“Are you interested in a slice like that woman just had, or the full pie?”
“A full pie,” the father said proudly, puffing out his chest as his daughter linked her arm in his.
“It’s twenty-five dollars.”
“For a pie? What’s in it, gold?” the young man scoffed arrogantly.
Bert couldn’t help but lean over and correct him on his entitled attitude. “Well, considering that I charge four dollars for a single slice, I’d say that is a good deal.”
“In what reality?” he muttered, still audible to the group.
“The lady is right, you know, Charlie. To hand make a pie like this one probably takes some work, and I’m sure the ingredients aren’t cheap.”
“It’s true. I only use the best,” Bert responded.
“We’ll take one full pie, thank you,” the man declared proudly digging into his wallet and producing the exact change for the dish.
“Oh, thank you, Dad,” the girl cried, embracing her father in a tight hug.
As Bert accepted the man’s money and headed inside to grab one of the pies, she couldn’t help but wonder if the girl really was as ditzy and airheaded as she seemed, or if it was part of an act to please her father.
Either way, she decided it was none of her business and pushed the thought aside.
Pulling out the pie, she carefully laid it inside one of the cardboard dessert boxes that made transporting the dish easier. As she was closing it, she could still hear the family’s strained voices echoing through the open doorway.
“Seriously? Twenty-five dollars for a stupid pie, but not a cent for my college fund?”
“I thought we’d settled this last night, boy.”
“Stop calling me that, dang it.”
“When you’ve made your own money, you can spend it however you want. For now, I’m going to buy what I like, for whoever I like.”
Bert glanced up and noticed the daughter batting her eyes at her brother—mocking him about her father’s favoritism.
“Oh, and Abigail gets whatever she wants?”
“That’s none of your business, is it, Charleston?”
“And I suppose if she were trying to invest in some stocks or the branch of a food chain or something, you’d spot her?” he snapped.
“I would do no such thing. You know that women aren’t good with managing money.”
Bert couldn’t help but silently balk at this horrid statement. Still, she held her own feelings in reserve as she added the money to the till.
“And if I want to invest in something?”
“I wouldn’t give you any money, either.”
Bert didn’t want to go out there during their mess of an argument, but didn’t see any other choice. The sooner she gave them their pie, the sooner they would be on their way. She was sure the strained family was driving away other interested customers.
She knew she better get out there sooner than later and kindly shoo them along.
The young man’s mouth hung open in shock. “What? Are you serious? You’ve spent your whole life doing business investing. Now you’re telling me you wouldn’t support me in that either?”
“Many of those projects failed. It’s too risky nowadays, and you don’t have a brain for business.”
“But I don’t have the talent for music, either? Is there a single thing I’m good for?”
“Here is your pie, sir,” Bert announced, stepping out of the front door and interrupting the conversation.
“This whole thing is bogus,” the son screamed, drawing the attention of passersby. “I swear, if you weren’t my own father, I’d kill you.” The next moment he was stomping off down the sidewalk and disappearing around the corner.
“Don’t mind him,” the father noted as he took the pie. “Thanks for this. We appreciate it. Don’t we, darling?”
“Thanks, Dad,” the daughter giggled.
Her silly, girlish behavior was starting to get on Bert’s nerves. What self-respecting woman would allow themselves to appear like that in public?
“See anything else you want?” he asked, clearly looking to spoil her more.
Bert was forced to work hard not to drop her smile. The father’s apparent favoritism between the two adult children was sickening. Of course, it didn’t help that the daughter just ate it up.
Abigail hummed as she scanned over the book bin in front of her. “I’d also like to buy this,” she pointed at an old, yet very advanced, technical manual about various types of hand guns and rifles.
“Oh, you don’t want that. Guns are a man’s sport.”
Abigail scoffed, making a clicking sound in the back of her throat. “But you taught Charlie to shoot when he was only eight,” she argued, the overly sweet tone of voice dropping slightly for the first time.
Bert was beginning to suspect more and more that the sweetness was just a false cover.
“That’s because he is a boy, dear. It was father, son time when I took him out to the shooting range.” He tapped the cover of the technical manual. “Besides, this book would be way above your head.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” she snapped, stomping her foot like a child.
He reached down and picked up a copy of Pride and Prejudice. “How about this instead? I think a lot of women your age like it.”
“No, thank you, Dad,” she grumbled.
“Are you sure? I know you ladies love your romances.”
“No, Dad. Forget it,” she screamed, even louder than her brother had. Letting go of his arm, she stomped off down the street.
The father shrugged his shoulder at Bert. “I guess she can be a little spoiled sometimes.” He laughed it off.
“I’m sure she isn’t,” Bert lied, putting on a good face for the customer. In another other situation, she would have called him out, gave him a piece of her mind. However, just as her late husband Howie had taught her, this was business. It was her first truly difficult encounter with a patron, but she tried to not let it get to her.
He set the copy of Pride and Prejudice down on the table next to Bert’s cashbox. “How much for the book? I’m sure she would want to read it.”
Chapter 3
* * *
The platter of chocolate-almond tart samples quickly vanished in a matter of a few minutes, and Bert hustled back inside to prepare another round of them. She hadn’t expected to sell a whole pie so early in the day and was worried she might run out of the specialty dish before too long.
If it came down to it, she’d have to skip her lunch break to bake more of the pies for the afternoon patrons of the Autumn Walk.
Pulling out the tart she had cut Carla’s piece from, she began slicing up the tiny bite sized portions that would entice customers to come in and buy books and pie. Carefully arranging them in the paper cups on the platter so they’d look pretty, she headed back toward the front door.
She froze in place upon seeing Abigail, the strange girl from just moments before, bent over the book bin.
“Not again,” Bert whispered. She’d thought she was done dealing with that family of troublesome customers already. Why was the daughter back so soon?
Bert only had one guess.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped outside and set the sample tray down on the table. “Hello. Back again?” She plastered a big smile on her face, hoping she could help the girl and get her on her way quickly.
“Hey, I was wondering if you still had that book, the one about rifles,” she asked in a normal, somewhat monotone voice. The girlish lilt and high-pitched squeak she’d had before was now vanished into a seemingly more mature, albeit still entitled, young woman.
From one moment to the next, this girl seemed to have such varied moods and behaviors.
“Of course,” Bert answered her without comment on the girl’s odd personality. Digging into the bin, she presented the book. “Is this the one you were looking for?”
“That’s the one. How much?” she asked.
“Two
dollars.”
“Sold,” Abigail declared, digging into her purse.
Bert paused thinking of the conversation from earlier and taking the opportunity to offer the girl an even better deal. “You know, this book is fairly advanced. It’s for people who’ve been shooting or hunting for a number of years.”
Abigail’s straight face wrinkled into a scowl, making her look older than she actually was. “So, what?”
“I’m just saying, if it’s true that you’re new to the sport of range shooting, I’d like to recommend something else.”
“Excuse me?”
Bert dug through the book bin and retrieved a beginner’s manual she had remembered being in there. “Now, this book is an excellent starting point for anyone considering getting into hobby shooting. It’s actually what I read back when my husband taught me the sport. It’s old, but very reliable.”
Abigail’s nose crinkled up and her cheeks flushed red. “Are you serious, right now?”
Bert was surprised by the girl’s sudden flash of anger. It was as if she could flip a switch and change from one emotion to the next without so much as a moment’s warning in between. She tried to ignore it, continuing with her offer. “I’m willing to sell it to you for fifty-cents. My way of saying thanks for your patronage.”
“I’m not interested in your stupid children’s book,” she barked, the flush spreading from her cheeks and into the rest of her face.
“I was just trying to offer you something more at your level.”
“You’re just like my dad,” she spit through gritted teeth.
“Whatever do you mean?” Bert asked, taken aback by the woman’s behavior.
“I mean that you’re old, condescending, and stupid.”
Bert was forced into complete and utter silence by the girl’s words, her mouth hanging open in shock. Never had anyone spoken to her in such a degrading manner, especially not a younger person.
“I don’t want your dumb suggestions or opinions. You don’t know me, and you don’t know my dad. I want that book,” she yelled, pointing at the advanced manual. The childish attitude from earlier was resurfacing ten-fold. A nearby family with children were all gawking at the scene.
Bert, without another thought, picked up the book in question and set it behind the bin. “I’m sorry. That item is no longer for sale.”
“What?” the girl screeched.
“I’m telling you. The book isn’t up for sale. You can take your business elsewhere.”
“You can’t do that. I’m a paying customer, you old hag.”
Bert felt a sudden rush of blood to her head, making her slightly dizzy. It didn’t stop the overflowing barrage of words that came next. “Look here, young lady. You’ve done nothing but act rude and demanding today as you’ve been at my shop. You’ve called me names when I’ve done nothing but try to help you and give you options.”
“I don’t want your stupid options.”
“Clearly not, but until you can learn to behave like a woman your age, you are not welcome here. Now, I’m going to ask you to leave one more time before I am forced to call Old Market security to escort you out.”
Abagail leaned over the bin, her eyes flashing with a fiery spark. “Forget you, lady. Who cares? Keep your stupid old book.” With that, she was stomping off down the street again.
Bert couldn’t help but wonder exactly what was wrong with that girl.
Chapter 4
* * *
The rest of the morning went by in a blur of pie samples and book sales. A lot more people came by the shop and purchased either slices of pie, or even whole pies. She’d even had to restock the book bins twice with merchandise from the store rooms and apartment because they were starting to look sparse. The Autumn Walk was helping Bert make a killing that day.
If she continued to do business like this every weekend, she’d pay off her costs for the renovations in no time.
Around two, things had begun to slow down a little. In the lull, Bert thought it might be a good time to take a quick break and head over to Christmas in July to see how Carla was doing with her sidewalk sales.
Bringing the sample tray inside, Bert locked up the shop and headed one block down and around the corner to Carla’s place. She simply left the book bins outside, deciding she was only going to be gone a minute and the books would be okay.
Turning the corner, Bert was shocked to see an elaborate Christmas themed display that put her own shop to shame. The sidewalk was decorated like a quaint living room. A portable, electric fireplace which put off heat was up against the building, decorated with a miniature village on top (each piece of the village was marked with a price). A red and white rug lay on the ground with a plush chair and a coffee table on it. There was even a Christmas tree with ornaments for sale against one of the windows. Carla sat in the chair, handing out candy canes to all the children.
“Wow, you really went all out,” Bert proclaimed upon approaching her friend.
“Oh, it’s nothing I haven’t done every year.” She waved a dismissive hand at the compliment. “I always like to kick off the holiday shopping season with a bang.”
“I guess so,” Bart laughed.
“Who is watching your shop?”
“No one,” she admitted, giving a timid shrug.
“No one?”
“Naw, I figured I’d only be gone for a second, so it wouldn’t matter.”
“Well, I would get back as soon as possible. I don’t trust people.”
Bert furrowed her brow, thinking of Abigail from earlier. What would stop the angry girl from coming back and stealing books or vandalizing the shop? She seemed like the kind of person with just a few screws loose who would do it. “Did something happen over here?” she asked, wondering if the crazy family had caused distress elsewhere.
“You just missed all the craziness.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Reba who runs the Candy Emporium next door got in a shouting match with some guy in a beer cap.”
Bert’s eyes widened suspiciously. “The same guy who was over at my place earlier?”
“Yeah, I think that’s the one.”
“What the heck were they arguing about?”
Carla shrugged. “I can’t say for sure. Reba was screaming about pompous men or something like that.”
Bert’s wonder instantly disappeared. “Oh, I see.”
“What is it?” her friend pressed, recognizing the look on her face.
“Oh, he just said a few things I didn’t agree with earlier, like women couldn’t really run a business. Honestly, that son and daughter of his weren’t much better.”
“How can anyone think that in this day and age, you know? After all, you, me, and Reba all run our businesses nearly on our own.”
“It’s true, but some people are just old-fashioned I guess.”
“Outdated is more like it.”
Bert chuckled. “I’m sure you and I are not exactly the hippest people on the block.”
“Yes, even you saying the word hippest shows that,” Carla teased.
“Face it. We’re old ladies.”
“Yeah, but we aren’t so behind the times that we think women should be at home in the kitchen,” Carla noted, returning to the subject at hand.
“Did he say that?” Bert wouldn’t be surprised if he had.
“I think so. He mentioned how it was so good of Reba to help her husband run the business, even when she had ‘duties’ at home.”
“Wow,” Bert mouthed wondrously.
“Anyway, Reba went off on him. You know how short a temper she has. She said she was the business owner, didn’t have a husband, and never intended to have one.”
Bert knew that Rebecca Stallion—whom everyone called Reba for short—had a very short fuse. She was known to speak her mind on more than one occasion. In some ways, Bert was surprised she didn’t drive off more customers. However, Bert knew she wasn’t one to judge, thanks to the fact that sh
e herself had lost her temper that day at the young woman named Abigail.
Still, she had a deep respect for Reba. She was strong willed and knew what she wanted in life.
“What happened after that?” Bert asked.
“He told her she had no right to talk to him like that. He, as a man, deserved more respect.”
“Holy smokes. I’m glad I didn’t say anything when he was shooting his mouth off at my place.”
“No kidding. Anyway, the Old Market security guys had to come over and ask him to leave.”
“Were either of his kids with him?” Bert wondered out loud, thinking it would only add insult to injury.
“Which ones?” Carla asked.
“He had two twenty-something kids with him.”
“Oh, yes. I remember them. No, I didn’t see either of them. He was on his own.”
Bert hummed thoughtfully. “Yep. They both huffed off earlier. I’m not surprised.”
“Anyway, that’s the gossip for today. You better get back to your shop before someone steals all your books.”
Bert gave a playful salute. “I’m on my way.” After her own encounter with Abigail, and hearing the craziness that had happened at the Candy Emporium, she was feeling anxious that she’d left her books unattended.
Hustling back around the corner, Bert was surprised when a loud pop noise rang out through the air. Jumping and letting out a quiet yelp, she turned curiously in a circle, trying to see exactly where the sound had come from.
A squeak drew her attention across the street.
There was a clown standing outside the FunWorld toy and game shop where the wooden sign was swinging back and forth—squeaking quietly. He was apologizing to a little kid while disposing of the limp remains of a balloon in one of his gloved hands. The fragmented rubber hit the side of the miniature trashcan on his cart, but fell onto the sidewalk where he didn’t notice it. In the next moment, he was filling another balloon to make a replacement.
“Woo,” Bert gasped, putting a hand over her heart. That had given her quite the start. For a second, she’d thought it was a gunshot it was so loud.
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