"Mrs. Durant," Drew starts, looking very confused as he holds up a can of chicken stock in one hand and chicken broth in the other. "Do you know—"
Thatwas bothering me all morning. After I married Atlas and changed my last name, wanting to disconnect from my parents completely, I used to giggle every time someone referred to me as Mrs. Durant.
Now, though, it feels odd...wrong.It feels like a piece of clothing I've outgrown, squeezing me too tight.
"Hey, Drew," I gently cut him off, smiling and tapping my nametag pinned to the vest. "We're coworkers now. You can just call me Wendy."
Drew's cheeks flush pink—he's always been a little shy and soft-spoken. "Uh, no can do, Mrs. Durant. My Mama would think it was disrespectful."
I sigh, amused. "Well... how about Miss Wendy? You used to call me that when you were a toddler."
"I forgot you used to change my diapers," Drew mutters, cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of red and making me chuckle. "Uh... I can do that... Miss Wendy."
"Thank you," I say, pleased with how that sounds. One day,we'll work our way up to just Wendy. One step at a time. "Now, what did you need?"
"I have a guy who doesn't know the difference between chicken stock and broth... and I don't know the difference either. Do you?"
"Stock is made from bones; broth is made from meat and bones."
Drew blinks, a blank look on his face like I'm speaking another language.
I smile, patient. "What's he trying to make?"
"I think he said chicken noodle soup."
"Stock," I say, pointing to the can in his hand. "He can use either, but stock has a little more flavor in my opinion."
He nods, "Okay, thanks, Mrs. Dur—Miss Wendy," Drew catches and corrects himself, before he races back to the customer.
Just in time for me to see Mr. Morris Jefferson easing his cart into my line, full of groceries and a bouquet of flowers wrapped in brown paper.
"Well... ain't this a sight—what are you doin' here, Wendy darlin'?" Mr. Jefferson asks, his accent thick as honey as he starts placing his groceries on the conveyor belt.
Morris Jefferson is ninety years old, stubborn as a damn mule, insistent to his well-meaning sons that he can,"do my own damn grocery shopping, ain't in the ground yet."
He's been a fixture in this town forever, was best friends with Mabel's late grandfather, and owned the local hardware store, which his sons and grandsons took over. It's the store where Atlas always bought his tools and paint.
Purposefully shoving thoughts of Atlas away, I grin as I start scanning his items, having gotten into a rhythm after my fifth customer. The system Mabel uses is similar to the one we used at the ice cream shop, so it's easy to navigate.
Talking to customers isn’t a problem for me. I’m not as extroverted as Taylor, but conversation has always come easily after years of talking to teachers, coaches, doctors, parents,repairmen, and insurance agents.
People are just people, and most of them love talking about themselves. All you have to do is let them, and rapport will follow.
Besides, I know just about everyone in this town by now.
"I work here now," I say proudly, easily bagging his groceries while I continue scanning. "And how are you doing today, Mr. Jefferson?
"Peachy keen, sugar," he winks, smooth but completely harmless.
The love of his life, the late, great Ronnie Jefferson, passed away a couple of years ago, taking his heart with her. "Workin' here, huh? Them boys not keepin' you occupied enough?"
"Oh, they keep me occupied plenty," I laugh, bagging up his vegetables. "But I need something to fill my time when they're in school."
"You're not foolin' me," he says, keeping his voice low. "Ronnie ran our household like the Navy for seventy years, raisin' our boys and our grandbabies. I know how much work it is. You just showin' off, huh?"
"I love a juggling act," I joke to try to lighten the mood, setting a bag of potatoes into his cart and setting the bouquet in the child's seat so they won't get crushed. His dark eyes behind his glasses study me as if I'm a puzzle he's almost solved.
The expression on his wrinkled face is soft; through the cracks and wear, deep compassion bleeds through.
