“Noted,” I grumble before exiting the building.
“Tell your mom I say?—”
The slamming door is a blessed thing for cutting her off.
My stop at the local jeweler barely recovers more than the crystal ball and brings the realization we’ll never be able to make this work. Of all the inventory, our most valuable pieces need very specific buyers; that takes time. We need money for the roof in two weeks. We’ll never be able to generate the cash we need. I need to think outside the box. Maybe get a part-time job.
Tourist season is coming. Summer brings loads of people to the vineyards and, in turn, our store. The sign we have is old, but maybe a new one could encourage new customers. We’ve been talking about it for years; maybe now is the time for updates.
Then I remember: we don’t have money for a new sign. We don’t have money for anything.
I barely convinced the roofing company to give me a two-week extension for the money we owe them. I looked into loans, but Jonathan was right—of course he was—nobody wants to give us a dime. He was also right when he said we might have to sell. If I remove how much I love the store from the equation—which is the least important aspect of business from every logical stance—every calculation says that’s the best idea.
And yet.
No matter how many times I list out the pros and cons of keeping the store and recognize that the cons far outweigh the pros, I simply cannot.
There has to be another way.
Six
Bennie is covered in costume jewelry in the back corner of the store, grinning from ear to ear when I get there. I give her a quick hug then find my mom in her office at her desk, drumming her fingers on a floral-print photo box.
I drop into the chair across from her, dragging my hands down my face as the heaviness of our situation makes my head throb. Maybe I should shift my focus from the money to getting her to have the surgery.
That we might not be able to afford.
“Sylvia sucks,” I tell her, eying the box. “What’s that?”
She stills her fingers. “I’ve made some mistakes.”
“You have a brain tumor, Mom. I’m sure your—” I let out a sharp breath. “Whimsical disposition put you more at risk for a con than others, but I?—”
“Not that.” She shakes her head, tapping on the lid of the box. “Before.”
“Okay.” I’m in no condition to deal with whatever this is. “Well can we talk about it after we solve the problems at hand?”
“No.”
I hate that answer.
“Okay ...” Once again, I look at the box. “If this isn’t about removing the brain tumor you forgot to tell me you had or how to prevent me from going into a poverty-induced bout of psychosis, I’m not sure I want to know.”
“We are not in poverty,” she says dismissively. “And my tumor is smaller than an eraser. I need you to listen to me—” My attempt at reminding her the doctor said it’s nearly four centimeters goes unacknowledged. “Really listen to me.”
“Fine.” I grind my teeth. “I’ll listen to whatever you have to say, but you have to listen to me when I talk about the surgery.”
“Fine.”
We exchange annoyed looks.
“Ed proposed to me the night of his college graduation, you remember that?”
“Of course.” My parents were high school sweethearts who stayed together while my dad went to college. Mom stayed in Fontain and worked as a library clerk—she loved to read but could never settle on one subject long enough to commit to a degree. My dad graduated, proposed, and none of that is relevant to the problems at hand.
“I said yes, but I got cold feet,” she says. “I’d never left Fontain—never really lived—and I wanted to do something. Something wild, I guess, before I spent my life being a wife. I told him I needed a summer to be sure. He, being the understanding man that he was, said go. Told me to have fun.” She shrugs. “So I did. I went down to Charleston and stayed with a friend—Colleen Gabers, you know her.”
I nod. She’s Mom’s high school friend who still lives in Charleston and stops in when she visits Fontain.
