Page 18 of Patio Lanterns (The Blue Canoe Cottage #1)

Mrs. Crawley’s eyes were emotionless, her craggy face still except for the constant tremor in her jaw.

Robin cleared her throat. “Well, anyway, um, I’m not sure if you heard, but my mother, Micki Pelletier, passed away last year. She and my father, Marc, owned the Blue Canoe Cottage on the hill.”

Mrs. Crawley squinted. “The Pelletiers?”

“Yes,” Robin answered cautiously.

“You have mail,” she announced, before fussing under the counter below the register.

“Mail? Um, okay. But I was just wondering if I could put up a notice in the store to let people know that my sisters and I are hosting a celebration of life for my mother.” She slid the printed sheet across the counter. “It’s on Friday.”

Mrs. Crawley held up a string on which dangled a brass key. “Number seven.”

“Number seven what?” Robin asked.

“Pelletier, number seven.” The old lady nudged her head toward the row of mailboxes on the wall. “And I have more in the back.”

“Ah gotcha,” Robin said, before tapping on the page to turn her attention to the more pressing matter. “So, is it okay if I put this up in the store?”

Mrs. Crawley’s hands shook as she held the page up to examine it more closely.

“Sure, you can put it up.” The storekeeper nodded. “And I’m sorry about your mother.”

“Thank you,” Robin told her. “While I’m here, I’d like to place a large order for delivery on Friday. We’re going to need a few cases of pop and bottled water. Ice. Definitely ice. And paper plates and napkins…”

Mrs. Crawley shook her head. “Hold on. I ain’t gonna remember all that.” Then she turned away and began the long journey to the back room, the path well-worn into the warped floorboards.

Not sure if she was expected to stay or follow, Robin figured it would expedite matters if she simply trailed behind the tracks of Mrs. Crawley’s ratty house slippers.

For as long as Robin and her sisters had been coming to the store, the dark, cave-like room at the back was like Area 51: restricted and off-limits to civilians.

Being shrouded in mystery made it darkly foreboding, summoning the curiosity of young customers wanting to unearth what was beyond its threshold.

Robin plastered her arms to her sides and sucked in her soft gut as she wedged through towers of boxes and crates stamped with familiar household brands—Nabob and Red Rose and Robin Hood and Windsor Salt and Mr. Christie among many others.

She shouldn’t have been shocked, given the prolonged existence of the general store and Mrs. Crawley’s infinite longevity, but the maze-like storage space was like a hobbit’s Middle-earth hovel crossed with an episode of Hoarders .

Clutter covered every surface. Stacks upon stacks of papers and invoices were piled high among the bundles of weathered newspapers.

On top of those was a collection of ephemera promoting an assortment of discontinued products from citronella bug spray to cigarillos.

If this mess served as the general store’s archaic filing system, it was a wonder that it managed to stay open as long as it had.

A tidy alcove was carved into the chaos. The inner sanctum had a covered table, which held on top of it an African violet in a teacup and saucer, an old banker’s lamp, and a portable radio with a bent antenna.

“Sit,” Mrs. Crawley said, gesturing to the lone spindle-back chair.

Robin pulled the seat back. A broom suddenly swerved and fell with a crash, the handle thwacking into the radio and knocking it over.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, immediately uprighting it and leaning the broom against a heap of yellowed phone books. Please don’t turn me into a toad.

She slid down into the seat, restricting her movements and taking only shallow breaths lest a sudden gust cause the surrounding walls of junk to topple on them. Mrs. Crawley rummaged through some loose papers, then put a blank order form in front of Robin. “Make a list.”

“Are you sure? All I have to do is fill this out, and you’ll order it in for me?”

Mrs. Crawley nodded. “Make a list. And print clearly too, I ain’t got time to decipher your chicken scratch. I’m faxing it as is.”

Robin had forgotten her list at home so regurgitated all the party needs from memory. Water and pop. Ice. Definitely some beer. The chardonnay. Don’t forget the chardonnay . People liked mini finger foods, so better get a few boxes. Chips. Napkins, plates. Oh, and the decorations too.

“Do you carry lights?” Robin asked.

Mrs. Crawley took a moment to respond. “I have light bulbs.”

“No, no, like those big ornamental Chinese lanterns. They come in all sorts of colours and look like big ol’ swinging balls?” Robin held her hands apart the width of an invisible volleyball.

The request confounded Mrs. Crawley. “Swinging balls?”

Across the top of the order sheet, Robin drew a line to illustrate the light string and dropped in circles beneath. “Sorta like this. People hang them in their backyards and around their pergolas?”

Finally, it dawned on her. “You mean patio lanterns?” Mrs. Crawley asked.

Robin nodded. “Yes, yes, that’s what I mean. Patio lanterns.”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place, child? Of course, I can get those,” she said, gesturing to the page. “Write it down, and I’ll go find your mother’s mail.”

Mrs. Crawley shuffled away, disappearing into another part of the cluttered cave.

Suddenly by herself in the tight, enclosed space, Robin sensed the teetering towers were closing in around her.

What if it all came crashing down, and she was trapped?

Could she claw her way out? Would firefighters extricate her before she suffocated under a metric tonne of calcified Jos Louis snack cakes?

Her dry mouth puckered. She wiped her clammy hands on her shorts as her heart hammered a fast tempo in her ears. Hello, claustrophobia.

Robin carefully left the chair, willing herself to shrink as small as possible lest she accidentally detonate a domino effect of death and destruction.

As she contorted herself along the winding path back to four stable walls, Mrs. Crawley appeared in the doorway carrying a stack of mail and a binder.

“Oh… heh. I—I wasn’t leaving or anything.” Robin shrugged in embarrassment. “I was just coming to see if you needed help.”

Mrs. Crawley didn’t meet her eyes as she passed by. Robin made an about face and dutifully followed her back into the decrepit crate yard, standing behind her as she opened the binder on the table. It appeared to be some kind of order catalogue.

“Look for your big swinging balls in here,” Mrs. Crawley instructed. “Patio lanterns should be under ‘L’ for lighting, or ‘O’ for outdoor, or ‘P’ for…”

“I got it, thanks.” Robin skipped right to the P section, flipping through plungers, portable heaters, potting soil, and high-powered pressure washers before backtracking to the Ls.

There, she found pages of outdoor lighting sets.

“Here they are,” she pointed. “Just like these. We’ll probably need at least three or maybe four. ”

“Then order four. If you don’t use ‘em, send ‘em back,” Mrs. Crawley said. “How do you intend to pay for all of this today?”

“Well, I was thinking we could just open a tab and…”

She shook her head. “No store credit.”

“Yeah, I saw the sign out front, but I was hoping maybe you could bend the rules just this once? I mean, my mom just died.”

Playing the orphan card had little effect on Mrs. Crawley. “ Absolutely no store credit.”

Robin’s shoulders slumped. She didn’t have the money to pay for anything on her list, and certainly couldn’t go back to the cottage with her tail between her legs asking her sisters to spot her a few hundred bucks.

Come on, Robin. Think of something. Fast. She looked at the dusty, crowded tomb they were in. Suddenly, it came to her.

“Would you consider a barter?” she asked.

“Barter?” Mrs. Crawley claimed the chair and sat in it. “What kind of barter?”

“What if I gave you a hand in the store and reorganized your stock room? In exchange, Crawley’s General Store covers the tab for my mother’s celebration of life?”

Mrs. Crawley pointed to the floor. “You want to work here?”

“I could help you with customers, and when it’s not busy out front, I’ll clean up back here,” Robin said. “Imagine how much better it would be if you had a little more room. You could get a nice couch and TV, put your feet up, and relax whenever you want.”

“I don’t know,” she said warily.

“I mean, just moving some of these old boxes out of here would make a huge difference. They really are a fire hazard, you know. I could break them down for recycling and get someone to haul them away for you along with anything else you might want to get rid of.”

Robin could see that Mrs. Crawley was considering it and steamrolled over any chance she might say no.

“Tell you what, I’ll even throw in a new logo for Crawley’s. I’ll design it to your liking, and if you want, you can get it printed on shirts, hats or stickers and sell them in the store. Set up a little souvenir display right in the window. Trust me, cottagers around here will go nuts for it.”

And then, for the first time in Robin’s memory, she saw the old lady smile. A real, actual smile. “I like your chutzpah, child.”

“So, do we have a deal?”

“Deal. But you don’t throw away a thing without checking first.”

“I won’t, promise.”

“Start tomorrow,” Mrs. Crawley said. “Store opens at eight.”

“Then I’ll be here at seven-fifty,” Robin told her. “Thank you. I promise, you won’t regret it.”

“Child, wait,” Mrs. Crawley stopped her, holding out the stack of envelopes, circulars, and magazines held together by a thick rubber band. “Don’t forget your mail.”

Robin’s eyes widened as she accepted the hefty bundle. “You’ve got to be kidding. All this was for my mom?”

“Along with whatever else is in the mailbox out front. Number seven.”