The bell above the door of Miller’s Hardware jangled as George stepped inside, the scent of WD-40 and pine cleaner hitting him like an old friend. Behind the counter, Dorothy was tallying receipts, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose. “Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence,” she said, not looking up. George grinned, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Needed some lightbulbs. The porch fixture’s been flickering for a week.” Dorothy set down her pen, raising an eyebrow. “Or you just wanted an excuse to avoid sorting through those old toolboxes Mabel’s been nagging you about.” George let out a laugh, deep and rumbling. “Guilty as charged. But between us? Half those things I haven’t used since Nixon was in office.”
They fell into a comfortable silence as Dorothy fetched the lightbulbs, her sensible shoes clicking against the linoleum floor. George ran his fingers along a display of hammer handles, remembering when he’d built his daughter’s treehouse with a similar one. “Heard you and Frank went fishing last weekend,” Dorothy said, setting the package on the counter. “Catch anything?” George shook his head, chuckling. “Frank’s idea of fishing is sitting on the dock drinking beer and talking about the war. We came back with more empty cans than fish.” Dorothy smiled, ringing up the purchase. “That’s what you get for going with a man who thinks a worm on a hook is ‘too much work.’”
As George paid, he nodded toward the framed photo on the wall—Dorothy and her late husband, Joe, at their 25th anniversary party. “Still miss him, huh?” he said softly. Dorothy’s smile faded a little, but she nodded. “Every day. But you know what? He’d be proud of how I’ve kept this place going. Stubborn old fool always said I was too soft to run a business.” George clapped her on the shoulder gently. “Soft? Dorothy, you’re the toughest person I know. Tougher than Joe, and that’s saying something.” She laughed, swatting his hand away. “Get out of here before I charge you for the pep talk.