“Great,” she says, animated. “There’s just something exciting about an empty space—they’re always brimming with possibility. Like... I can’t wait to see what comes to life in each one.”
I peer through the large front window. Maybe Lennon’s excitement is rubbing off on me—or maybe she’s right, and there’s nothing but possibility in a space like this.
And that possibility makes me excited to walk through the door.
Chapter 14
Doughnuts.
A memory starts swirling as we step through the door.
I’m eight years old, standing at the counter of Pop’s favorite doughnut shop, trying to decide between cherry and blueberry while he and the shop’s owner, Francis, argue over the weather.
The doughnut shop was small and quaint, but it always drew in a crowd, especially on Saturday mornings. The doughnuts always had the slight aroma of cigarette smoke from the women Gram called “the Chimneys.”
In the end, the blueberry versus cherry debate proved to be pointless because Pop always came home with at least a dozen, which always included two of each of my favorites.
My head starts to swirl with memories of family potlucks and farmhouse picnics. Of Gram spending a whole day baking for the church bake sale or the cake walk at my school’s annual bazaar. Of long, warm summer nights on the farmhouse front porch with Libby and her family and a few other families.
Always, after everyone left, Gram and I would stay out on the porch, looking at the stars and talking. She’d knit, and I’d make friendship bracelets, and once it got too dark, we’d stare up at the night sky, marveling at how bright the stars were out here.
It’s where she told me about the drug smuggling ring that had landed my mother in prison and that they didn’t know who my father was. It’s where I told her I had a crush on a boy in the ninth grade and where that boy kissed me good night after taking me to the carnival over the Fourth of July. It’s where I broke the newsthat I was pregnant and that John and I were moving to Colorado so he could work for his father.
That front porch was hallowed ground.
It was exactly what I needed it to be when I needed it. It gave me a place to be silly or serious, depending on my mood. And it always gave me a place to belong.
I think I’ve been searching for a place like that ever since.
“So this used to be a stationery shop,” Lennon says, bringing my thoughts back to the present. “I guess nobody writes letters anymore.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Everything is digital. It’s less...”
“...personal,” Lennon says, finishing my sentence.
I nod. It makes me think of my grandmother and the handwritten letters she sent when I was away at college. I’d gone to a small, private university almost three hours away, but it might as well have been the other side of the world. I was instantly homesick and stayed that way for the better part of my freshman year.
I eventually made friends and found my groove, but I never stopped missing my grandparents or the farm.
I still miss them.
My thoughts are interrupted when the door opens and a heavyset man walks in.
On cue, Lennon walks over and introduces herself, extending a hand in his direction. The man shakes her hand, and his eyes move from her face down to her pointy heels and back up again. “You’re not Martin.”
Lennon smiles warmly. “No, Martin’s wife went into labor, and he asked me to open the space for you.”
He looks annoyed for some reason.
Lennon waves a hand around the space. “What do you think?”
The man hikes up his pants and starts to look around. “Location’s good.”
“It’s right in the heart of the Lincoln Park neighborhood,” Lennon says. “Lots of foot traffic and—”
He shoots her a look. “Martin gave me the details already. You don’t need to try to sell it to me.”
At that, Lennon’s expression changes, and I feel the need to duck and run for cover. After seeing her unload on the woman at the mall, I expect her to go off on this man too.
