POLLY

It’s already one of those days. And the wall clock over the root vegetable display says it’s only 8:43 a.m.

At least I think that’s what it says. It’s hard to be precise when the big hand is shaped like a stick of celery and the little hand looks like a pickle. Or is it a zucchini? I’ve never figured that out. It amuses the customers though.

The knot in my stomach tightens as I look back down at the email from the shop’s new landlord saying the rent’s going up in a couple of months. Margins are already tight enough around here, mainly because I insist on paying local farmers a fair price for their produce.

Concern about how I’m going to pay Carly at the end of the week is shattered by the sound of her voice from somewhere behind the back office.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she shouts as the door squeaks past the point where it sticks, and rattles shut.

I close the laptop and slide it onto the shelf under the counter.

“Morning,” I call back, adjusting my ponytail.

“Seriously, Poll,” she yells. “Just get some oil or something and I’ll fix the bastard.”

Even though I can’t see her, I know for sure she’s yanking off her hat, unwinding yards of scarf, and hanging her patchwork coat on a hook behind the office door.

It’ll take more than a squirt of oil to fix a door that’s refused to shut with anything less than brute force for the last six months, and there’s no way I’m going to ask this new money-grabbing landlord to fix it. I’m not talking to him about anything unless it’s absolutely necessary.

Carly emerges through the beaded curtain from our office/kitchen/storeroom/broom closet, her nose ring glinting in the flickering light from the fizzing bulb over the organic Cortland apples. Her sunflower tattoo peeks out of her V-neck T-shirt as she ties her Polly’s Produce apron around her back.

“So, did you grow the balls to talk to your mom about at least getting a walking cane?” she asks.

My best friend is like a second daughter to my mom, and a sister to me—sometimes a slightly annoying one who reminds me of the things I’m avoiding.

“She said she didn’t feel as bad last night, so I didn’t have the heart to bring it up.” I shorten the right strap of my overalls to stop it falling off my shoulder.

“Jeez, Poll.” The messy bun on top of Carly’s head wobbles in time with her frustration. “She’ll end up like Mrs. Bentley if you don’t stop worrying about upsetting her.”

She nods past me to the front door where Mrs. Bentley’s concerned face, topped by a sparkly pink knitted hat, peers through the window.

Mrs. Bentley broke her hip ice-skating a year ago. She’s seventy-five. And she’s only now starting to get around properly with a walker. She comes here every morning, as much for the exercise as our spectacular local fruit and veggies. And maybe even more for the company.

“My mom has arthritis, not an irrational desire to pirouette on the frozen lake. And she’s only fifty-five.”

Carly narrows her eyes as she peers at Mrs. Bentley. “I’ll go grab the new potatoes from out back, and leave Mrs. B to you. She doesn’t look happy.”

Carly disappears with a clicky swish of the beaded curtain.

She’s right. Rather than the usual smile that crinkles her entire face, the only part of Mrs. Bentley that’s crinkled this morning is her forehead. Since I’m fairly sure that coming to see us is the only thing that gets her up and about in the mornings, I shove my money worries to the back of my mind and slap on a smile.

I flip the front door sign from “Veggie Sorry, We’re Closed” to “Come In, Lettuce Serve You!”

The old brass bell jingles over my head as I open the door. “Morning, Mrs. Bentley.”

“Oh, dear Polly.” She looks like she’s about to tell a small child their puppy’s died.

“Are you okay? You look worried. Carly’s just fetching some super cute baby new potatoes that might cheer you up.”

She ker-clunks her walker a step closer to the doorway. “Potatoes won’t cut it today.”

Ker-clunk.

“Lord, it must be bad.” As far as Mrs. Bentley’s concerned, potatoes might be the answer to world peace if only someone would give it a shot.

Ker-clunk.

She’s halfway through the door.

“You know my nephew is…” She tries to move her walker again, but it won’t budge. “I think I’m stuck on that nail again.”

“Oh, sorry. I keep forgetting to hammer it in.”

It’s the third time in the last couple of weeks she’s gotten caught on the nail protruding from the doorframe. Carly extricated her the first time. But she was much happier when old Jerry the cobbler unstuck her a few days ago. She blushed. And giggled.

“Here, let me.” I grab the sides of the walker and lift it over the nail. “There you go. Freedom.”

Ker-clunk, ker-clunk, ker-clunk, and she’s in the middle of the shop.

She spins around as quickly as a senior with a freshly healed hip can, and plops herself down in the seat of the walker.

“Whooo, that’s better. Right.” She looks up at me from under the pink sparkles. “My nephew who’s on the council told me something.” She takes my hand. “And I’m afraid you’re not going to like it.”

I knew it. They said they’d order the spring hanging baskets from the local nursery, but I had a feeling it was all talk. They’re such a bunch of penny pinchers, I’d always suspected they’d end up going to some discount giant like Garden World instead.

“You’re worrying me, Mrs. Bentley. Go on.”

“It’s on the down low,” she whispers. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone.” She leans to look around me and check no one’s coming in. “But I can’t keep it from you.”

She’s on the verge of tears. Maybe it’s not the hanging baskets after all. Maybe it is something actually bad. My heart sinks.

“I look forward to seeing you girls every morning.” Her voice has gone a little shaky. “You’re so good to me.”

I crouch down beside her as she puts her other hand on top of mine. “What’s going on, Mrs. B?”

“It’s the site of the old theater.”

The Picture House, a bit farther along on the opposite side of Main Street, burned down last year. Such a shame. The art deco building was a real treasure, and there’s been a giant hole there ever since.

Mrs. Bentley screws up her mouth. “A planning application’s gone in.”

Ah, right. Now, what could upset her this much? A sex shop? Actually, after the way her face lit up at Jerry, maybe not. Whatever it is, it can’t be the catastrophe her expression suggests.

“Okay. For what?”

“Oh, Polly.” She strokes my hand. “Oh, dear Polly.”

She casts her moist gaze around the shop, then settles back on me. “A Yellow Barn. They want to put a Yellow Barn there.”

I pause for a second.

Yellow Barn?

That can’t be right. She must have misunderstood. I blow out a breath and my stomach relaxes.

“There’s no way Yellow Barn would want to come to Warm Springs. We’re way too small for a giant supermarket. But even if they did, it would be out of town with the big box stores. Not here, on Main Street.” I squeeze her hand. “Your nephew must be mistaken.”

“I wish he was, my love. But they’ve definitely put in an application.” She pats the back of my hand. “And they’d be right on your doorstep.”

Yup, a grocery store with the might of Yellow Barn would crush me like a crisp spring pea under a giant rainboot. Not to mention it would be a garish monstrosity with its bright yellow storefront and hideous red and black logo that would ruin our charming street.

But that can’t possibly be what’s happening. It makes no sense. So everything’s fine.

“What the hell’s up with you two?” Carly returns from the back and plops a crate of potatoes on the counter. “You look like you’ve lost a basket full of kittens.”

There must be more worry on my face than I thought. But I refuse to believe this is anything more than a rumor.

Mrs. Bentley beckons her over.

Carly leans in ready to humor whatever non-catastrophic catastrophe is about to be related to her.

“Yellow Barn wants to open here,” Mrs. B whispers. “Where The Picture House was.”

Carly bolts upright. “That would fucking kill us.” She puts a hand on Mrs. B’s shoulder. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself.”

Mrs. B shakes her head. “You never can.”

I let go of her hands and stand up. “Can’t be right. Must be a misunderstanding.”

But there is still a niggle in my gut. Mrs. B isn’t stupid. And her nephew’s been on the council for years.

I turn to Carly. “You help Mrs. B find what she needs. I’ll arrange these potatoes out front.”

Stacking fruit and vegetables into pyramids always calms me in a crisis.

“Er, okay.” Carly furrows her brow, apparently confused as to why I’m not reacting a lot more to this devastating news. “I guess we can talk about it later.”

I grab the crate off the counter and muster a smile. “Everything will be fine.”

I head to the front door as Mrs. B eases herself up from the walker seat and Carly tells her something about collard greens being good for the bones.

As I stride out the door my attention turns to the vacant lot down the street where The Picture House once stood.

But suddenly my left leg won’t move past the doorframe.

That dumb nail.

There’s no arguing with physics, though. With the leg of my overalls caught, and the rest of my body still propelling itself purposefully toward the display table, my body arcs downward.

I fling the crate toward the table to try to save the potatoes, and throw my hands out to try to prevent my face from slamming into the sidewalk.

One elbow jars and my palms sting, yet I end up in a plank pose not a whole lot worse than in my last yoga class.

But it seems the crate didn’t quite make it to the table, it’s rebounded off the edge, and crashed to the sidewalk, sending adorable baby new potatoes flying in all directions. They bounce around me like ping pong balls and roll toward the road.

Before I can return to a vertical position, the glinting silver wheels of a large shiny black car pull to a stop in front of the shop, crushing three potatoes beneath them.

Well, isn’t that exactly how this day’s going?

With a heavy sigh I let myself drop to the ground, and rest my forehead on my arms. The cold of the concrete instantly seeps through my overalls and T-shirt.

Good God, is it even 9 a.m. yet?

A car door opens and closes.

“Are you okay?”