I grab an assortment of various colors. Thank god they’re wrapped in plastic sleeves, because there’s a lot of dust there. I unwrap them and step into the window display, moving aside dusty board games and crockpots.That was fine for winter—maybe. But now it’s almost summer. Please.Rummaging under the register, I find a microfiber rag and cleaning product and get to work. Then I dart to the hardware rack at the very back of the store.
“Why, if it isn’t little Mrs. Callaway!” Dean, the store’s main employee, says as I return with a hammer, nails, hooks, and nylon string. “Can I help?” He’s standing in front of the greeting cards rack, a notebook and pencil in hand. It’s refreshing and surprising at the same time how natural he seems to think that I’m here.
“I’m all set, thank you!”
Elaine comes out of the prep room wiping her hands on her apron and takes me in a warm hug. “I told you she’d be here! Congratulations, dear,” she says before turning to her colleague. “See? Our Willow understands what it means to be a Callaway.” She pats my cheek. “You know where to find me if you need a snack.”
Forty-five minutes later, I duck into Noah’s office to grab my boots. He barely lifts his gaze from his computer. “How long have we had these umbrellas?” I ask.
“No one buys umbrellas here.”
“So—a long time?”
“I could check,” he says, not looking at all like someone who wants to check.
“Nope, all good.” I step outside, and staying under the awning, look at my display. Two umbrellas hang from the ceiling of the window at an angle, five more rest on the bottom of the display, large splashes of color facing the street. Three or four are still folded and neatly tucked in a vintage metal bin. The whole thing looks playful… and necessary. I’ll just switch the yellow and the red so the whole composition is both more balanced and more contrasted.
Nathaniel, the old man in charge of flower baskets, mowing, snow removal, and trashcans around town, comes up to me. “How much for these?”
We never sell umbrellas,soI make the price up. “Fifteen apiece, two for twenty-five, three for thirty.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Three for thirty, huh? I’ll take the pink, the blue, and the yellow. For the grandkids and the wife.” I grab the umbrellas from inside, and he hands me rumpled bills.
“What was that about?” Noah asks, frowning. He’s holding a paper cup of coffee in his hand, making a face as he sips from it.
“Sold three umbrellas,” I say, feeling very proud.
“To Nathaniel?”
I nod. “For his family.” I give him the bills.
Noah huffs and shakes his head like that’s the weirdest thing ever. He gets behind the register, sets his coffee on the wooden counter, and starts typing a whole lot of stuff.
“Wait, show me,” I say, sliding right next to him.
He pushes his glasses up. “I have to do a little finagling for the tax,” he explains. “Lemme show you.”
We spend the next ten minutes going over the operation of the register. Noah’s fingers grazing against mine don’t exactly help in the focus department, but overall I stay on task.
“I could take the second register, you know. This way people would see my face and—”
“One register’s enough. If there’s a line, I go. You can… just keep doing what you’re doing.”
“Oh. Cool.”That’s good, right?He’s happy I sold something. I think.
Once we’re done, I drag the whole container of umbrellas right next to the entrance. Then I put a sign with the pricing I came up with and Noah didn’t seem to have a problem with.
Sensing I’m onto something, I grab a large wicker basket and go around the store gathering items for a rainy day: Foldable ponchos, rain boots, coloring books and crayons, yarn and knitting needles, playing cards and other small games. Then I put them right next to the umbrellas and make a pretty sign indicating where they can all be found.
When that’s done, I tackle the endcap shelf that’s most visible from the entrance, clearing it of all the maple syrup products and filling it with Father’s Day gift ideas for any budget. Pocket knives, engraved mugs, fishing lures, beer sleeves, rolled T-shirts. The display is both attractive and affordable. But there’s so much more in the store that could go on that shelf. So I add a sign:Ask us for ideas for Father’s Day!
I’m just done tacking the sign at eye level when Haley comes in. “Oh cool!” She wraps me in a hug. “Look at you, going all Mrs. Callaway on us! I couldn’t believe it—had to come check it out for myself. You sneaky little bee-atch. I love you, you know.” She takes stock of me visually. “How are you doing?” she asks. “I mean, really,” she adds in a whisper.
I blink, not knowing how to answer that. This isn’t the place for open-heart confessions. “Hanging in there,” I answer. “Doing my best.”
“Awww, babe. Youarethe best,” she says, taking me in a hug again.
Noah comes out of his office, walking up to us. “Haley. I thought I heard voices. Anything I can help you with?”
