My father shakes his head. “It doesn’t come up naturally, you know?”
My thoughts immediately turn to Erick. “I know better than you think. Anyway, I have to get back and endure a wardrobe session with, you know who.”
His smile is everything. “Trust me, I have many reasons to be happy that I was born a son and not a daughter.”
I chuckle knowingly as I step into the elevator.
“Oh, Mitzy, do you have plans for Thanksgiving?”
I’ve never actually had plans for Thanksgiving in my entire life. I shrug, and as the doors slide closed, I reply, “I don’t think so.”
My stomach tingles as the elevator drops. Plans for Thanksgiving? I never imagined myself thinking about something so domestic. I certainly won’t be hosting anything at the bookshop. A mini-fridge and a microwave don’t scream gourmet kitchen. Maybe I should ask around?
Passing through the lobby, I give a friendly wave to the receptionist.
In an effort to postpone my appointment with fashion destiny . . . I believe this community college student needs to do some back-to-school shopping!
The phrase ignites a series of sweet childhood memories. Before my mother was killed, and I became a perpetual foster child, August was our traditional spree. Cora Moon was a fiercely independent single mother, forsaken by her family, but determined to raise her daughter with every advantage. She would save whatever she could from the two or three jobs she was juggling, and we would spend a whole evening planning out our route.
At the time, I had no idea that shopping at second-hand stores could be frowned upon by certain segments of society. I felt like a princess. On one glorious Saturday in August, we would make our way to anywhere from five to ten second-hand stores and thrift shops in our search for clothes, shoes, and the occasional amazing backpack. I always felt so special. I had a mountain of new clothes and an entire day of my mother’s time, which was the best part. I didn’t understand how precious it truly was.
Once I entered the foster system, school shopping became a distant memory. I had my handful of well-worn items, and, possibly, if I had severely outgrown them, I would be allowed to purchase something new. Generally, I received hand-me-downs from the biological children or older foster children in the same home.
Cut to—
Grams severely over-indulging my clothing needs with a designer dream closet.
A quick trip over to Rex’s Drugs for a notebook or two seems to be in order. I wave through the window of the diner as I hurry past, coat zipped tightly against the weather.
The bell dings when I enter the drugstore, and an elderly woman with a beautiful mountain of snow-white hair piled atop her head offers a friendly wave. “Welcome to Rex’s. I’m the missus. Rex passed away several years ago.” Her warm smile continues to beam, and she pats her carefully pinned beehive. “You and I have the same stylist.” She laughs and slaps her hand on the counter.
My time in this small, friendly town has changed me. A year ago, I would’ve thrown a fake smile her way and dove between the aisles without a word. However, I’ve grown accustomed to this slower pace of life and learned firsthand the benefit of friends. “Were you born a snow princess like me, or did you have to earn it?” This comment brings uproarious laughter from Mrs. “Rex.”
“Oh my, you are as sharp as everyone says. Of course, you must be Mitzy Moon. Not a lot of folks with that hair and those hips in this town.”
My smile wavers as I consider the “hips” comment. Backhanded compliment or folksy banter? Not that it matters. I’m not operating under the mistaken impression that I resemble a string bean. “That’s me. I’m actually here for some stationery supplies. Where are your pens and notebooks?”
She points with her left hand. “You’ll find all that stuff in aisle three. And if you don’t mind a seasonal theme, there are some sheets of spring-flower paper on sale.”
“Thank you kindly.” I meander down aisle three and peruse the selection. Since I’m not an actual student, I don’t actually need anything. But she’s sweet, and I’m sure Twiggy will figure out what to do with whatever I buy. I grab three notebooks, two packs of ink pens, a roll of tape, and a handful of spring-themed sheets. On my way to the counter, I notice a little rack of books. Maybe Erick would like some reading material. The fact that I own a three-story bookshop, bursting at the seams with volumes, does not prevent me from buying the latest best-selling mystery novel for my incarcerated boyfriend.
“I’m glad to see you picked up some of the spring paper. It’s a great price and you really can use it year ’round.” She rings up the sheets and slips them into a bag. “Well, these pens are very nice. Blue and black. That’s such a good idea. You know they’re erasable?” She slips the pens into the bag.
“Oh, they’re erasable. That’s good.” I suppress an eye roll.
“You know, I think this tape is buy one, get one at fifty percent off, if you want to grab another roll.”
I don’t feel like I have the option to say no. “Oh, great. I’ll go grab another one right now.”
She waits patiently for me to return with the second roll of tape. She doesn’t ring up a single thing in my absence.
“So that’s one full price and a second roll at fifty percent off.” She taps in the price of the two rolls of tape—longhand—and adds them to the bag. “You’ll love these notebooks. The pages tear out smooth, so you don’t have all those little fidgety bits all over your nice carpet.”
I nod and smile.
“Oh, I’ve heard good things about this book. You must read a lot of mysteries, with all the sleuthing that you do.”
Dear Lord baby Jesus! Does this woman know everything there is to know about me? And is she going to finish this transaction anytime this century? “It’s for a friend.”
She leans across the counter and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I heard about Sheriff Harper being in the clink. I tell you what, I’ve known that boy since he was knee-high to a grasshopper, and he wouldn’t hurt a fly! The thought.” She shakes her head in dismay.
I clench my teeth and double-down on the smile. At long last, the purchase process comes to a close. I hand her my cash, because cash is king in Pin Cherry. Almost no one takes credit or debit cards. I’ve learned that the hard way.
“Well, you let Erick know we’re all pulling for him, sweetie.”
“I sure will. Thank you so much.”
The frosty air waiting for me outside is a welcome cool down. Clearer heads and all.
I’m suddenly struck by the urgent need to visit Erick and update him on my plans. Plus, I promised him some lunch. I better run and place my order before the rush hits.
When I pop into Myrtle’s Diner, Odell already has an order of meatloaf and mashed potatoes packaged to go.
“Thanks, mind reader.”
He smiles briefly. “Anytime.” His expression hardens and he shakes his head. “You let him know, we’re all pullin’ for him.”
Nodding, I beat a silent retreat.
No one questions my return to the station, so I head to the cells without hesitation. The color of the walls seems as though it was chosen specifically to drain one’s will to live.