FIVE

When Bart showed up to help Maisie empty her shed the next Saturday, he was late. He hadn’t meant to be, but his sister, Nina, had shown up the night before insisting that she and her husband needed a night away and asking Bart to watch her two kids.

Bart didn’t mind. Neither of her kids were babies, so he fed them pizza and played video games with them. At the exact right time, he suggested they watch a movie. Once he had them both snuggled on the couch under furry blankets, it was only a matter of time before they both fell asleep. He had rooms set up for children to sleep in, so he bundled them off to bed like an experienced handler.

The morning had been fine too, but his sister and her husband did not make it back until three o’clock and only after Bart phoned them to complain. Honestly, he hadn’t had the idea that he should just go to Victoria to help Maisie with the kids in tow until his sister breezed through the door. Maybe kids would impress Maisie and he knew the kids would like hauling junk. They liked doing anything their uncle suggested.

Nina apologized. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a date? I would have been back sooner, but what are you doing at three in the afternoon? Isn’t your date normally setting her curls at this time?”

Bart tugged on his plaid shirt, hoping it made him look a touch country. Country people were hospitable, trustworthy, honest, and hardworking. He was a banker and though he worked hard, he felt like his regular business attire made him look cold and the warmth he had to ooze from his demeanor to make up for it would seem fake to a woman like Maisie.

“I’m taking a stack of three old televisions to the eco-center,” he answered, pausing to fix his hair in the mirror by the door.

Nina smiled stupidly. “I’ve never seen you like this. She must hate your guts.”

“She doesn’t hate me,” Bart retorted, using his tone to hint that Maisie liked him a lot.

“There’s a size sticker on your chest,” she pointed out. “Did you forget to pull it off when you bought the shirt… yesterday?”

Bart found the sticker and yanked it free. “Okay. She doesn’t like me very much. But I’m late and I’ve got to go. I texted her that I’d be late, but I’ve really got to go now. You can leave the dishes in the sink, but lock the door on your way out.”

He left listening to his sister cackle as he made his way to his truck.

When he arrived at Maisie’s, she wasn’t answering the door. He would have left, but he heard a power tool in the background. Circling the house, he found her sanding the wooden siding of the shed with a power sander. He tapped her on the shoulder. She flicked off the sander and turned around.

“Glad you made it, but we’re going to have to hurry if we want to get loaded up before they close,” she said. There was already an old television screen sitting in her garden cart.

She slapped him on the back and helped him load up the back of his truck.

“I thought your aunt wasn’t a pack rat,” he asked, perplexed by all the junk.

“She wasn’t. This is an ordinary yearly purging. When I lived up island, I’d get rid of stuff all the time. What I’ve loaded up is all I’ve gotten rid of since she died. Her vacuum wasn’t working well, so I replaced it. All these TVs had to go. It’s not much considering how much crap she could have owned. Some of this stuff is even mine. She had better stuff, so I’m getting rid of my old garbage.”

“Did you inherit her whole house, with everything?”

“Yes. Dishes, clothes, jewelry, beads, drapes, family albums. I got everything she had.”

“You’re not going to keep all of it?” Bart scoffed.

“I am keeping some of it. But you’re right. I can’t keep all of it. It was just that when I got here, I got so excited about replanting the garden that I sort of went bananas. My own clothes are still in boxes in the bedroom.”

“What are you doing out here sanding when you need to empty your aunt’s closet?” Bart asked her.

Maisie didn’t have an answer.

“I’ll tell you what,” Bart said, leaning in. “We’ll take this load to the eco-center, then hit a drive-thru on the way back. We can eat here and when we’re finished, I’ll go through your aunt’s clothes with you.”

She looked at Bart with wide eyes. “You would really do that?”

“I’m a banker. Tedious details are my jam. You clearly don’t need any help outside the house. You’re made of green thumbs, but at the very least, if there are labels inside your aunt’s clothes, I won’t let you throw out anything valuable. If we find anything pricey that doesn’t match you, we can take it to a consignment store and you can at least get a little pocket money.”

Maisie’s nod was loaded with indecision and unease.

Bart understood that throwing out the clothing of someone dear to you was horrid, but she couldn’t let her aunt’s unwearable clothing eat all the available closet space. He’d help her.

They completed the second eco run and ate their burgers and milkshakes on the swing in the front garden. Bart had never done anything like that before with a date, which was now becoming the norm.

“I think this is the last night of summer,” Maisie mused. “Starting tomorrow, I’m going to pack up all these pillows and take them in the house. This has got to be the last night of good weather before the cold sets in.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“The city might surprise you. It’ll snow here, which is why I own the truck, but the weather won’t get insufferable… until it does. Do you like skiing?” Bart suddenly asked.

“I’ve never gone.”

“You live on an island covered in mountains and you’ve never gone skiing?” he asked incredulously.

“Yeah.”

“Why not?”

Maisie looked at the ground. “I guess it never came up. It was never a good time to go. I never had an invitation. I never went on my own.”

“I’ll have to take you some time,” he said with a smile.

“I’m a clutz. You’d have more fun with someone else.”

“We wouldn’t have to do black diamonds or anything like that. Looking at the mountains, feeling the cold air on your face, and the fun of being with people you love, that’s what skiing is about. I’d have a good time even if we never left the bunny hill.”

She looked moved, but she attempted to cover it up by clicking her tongue in reply. “If you really feel like that, then maybe we could go sometime.”

After they had finished eating, they went inside. Maisie left Bart in the living room and went into the bedroom. After pulling a huge handful of clothes out of the closet, she came in and heaped them in a pile, hangers and all.

“You said you know labels, so see if there are any good ones,” she instructed, going back into the bedroom to get more.

Bart didn’t know what he expected from Maisie’s aunt’s clothes. After seeing the old television screens, he had got it into his head that Maisie must have been referring to her great aunt and the woman must have been close to a hundred because her life had declined so far that she only stayed home to watch TV, but when he saw the clothes he was confused.

When Maisie came back with another armful of clothes, he asked her, “How old was your aunt when she died?”

“She was forty-five,” Maisie said slowly.

“Forty-five? How did she die? … If you don’t mind me asking,” he amended softly.

“Blood clots,” Maisie replied quietly.

“It must have been a shock,” Bart said, trying to be tactful.

“It was one of the saddest things I’ve ever experienced,” she replied. She turned from him and took a moment to collect herself. “Let’s not talk about it. I can’t keep all these clothes and it is so lovely of you to offer to help me to go through them. Let’s make three piles: things I want to keep, things that can be sold, and things that can go to a thrift store.”

Bart wanted to help her. He hadn’t been on a date with a woman who was picking up the pieces of a life that had suddenly and unfairly ended. However, Bart was a person who was good at compartmentalizing and he put his unexpected feelings aside and focused on identifying the clothes Maisie put in front of him.

He found a website on his phone that did exactly what he needed. It explained which brands were valuable and which pieces within those collections were spectacularly rare. It was upsetting how many of the pieces had been purchased in the last five years and how new all of them looked. Had they even been worn?

He picked out the cream of the crop and handed a pile to Maisie for her to try on. She came out in outfit after outfit. She and her aunt had similar figures and everything her aunt owned fit Maisie very well.

“Aunt Rita had the best taste in clothes. Maybe I should get rid of all my clothes and just wear hers?” Maisie asked with sad, pouty lips.

Bart didn’t know if it was a good idea for anyone to walk around wearing a dead person’s clothing and none of their own.

“How do you feel wearing that?” he suddenly asked her.

She was wearing a black suit with a flare in the waist of the jacket and very tight pencil legs. It was a good look for her, with her honey-colored hair falling onto the black material, but if she was planning to work as a florist, then where would she wear it?

“I don’t know,” she said blankly. “I never saw my aunt wear this. It’s only hers because it was in her closet.”

He came forward and took her hands in his like he was more important to her than just a guy she’d been out with a few times and he said, “If you keep it, you need to pay attention to how you feel when you wear it. If it hurts to have such a thing on your body, you have to get rid of it, or, at least, put it in a box somewhere. You can’t have the things of hers in your face that make you remember your aunt in a sad way.”

Suddenly, Maisie kissed him on the cheek.

She was just as shocked by that development as he was. They stood for a moment looking at each other’s stricken faces. Maisie tried to step away from him, but he held onto the hand of hers that he had suddenly grasped.

“Wait. I’ll skip the doorstep kiss for one kiss right now,” he offered, a tiny bit desperate to bring her close to him.

She nodded.

He kissed her, and an entirely new feeling filled him.

***

Normally, when Bart kissed one of his two-week women, it was a very controlled production. He had to have the right look in his eyes, he had to approach her the right way, put the right amount of pressure on her lips, open his mouth the right amount, control his breathing, move his hands the way he practiced, and more. He was so concerned with how well he performed that, if he had asked himself if he enjoyed the kiss, the answer would have been that he didn’t feel it. If the woman was breathless, if the look in her eyes said she wanted more, that was good enough for him.

When Maisie gave him the okay, he absolutely forgot the proper way to kiss a woman to leave the right impression—to seem cool and yet warm blooded. He had worked hard to be the perfect paradox—passionate and aloof—the two most polar of romantic reactions at the same time.

He forgot.

Completely.

He kissed her like none of those old rules ever existed, which meant that instead of sweeping her off her feet, he was swept away himself.

Maisie kissed him back until the slightest hitch in her breath made him stop. He pulled away gently and gave her an admiring glance, before sending her to the back of the house to change her clothes.

Once he was alone, Bart was left wondering why a single kiss should make him tingle all over. His brain was more than happy to supply a few theories.

First, he was comforting her. She needed comfort and his lips conveyed to her sensitive mouth so much heat that she didn’t need to be held, she was already a raging furnace.

Second, Maisie did not like expectations. Thus, she liked the idea that he forfeited his expectations for immediate gratification. And truly, the win for that night was dependent upon his not asking for a doorstep kiss, which he could do since he had not been expecting a kiss that night anyway.

He had been very lucky she took the initiative.

After some light pondering as he waited for Maisie to come out in the next outfit, Bart realized that the doorstep kiss was something deeply cruel that men did to women. They refrained from kissing them all night and then on the doorstep, they gave the woman their love in the form of a kiss. She wanted to be loved, so she would want to be kissed more, thus increasing the man’s chances of being invited in.

Bart had to figure out ways to make Maisie feel loved that didn’t put all that pressure on her in the last moments before they said goodbye. That was what she feared.

She came out of the bedroom in the next dress. It had a wide skirt and it flounced as she did an experimental twirl for him. “I love this dress,” she said, dancing a little on her toes. “Where could I wear it?”

“Out with me, next week,” he answered breezily.