A Dollhouse to Die For(32)
“Increased traffic means increased business.”
On our way through town, we passed the Starbucks at the corner of North Main and West State Streets, and I begged for coffee. It was situated in the Fountain House tavern, an enormous whitewashed three-and-a-half-story building that was over two hundred and fifty years old.
We sat inside and enjoyed our lattes, and I relaxed a little as I felt the caffeine surge through my veins. This was more like it.
“What did you think of that last place?” Marybeth carefully licked the froth off her expertly lined lips.
“It was very pretty, but a bit small.”
“But how much room do you really need? Is there any wasted space in your current location?”
I thought about all the stuff upstairs in my shop that I could consolidate.
She tapped a nail on the table. “In my opinion this is where you should be. It’s a lovely town, with lots of visitors, and you’d do well here.”
I had to admit Marybeth knew her stuff. I hadn’t given her much notice yet she’d found several places that would have been great for me.
If I wasn’t so in love with Millbury, that is.
This would mean a half hour commute each way. Driving to Doylestown would be like entering the workforce again and going to a real job. I wondered how long before I’d resent the trip. The farthest I drove now was the five miles to Sheepville, and that was only once a week for major grocery shopping.
The few yards’ walk down the street from our house to Sometimes a Great Notion was a pleasure, not a commute.
I felt like crying and told myself to stop being such a baby. It was business, after all.
“The rent is also higher than I’m paying now,” I mumbled.
“Everything’s going to be more than you’re paying now. Face the facts, Daisy. You’ve been paying well below—”
“Market rent. Yes, yes, I know.” I tried to wash the irritation out of my voice. “Thanks for taking me out today, Marybeth. I just need to think things over a bit.”
“Don’t take too long. The good places don’t last. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
After she dropped me back in Millbury, I hesitated on the street, unsure of what to do next. I should probably go into the store, but seeing as I was paying Laura for the day anyway, I decided not to inflict my foul mood on her. I’d go see the one person who wouldn’t care because he was usually in the same frame of mind.
A quick stop inside the house for my bag of dollhouse supplies and I was off to Cyril Mackey’s place.
Past one yard where the homeowner was pushing a lawnmower behind his white picket fence, making one of the last cuts of the season. The tang of random onion stalks mixed with the scent of freshly mown grass. Impatiens, tall and straggly, and basil leaves turned spotted brown all signaled the final last gasp of summer. A white hydrangea bush boasted glorious pointed puffs of blooms, bigger than snowballs and tinged with a blush of pink at the tips.
I trudged along Main Street, glancing in the store windows.
Damn all these new tenants. If not for them, I could have given Chip Rosenthal the finger and moved into another space.
The five stages of grief were denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I’d done the anger part, but now I was stuck on depression, and definitely a long way from acceptance.
I went into the Last Stop Diner and picked up a couple of BLTs for me and Cyril. The diner operated out of an ancient trolley car sitting on the corner of Main Street and Grist Mill Road. A real old-fashioned diner with sky-high pies, endless coffee, and abusive waitresses.