get history hunters in here all the time. Pop would be heartbroken if we’d sold all those memories.”

He closed the box flaps. “Thanks. For this,” he said, gesturing toward the mementos. “For everything.”

At her questioning glance, he added, “For being there for Pop and Sobo while I was away.”

“Your parents were there for them,” she said, deflecting his praise. “They looked after them.”

“Yes, but you gave Sobo and Pop someone other than me to focus on. You made a difficult time in their lives a little more tolerable.”

She shook off his thanks. “They’ve been there for me more than I was for them. I don’t know what I would have done—where I would have gone—if they hadn’t stepped in when I needed help most.”

Gray’s expression took on a faraway look. Was he thinking of God—who he’d said wasn’t there when he’d needed help most?

He tucked the box of Pop’s treasures under one arm and laid some bills on the counter. Then he moved the small, round table closer to the door. “I’ll take the table, too. Is this enough to cover it?”

“Way too much. You could buy a new one for less.” She wondered if the table had stirred memories for him as it had for her.

He must have read her mind. “There’s a bare spot in the corner of my kitchen. This should fit just about right.” With the box still tucked under his arm, he picked up the table with the other hand and moved toward the door. He stopped and turned back to her. “Don’t tell Pop and Sobo I bought it, or they’ll try to pay me back.”

“Let me give you a hand.”

Either the box or the table alone would have been manageable, but the weight of both was clearly an effort for him. She came from around the counter, but he hefted the table closer.

“Thanks, but I’ve got it.”

With a resigned sigh, Ruthie stood back and watched him struggle through the door, determined to carry his burden alone.

* * *

The fire at Milk & Honey was nearly forgotten when the lunch crowd poured in. By that afternoon, Savannah had sold a vintage dress to a teen for her upcoming prom, and Nikki, who helped run the shop next door and who they hoped would be a future partner at Abundance someday, had taken apart an antique typewriter to repair and restore.

Whenever Ruthie thought about how Abundance and the individual shops within it came to be, she thanked God for bringing together the original three talented friends who, each in her own way, loved to find interesting articles and offer them for sale, and then adding a fourth to the mix. She sometimes laughingly called Savannah and Paisley her “Craigslist friends,” since it had been an online ad seeking roommates that had brought them together in the first place. Then, after moving into their Abundance shops, they’d been blessed to meet Nikki, who worked next door.

The college years had been lean for the three friends, so they’d sought to decorate the rented house with flea market and thrift-store finds. Ruthie started them off with unusual pieces of antique furniture hidden under ugly coats of paint or dulled varnish, which she refinished and made to look like new. Savannah found lovely old tablecloths, bedspreads and dresses that showed small signs of wear and fashioned them into beautiful curtains fit for a showroom. And Paisley, with her penchant for food and hospitality, supplied fancy plates and introduced the group to the likes of tea infusers, egg-poaching cups and soup tureens.

Visitors were always astonished to see how stylish they’d made the place look with little or no money. Soon friends, family and acquaintances were asking the threesome to find specific items, and before long their individual hobbies had grown into businesses that helped pay for their college expenses. This was a blessing, especially since Ruthie wanted to pay her own way and avoid drawing further on the Bristows’ kindness after all they’d done for her over the years.

After graduation, the three friends decided to combine their businesses under a single roof they called Abundance. The exception was Nikki, who worked next door at the Carytown shoe repair shop, called Restore My Sole. When the ancient owner, Jericho Jones, discovered her talent for fixing things, he began accepting repair jobs for small items and gave the tasks to her to complete. And when the space next door became available for rent just before the others’ college graduation, Nikki became an unofficial fourth member of the Abundance friendship. Nikki’s loyalty to Jericho kept her working for him, but they used the connecting door between the stores whenever the Abundance shop owners needed their friend’s skills to restore acquired treasures prior to sale.

Between waiting on customers, Ruthie tackled the remaining boxes from the Bristows and kept an eye open for any other war memorabilia that might have made their way into the wrong place. To her delight, and especially Savannah’s, one of the boxes contained several ladies’ hats that appeared to be from the early sixties.

“I need your help pricing them,” Ruthie said after she’d taken the find over to Connecting Threads.

Her friend turned them over and checked for a label. She gasped. “These were made by the Hat Factory down in Shockoe Slip. Back in their heyday, before the factory went out of business, it was the local place for ladies to buy hats. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding buyers for these.”

Judging by the way Savannah practically drooled over them, Ruthie wouldn’t be surprised if her friend bought one herself.

Savannah’s fingers followed the loose band of a particularly pretty go-to-church hat, and she twisted her lips into a slight frown. “The puggaree is loose. I’ll fix it for you so no one will have any reason to turn this beauty down.” Savannah perched the hat on her head and peered into the floor mirror. With a hand on her hip and a point of the toe, she struck a saucy pose. “Mrs. Bristow sure had good taste.”

Ruthie agreed. “Pop said that shortly after he brought her here from Tokyo, she studied fashion magazines and bought American clothes to try to fit in.” Naoko had even adopted her husband’s faith as her own and now hated to miss a single Sunday at church. “She still looks stylin’, even when she’s just puttering around the house.”

“You’d never guess she’s pushing eighty.”

Savannah set the hat with the loose band on top of her sewing pile, then helped Ruthie tag the remaining hats with prices that should be high enough to reflect their value but not high enough to scare off potential customers.

Ruthie thanked her and took the hats back to Gleanings, where she displayed them on the Peg-Board wall behind her counter. Then she pulled out the box she’d been sorting just before Gray’s unexpected arrival yesterday. Tucked between an early transistor radio and a pair of binoculars was the pair of kissing dolls...right where she’d left them.

She frowned, remembering the conversation she’d had with Paisley this morning. How could Paisley have sold the dolls if they were still here?

* * *

Three times in two days. This was more than Gray had seen Ruthie over the past four years. And it was taking a toll on him.

Sleep had eluded him last night while he worried about Naoko. When he did sleep, his dreams had been filled with images of Ruthie. The way her hands fluttered like a butterfly without a road map whenever she talked. That soft reddish-brown hair that begged him to touch it. And the hazel eyes that telegraphed every emotion that crossed her heart.

He found her at the rear of the shop, her back turned to him while she focused her attention on straightening a three-foot-wide metal disc on the wall, and he took advantage of her distraction to study her.

She wore slim khaki pants topped by a pale green shirt that made her hair seem more red than brown. Her movements were more confident now than four years ago, possibly the result of proving herself to be an accomplished businesswoman. Ruthie had always been a hard worker. And her devotion had obviously paid off, judging by the shoppers milling around him who exclaimed to their friends over the items they discovered.

It must have been hard for her, losing her mother in the middle of her teen years. Though Ruthie had never said anything against her stepfather, Gray had picked up from his grandparents’ conversations that when the new widower spent a Saturday packing the house to move him and his biological daughter back to New Jersey, the man had turned to Ruthie and asked, “Where are you going to live?”

At church the following day, Naoko had noticed Ruthie’s tears after silent prayer time. Until that day, their relationship had consisted mostly of friendly hellos. His grandmother couldn’t stand to see anyone hurting, so she’d pulled Ruthie aside and learned that the girl’s only blood relatives—a chronically ill aunt and a cousin with a drug problem—could not take her in. With nowhere else to turn, her only other option was foster care.

In less than twenty-four hours, his grandparents had moved her into their house and applied to become Ruthie’s legal guardians. How could someone hurt her like that? And then it hit him. He had hurt her like that. He had rejected her, just like her family. The thought threatened to rip him apart. Of course, he’d done it to protect her. Somehow he doubted she saw it that way.

Ruthie stepped away from hanging the oversize replica of an antique coin and appeared to notice him out of the corner of her eye. She smiled and turned to greet him. Gray smiled back, hoping his guilt didn’t bleed through his expression. When her gaze fully met his, the smile dissipated. Or maybe she caught some hint of what he’d been feeling.

“I just spoke with Sobo,” she said, as if clearing off that reason for his sudden reappearance. “She’s not crazy about the hospital food.”

“Maybe it needs soy sauce,” he joked. “It’s good she feels well enough to want to eat.”

Ruthie nodded agreement and waited. He sensed her unspoken question. Why have you come back?

“There was a doll,” he said, getting to the point. “It had been in the box with Pop’s military stuff.” He drew a deep breath, hoping they might find it in one of the cartons they hadn’t searched earlier today. “Sobo needs it. Pop said it has special meaning for her.”

Ruthie relaxed her guarded stance, pulled her ponytail loose, then refashioned it. “Good news. It wasn’t sold after all.” With a tilt of her head, she added, “I wasn’t aware it meant so much to her. She always said she didn’t like ranzatsu.”

Her easy pronunciation of the Japanese word for clutter drew a spontaneous grin from him. Relieved she still had the doll in her possession, he hoped this would be the last time he would need to come back for a while. Although they had called a truce and would no longer need to avoid each other at family gatherings, he thought it best to ease back into contact with her. And preferably with his grandparents around to act as a buffer.

“Well, clutter is the last thing she’d call this doll. It’s the only thing she has left from her childhood.”

“No problem. They’re right over here.”

They? He followed her to the counter where most of the boxes had been emptied and set aside for later use. Pop had mentioned only one doll.

“Did the table fit?” She set a small cardboard box on the counter and reached inside.

“Like it was designed for the house.” It looked great in the corner of his kitchen, but he still wondered at the impulse that had driven him to buy it. Now he’d think of Ruthie every morning at breakfast...and remember the look of mischief on her face and the touch of her bare toes against his foot.

She handed him a pair of porcelain dolls, their lips puckered for a kiss.

He turned them over in his hands and stared at them, remembering the time early in their relationship when their own actions mimicked the dolls’. Drawing his and Ruthie’s features on them had provided the perfect opener for their first kiss. And many more after that.

“What happened to the freckles?”

She flashed him another of her sassy grins. “Foundation makeup. It covers a lot of flaws.”

He knew she was joking, but the comment drew his attention to her face. The cute little specks were still there, but much lighter now, and he couldn’t help wondering if there were still twenty-nine. Somehow he doubted she’d let him count them. Perhaps spending less time in the sun had allowed them to fade. He hoped she wasn’t trying to cover them with makeup.

She ducked her head and looked away under his scrutiny. He hadn’t meant to bring out her shyness, but he couldn’t let her put herself down, even if only in jest.

“I don’t consider freckles flaws,” he said, and idly ran a thumb over the girl doll’s puckered face.

Mirroring his gesture, Ruthie lifted a hand to her face, then immediately slid her hand into her slacks pocket.

“Right. They’re kiss prints,” she said, automatically parroting back the words he used to tell her.

She looked uncomfortable, as if realizing she’d opened a door that led someplace they weren’t supposed to go. “I’m sure Sobo will be glad to get this set back,” she said, abruptly changing the subject.

Gray shook his head. “This isn’t the doll I’m looking for. The one I’m talking about is the size of a Barbie and has real hair and a red kimono.”

Ruthie sagged against the counter. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, no?” He clutched the porcelain dolls tighter. “What does ‘oh, no’ mean?”

“That must have been the doll that was sold. I thought Paisley meant these.”

She looked sick, and that was the way Gray felt right now.

“You sold it?”

She gave a slow nod and pinched her lip between small white teeth. “Yesterday, while we were at the hospital. Paisley said an Asian woman bought it. I hadn’t inventoried all of the boxes at that point, so I assumed she was talking about the kissing dolls.”

With a knot in the pit of his stomach, Gray considered the possibilities. Pop had said Naoko treasured that doll, and he didn’t want her to come home from the hospital to find that her most valued possession had been sold. He pushed the kissing dolls into Ruthie’s hands. “Sobo has to have it,” he insisted. “Call the customer and get it back.”

“I don’t know who bought it.” Her voice sounded precariously close to cracking. “It was a cash sale.”

He closed his eyes and wiped a hand over his face, wishing he could wipe away the problem. “Sobo doesn’t care much about...things,” he said. He almost said worldly things, which was the way she always phrased it, but something made him leave that part out. “This is the one item she treasures, and if there’s any way to get it back for her, I’m going to do it.”

“I know.” Ruthie wrung her hands, then retightened her ponytail. “I feel just terrible about it. Sobo has been so good to me. If there was any way I could find her doll...”

“There is,” he said, taking the kissing dolls from her and placing them on the counter. He dropped his hands on her shoulders and pulled her toward him. “We’ll put our heads together. Between the two of us, we should be able to cover all possible bases. From this point on, you and I will be joined at the hip until Sobo’s doll is found.”