“Excuse me?”
“You live in Michigan, right?” Cassidy dodged my question. “That’s where you moved when you left? Poor thing, I still can’t believe Ryan dumped you like that.”
“Minnesota,” I corrected. “A common mistake. That “m” sound can really getcha.”
“That’s what I meant,” Cassidy said briskly. “The one with the Mall of America, right?”
“Ding, ding, ding.”
“Perfect,” she said. “That’s all that’s really there, I’ve heard. You’re probably dying to come back. I know I would be, you poor thing.”
A few months ago, I would have echoed Cassidy’s sentiment. No Starbucks within walking distance? The nearest Target over half an hour away? What a catastrophe. But now I found myself glancing up at Matt and having to search hard—really, really hard—for any touch of desire to return to California.
“There’s plenty to do here,” I said finally. “Anyway, what’s up?”
“I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner while I was in town for the shoot.”
I closed my eyes. “Oh, um, sure. When are you arriving?”
“Well, I’m at LAX right now,” she said. “So how long is the flight?”
“You want to get dinner tonight?”
“Tomorrow,” she clarified. “I have a hotel for tonight, but I was thinking maybe you could meet me at the mall tomorrow, and we can do a girls’ day like old times, and then you can just bring me to your place. You live right there, don’t you?”
If by right there Cassidy meant an hour or more outside of the Cities, then she’d be right. I hedged. “That sounds like a very chic plan. I can’t exactly pass up a trip to the Mall of America. Plus, it’ll be nice to have a visitor from...” I was about to say from back home, but I realized that I didn’t consider California home anymore. I had a new home in Blueberry Lake now. I was happy in Gran’s old place—a home I was beginning to make my own.
“Perfect. So we’ll meet around eleven or so?” Cassidy said. “We can do lunch and then spend the day shopping. They don’t need me on set the first day.”
“Actually, that sounds fabulous,” I said, thinking it would be great to spend as much time away from the set as possible. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Change of plans?” Matt wondered once I got off the phone. “Or should I say, new plans?”
“Sort of,” I said. “You know that whole movie shoot that’s coming to Blueberry Lake?”
“The one you’ve been ignoring for weeks?”
“Yeah, that one,” I said. “Well, apparently a girl I know is working on it as the makeup artist. She’s great, really great. Anyway, we’re getting lunch and shopping at the mall tomorrow.”
Matt gave me an interested look. “Any chance you agreed to that because you don’t want to be around here when the rest of the crew is filming?”
“I don’t have to answer that.”
“Interesting.”
I grumbled. “Don’t read too deeply into it.”
“What’s got you so bothered?” Matt asked. “Everyone else is losing their minds with excitement over it. Hollywood is coming to Blueberry Lake.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem,” I said. “I left to escape Hollywood. And here it is, following me around. Anyway, I should be going. Now that I know I’m going shopping tomorrow, I have a lot to do.”
Matt looked seriously confused. “A lot to do? For what?”
“A day at the Mall of America requires some serious planning—I need a shopping outfit, shopping shoes, shopping snacks. Then car snacks, a map to plan our route...”
“Have fun,” Matt said, pushing a scone toward me as I stood, still mumbling. “And maybe try out a pair of sneakers? Those flip-flops would be murder on your feet.”
“I think I can handle a bit of murder,” I said, then frowned. “Unfortunately.”
Matt’s lips flashed in a quick smile that didn’t reach his eyes. We both let the comment hang there since it hit a little too close to home.
“You know,” I said finally, “I only said that last part because I styled Danny Sloan for three seasons on NCIS.”
“Of course,” Matt said kindly. “We all know that, Jenna. Just be careful tomorrow. The mall is a big place.”
“I can handle big and scary,” I said, waving the scone as I slipped into my flip-flops. “Especially when it comes to shopping. Nothing—and I mean nothing—will come between me and a bargain. I can promise you that.”
Chapter 2
As I walked down Main Street of Blueberry Lake, something was different. There was a hush in the air and a trembling of excitement, all in one. All of the storefronts had opened early this morning in anticipation, though there seemed to be a suspicious lack of business happening inside them as morning progressed toward noon. Rather, there were small clusters of people bouncing from one store to the next, then gathering together and whispering as they peered out the window.
I realized the source of their excitement a few minutes later when I looked to one end of Main Street and saw orange and white cones going up, blocking off traffic to one end of the street. One or two security guards stood around, their chests puffed out with importance.
I turned away from the commotion and entered my mother’s shop—a kitschy thrift store aptly named Something Old. It was located on Main Street across from a knitting store and down the street from a coffee shop. It was as cute and quaint as it sounded.
She’d created the sign out front from a makeshift collection of big letters and little letters and letters of all shapes and colors that had been commandeered from a variety of other signs she’d adopted over the years. The sign was as haphazard as the store itself—and so was my mother.
Bea McGovern, my mother, is originally from Blueberry Lake, though she moved out to California after my father passed away when I was four years old. She recently moved back after finding love again with her current husband, Sid. I’m proud to say they are now happily married. Almost too happily, if you ask me. Nobody wants to see their mother making out with her new husband over the pancakes on Sunday morning.
“Good morning!” I called. “Mom?”
I glanced around the interior of my mother’s store, a space that greatly resembled a somewhat organized attic. Everything from broken, ancient clocks to gently used, brand-name clothes had homes in various nooks and crannies, on racks and shelves, and in cubbies. I spotted my mother’s lopsided ponytail bobbing around in the shoe section. She had a pencil tucked behind her ear and was perusing the new inventory with a frown on her face.
The pencil behind my mother’s ear was likely there because she’d forgotten about it. Also because that’s what my mom uses to write her receipts. In the age of electric cars and digitized computer clouds, my mother remains one of the tiny percentile of Americans to still use a clunky, old calculator and an old receipt booklet on which to scribble her transactions. She says it fits the ambiance of her store. I say she’s just resistant to change. We agreed to disagree.