“And I’m not leaving you in the cold,” she said, as she wiped at her eyes. “I don’t know how I would have made it these last four years without you. You’ve never let me pay you what you’re worth, so I’ve set something aside every month. It’s not much, but it’s rightfully yours.”

“What? No,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “No, you gotta keep that, even if you’re married. Especially if you’re married. Everyone oughta have a savings that’s only their own, just in case.”

She gave him a watery side-eye. “That’s rather cynical of you, dear.”

“Sometimes people bail on the ones they’re supposed to take care of,” he said, voice strained. His emotions were already too raw; he didn’t want to think about his dad right now. “You keep the money, I got—Arthur.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve only grudgingly let Arthur buy you two things, a hat and your glasses.”

“Yeah, maybe, but I’m gonna ask him for lotsa help now, so you can go get married.” And God help him, he needed to stop lying to Mrs. Brodigan. “I need you to keep it, because I need to know that you’re gonna be all right.”

She sighed. “We’ll talk about it,” she promised.

Sure they would. Rory made himself smile again. “Guess we better figure out how we’re gonna sell all this stuff.” He could be useful still. Then after that—he didn’t need to be needed by Mrs. Brodigan anymore. That was fine.

“Patrick will help us,” she said, and her faith in her new man was reassuring. “Selling items, cleaning, closing out the books, there’s so much to do.”

“Great.” He bit his lip.

Because among all the things he’d need to do was find a newspaper and the want ads.

Rory spent the last of the afternoon and most of the evening packing antiques into boxes and dusting shelves he already kept dust free. He made a Going Out of Business sign to put in the window in the morning that might prompt some bargain hunters to come in.

As he was locking the front door, Mrs. Brodigan came back in through the side door. “You’ve got another postcard from Arthur.”

Rory nearly tripped over his own feet in his scramble over to her. She passed it over with a soft smile.

The air was still chilly on his walk home to his boarding house. He bought copies of the Sun and the Post off a newsie and left most of the papers on the main table for the other tenants to read, pulling out just the ads and taking them up to his room, where he sat cross-legged on his bed and spread them out on his quilt.

Help Wanted.