“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.
Using a single bristle snipped from a regular house-painting brush, he focused on the meticulous detail, trying to keep his shoulders and back relaxed. If he tensed up too much, which was easy to do, his hand would shake and there was no room for error with such a small scale.
Normally, he found his work soothing. He had since his uncle had discovered Max’s painting skills and brought him model cars and airplanes to paint. His quiet focus, need for accuracy and attention to detail had all been funneled into the childhood hobby that became his career.