I smiled.
“The repair shop is.”
For a moment, several emotions moved across her face.
Annoyance.
Embarrassment.
And, maybe, the tiniest bit of respect.
She put the refunded check into her pocket.
“This whole thing is ridiculous.”
“Maybe.”
“I really thought your mixer broke because it was old.”
“That isn’t actually what bothered me most.”
She frowned.
“What do you mean?”
I leaned against the doorframe.
“You thought it broke because it was old.”
“Yes.”
“And you still left it filthy on my porch.”
Denise looked away.
“If you had knocked and said, ‘I’m sorry. Something happened to the mixer and I don’t know what I did,’ we would have had a completely different conversation.”
She stared at the grass.
“I had people over.”
“I know.”
“I was stressed.”
“I know.”
For once, I didn’t rescue her from the silence.
I let it sit there.
Finally, she said, “I shouldn’t have left it like that.”
“No.”
“And I shouldn’t have blamed you.”
“No.”
Another pause.
Then:
“I’m sorry.”
There it was.
Not dramatic.
Not eloquent.
But real.
“Thank you.”
She went home.
Two days later, Greg from the repair shop called.
The mixer was ready.
