Just Killing Time (10 page)

I
meandered back toward Orchard with my GPS on, even though I knew where I was going. I always drove with my GPS these days, just so if I took a wrong turn, I could get back on track. I never really minded getting lost, but there is something comforting in knowing your latitude and longitude no matter what. It was all so odd, coming back all these years later to a town that was both familiar and foreign to me. G.T. had always been a bit of an outsider, even though he'd lived in Orchard his entire life. You had to earn his respect and once it was gone, it was gone for good. Things that lost his respect included the obvious: lying and cheating. But I remembered his disdain for old Mr. Clark, who ran the Corner Market. Whenever I visited we were one of the only families in Orchard who went the next town over for groceries. It was a pain in the neck and I told my
grandmother so one particularly sullen summer Saturday when I was about sixteen.

“Why do we have to go all the way to Marytown for milk?” I whined. “The Corner Market has milk. All we have to do is walk down the block. I'll do it.”

“Ruth Ann,” my grandmother said. She always called me Ruth Ann when she wanted to end a conversation with no argument. “You know that we don't give the Corner Market Clagan business. Now get in the car.”

“But why not?” I asked with my hand on the car door. “Everyone else does.”

“Not everyone,” she said, lowering her voice. “No, not everyone. Listen, Mr. Clark and his brother owned the store together for years. Your grandfather was friends with them both. When his brother died in that horrible accident, Mr. Clark bought out his sister-in-law for a fraction of the business's worth and never offered a penny to his brother's kids. They struggled and had to move in with her family down in Rhode Island. That didn't sit right with your grandfather. So we don't give him our money.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Five years.”

“That's a long time to hold a grudge,” I said, my hand still gripping the door handle.

“Ruth, this should tell you something about your grandfather,” she said, reaching across and opening the door for me. “He's an honorable man and has a strict code. He expects a lot from himself and as much from others. I for one am proud to be married to such a man.”

My grandparents were a unit. My parents were also devoted to each other, in their own absentminded professor
sort of way. I thought about my ex-husband. Even in our honeymoon phase, which was pretty short, I'm not sure I was devoted to him. I thought I was, but in retrospect, not so much. I think that G.T. knew that the first time he met my ex, but I wasn't willing to listen to him. Not getting G.T.'s blessing bothered me more than I'd been willing to admit.

“We're family now, baby,” my ex said one day. “We don't need anyone else. We're all we'll ever need.”

Ha! Until you met the younger, cuter version of me, jerk. I still couldn't believe it. He'd left me for the grad assistant for his British literature course—what a cliché. I felt a mixture of anger, and relief. Which probably wasn't a good sign. The divorce itself was finally done and the paperwork was finished. That was the whole reason I went on that silly retreat and part of the conversation I'd wanted to have with G.T. And now I couldn't ever tell him about the marriage or my divorce.

I was almost back in Orchard by the time I realized I still needed to grocery shop while I was out and about. Though I told myself that my reasons were to fill my cupboards and growling belly, in truth I did want to see if past resentments still existed between my grandfather and the little shop. So I broke with tradition and headed toward Clarks' Corner Market.

I
tried to pull into the parking lot, but it was full—all six spots. Looked like things were hopping at the Corner Market. I parked my car at the Cog & Sprocket and walked back. I was careful to use the crosswalk and looked back at Ben's Barbershop to see if he'd notice, but I couldn't see if he was there. Shaded glass. I shook my head. Maybe I'd explain how small towns worked, the next time I saw him. Which I hoped was soon, much to my own surprise.

I slowed down and took a long look at the Corner Market as I walked toward the front door. This Corner Market was different than the Corner Market of my youth. Not that there was anything wrong with that Corner Market, aside from the family feud my grandfather had with the previous owner. From the outside, the changes were subtle, but significant. The siding was gone, replaced by cedar shingles. The front
porch was a porch, not just a cement slab that provided an entrance. The new porch was also cement, but it went across the entire front of the building, with a ramp that turned on one side, allowing for greater access to the doors. The doors themselves were still double-sided wooden doors that swung in when you pushed. I grabbed a basket, pushed through the doors onto the mat, and immediately saw that the changes were not only cosmetic.

I defied my grandfather and went to the Corner Market with Moira a few times when I was in high school. I remembered the creamy penuche fudge with fondness, but that was my only good memory. It was mostly aisles of canned goods, some halfway-decent dairy without much variety, and a depressing produce section in case you needed a potato or two. The aisles were tight, the lighting was bad, and you had to know where you were going in order to get there.

But even if the food was subpar, the Corner Market was the place to go to meet folks and catch up on “news” or, if you were honest, the gossip. My grandmother didn't mind missing out on the food once we'd started boycotting, but I know she missed out on the gossip, which is one of the reasons she started bringing tea over to Parker's Emporium.

The new Corner Market felt old-fashioned and fresh all at once. Gone were the linoleum floors, replaced by wide pine floors that I suspected had been there all the time, since the building was one of the oldest in Orchard. The aisles had been replaced with large sections of shelving that suited the old-time feel of the store: more wood, less metal. To the right of the entrance were large wooden bins of fresh produce, all locally grown, according to the signage. When I looked closer, I saw the name of the local farm on the tag.
I grabbed a few potatoes and walked around to the other side.
NOT LOCAL,
BUT ORGANIC
, the sign said. I browsed the lemons and limes. And were those mangoes? I picked one up, smelled it, and dropped it in the basket.

Behind the produce the refrigerator section spanned the side wall, filled with locally produced and organic food choices. I hovered my hand above the nice cheese selection, yogurts, and local eggs. I added a few more items, and was sorry I hadn't taken a cart. I noticed the rotisserie chickens in the meat section and made a mental note to come back tomorrow when I wasn't going out to dinner. Cooking for one had made me a boring eater of late. A roasted chicken frequently got me through several days' worth of meals.

I noticed a half dozen people crowded around a table in the middle of the store, dodging shoppers on their way to check out. Beckett Green was busy sampling the wine. I thought about going over and saying hello, but decided against it. I didn't have the energy. I recognized the couple Moira had pointed out at the Sleeping Latte: the owners and apparently the Orchard food police. He stood behind a small table with paper cups and open bottles of wine, talking to Beckett. What was his name? I looked over at his full beard and longish hair. Less a hippie, more of a hipster. His clothes were casual but expensive. He smiled while he topped off Beckett's cup. She handed out napkins to people who nibbled on heaps of cheese, olives, and crackers on the table to her left. There were a couple of other employees talking to the crowd, gesturing toward the items and handing out coupons. I tried to figure out how to navigate around the crowd to get to the wine racks, dry goods, and ready-made sections behind them, when the woman approached me. I put my heavy basket down.

“Hello, I don't think we've met yet. I'm Ada Clark. Are you new in town?” She reached out her hand and I took it.

Ada Clark looked like she was in her mid to late twenties, a couple of years younger than I was. I felt freakishly tall next to her. Long, dark curls framed her face, and her layered outfit of a flowing top and leggings could have been fashionable were it not for the heavy wool socks and Birkenstocks she sported on her feet. She had a beautiful smile, sparkling brown eyes, and a reassuring handshake. I glanced at her pregnant belly, and the world seemed to stop for just a second. A year ago, the plan had been for my ex-husband and me to start a family soon. Now I was glad that hadn't happened, especially given the way everything had turned out. Still, I felt a pang as I shook Ada's hand, and tried to smile.

“No, we haven't met. I'm Ruth Clagan.”

“Oh, you're Ruth. Oh.” Ada brought up her other hand and covered mine, holding it. “Oh, Ruth, I'm so sorry. I didn't know you were here, otherwise I would have come by the shop.”

I drew my hand from her grasp, gently.

“Thank you,” I said. “I just thought I'd come by and pick up some groceries. There isn't much food at the apartment above the shop.”

“At the shop?” Ada asked. “You're staying there?”

“Yes, of course. Where else would I stay?” I asked. Where indeed? There were alternatives, of course. I could stay with the Reeds, try and find a hotel, or even go back to Boston. But there was so much work to be done, and what better way was there to honor my grandfather but to finish the jobs that were in the shop? Besides, the Cog & Sprocket
and I needed to make peace before I could decide what to do with her.

And besides, Bezel needed a roommate. I couldn't bring her back to Boston, since my landlords had dogs, and I couldn't just leave her in the shop. We'd figure out what to do.

“I'm sorry. The whole thing has me in a bit of a state. And I can't imagine what you're going through. I really can't.”

I wasn't about to try to tell her. First of all, I don't know that I could describe it adequately. And secondly, something in her tone made me feel that she was less concerned than curious.

“I haven't been to the store in years,” I said. “It looks wonderful.”

“Oh, thank you. We've done a lot of work on it. It seems to be coming together, though it's hard to get folks to come in because of Uncle Matthew, Mac's uncle, did you know him?”

I nodded. “Not well, but I did know him. Or I knew of him.”

“Well, of course, your grandfather and Uncle Matthew had a falling-out of some sort, didn't they? And when Thom stopped coming to the store, it seemed like most of the town stopped for a few years. It's really quite remarkable that poor Uncle Matthew was able to stay in business, it really is.”

I must have made a face even though I was trying not to react.

“Not that I blame your grandfather for ruining the store—of course not,” she added. “I'm sure he had his reasons.”

Yeesh. Ruining the store? Please. “I think it is wonderful that your husband was able to forgive his uncle for the way he treated his mother after Mac's father passed,” I said. “And it's great that Matt Clark did the right thing and left you
both the store.” I faked a smile and then faltered. Maybe she didn't know the family history?

“Thom was always cordial to Mac and me. And those days are finally past us now, aren't they? We can't let one old man's petty grudge—oh dear, you know what I mean. It's just that, oh dear.”

I just stared at Ada for a second. Was she seriously calling my grandfather an old man with a petty grudge? And “past us”? Did she mean that now that my grandfather was dead, all of this history was going to be forgotten? I looked at her guileless face and saw a flicker of something more. She knew the history; I could tell. She was just determined to rewrite it. And with Thom Clagan gone, her version might finally stick. Poor Uncle Matt indeed.

My hackles started to rise but I took a deep breath. I could harrumph off and leave my basket, starting a second generation of feuds in the process, or I could be the better woman, ignore her, get my food, and go back to my own store. It really wasn't my business, but if she was going to be dragging my grandfather's name through the mud, it soon would be. I'd make sure I was prepared for her, though.

I bent down to pick up my basket. “It was nice to meet you.”

I moved around Ada, looking to my right and grabbing a few cans of cat food and a box of dry food. I couldn't remember the specific brands of cat food at the shop, but Bezel needed to eat. I hoped she wasn't picky. As Ada walked back to her husband I kept breathing slowly, trying to focus on my shopping rather than the subtext of our conversation. Surely there weren't any real hard feelings? Or were there? Did my grandfather's boycott of the Corner Market really impact the store that much? Enough to cause
someone to seek revenge? I wondered if Caroline shopped there.

When I turned again to look in another case, a couple of other people had joined Ada and Mac, and all four stared at me. Again, I smiled my fake smile. Five years as a faculty wife meant I'd mastered a really great fake smile that I could pull out at a moment's notice. Unless you knew me, you'd think it was real. And none of these people knew me. At all.

I glanced at the “ready to go” case, expecting to turn on my heel and make my grand exit, but the contents of the case stopped me. Containers of salads and spreads. Wrapped sandwiches. Ready-made microwavable meals. My stomach growled. I loaded up my basket with a container of chicken salad with walnuts and cranberry and a curried tuna salad with currants. I hoped they didn't taste as good as they looked, because boycotting a store with good food was going to be tough. On my way to the checkout counter with my overloaded basket I picked up some bread and a half a pumpkin pie. I deserved it.

The checkout counter was the same as it had always been, without a moving belt. I put my items on the counter.

“Do you have a bag?” the cashier asked.

“Just one, I'm afraid. Here it is.” I grabbed the balled-up nylon bag and shook it open, handing it to the young man bagging the groceries.

“This won't be big enough. Do you want to buy another?” the clerk asked, pointing to the pile of canvas bags with
THE CORNER
MARKET
emblazoned on them.

“No thanks,” I said. I wasn't going to be a walking billboard for the Clark family until I knew what the status of the feud was. “I'll take paper.”