Page 43 of That Conflicted Feeling

Carlyleans in to my ear. “Noone messes withPolly’sProduce, you mean.”

Isqueeze her arm. “Wecan do this, can’t we?”

Shejoins in the applause.

“Youcan.Yes.”

13

MAX

Iturn away fromMrs.Lovewell’sheaving cleavage as she bends unnecessarily low to place oatmeal, toast, and coffee on the daisy-patterned tablecloth in front of me.

Everyvariety of flower must be represented in this breakfast room in some form.Eachof the round tables is covered with a different variety of tablecloth.One’stulips, one’s daffodils, one’s roses.That’sthe extent of my floral identification knowledge, soLordknows what the other three are.Inthe center of each table there’s a vase of plastic flowers matching the tablecloth.I, obviously, have daisies.

Thenthere’s the wallpaper, which is a riot of petals and foliage.IfMrs.Lovewellstood with her back against it,I’mnot sureIcould tell where her apron ends and the wall begins.

“Ido hope you slept well,” she breathes as she tucks the empty tray under her arm.Itsmushes her breasts closer together, making them bulge over the edge of her deepV-neck.

Ifix my eyes straight ahead on theTVthat’s tuned to the local morning news. “Great, thanks.”

Nottotally true, butI’mnot going to tell her that.

I’dactually woken up on and off all night with gut ache after spending yesterday evening at the local seafood restaurant.Worthit, though—the two members of the planning boardI’dplied with crab, shrimp, and sub-par white wine ended the night fully onboard to vote in favor of the store.

Addthem to the other councilmember whose three-hour demonstration of the intricacies of his model railwayIendured earlier in the day, andIhave three of the eight committee members on board.Justtwo more, and it’ll be mission accomplished—enough for a majority vote.

Mrs.Lovewelland her breasts are still standing over me, presumably waiting for my verdict on the food.

“Thankyou for breakfast.”I’mnot sure my stomach’s ready for this oatmeal yet, butIdip the spoon in, hoping it might be a signal for her to leave.

Itisn’t.

Icontinue to stare at theTV.

“MainStreetwoke up early this morning,” says the news anchor, who looks like he retired to the boonies after too many years in war zones. “Amidrumors a large grocery chain could be heading to the oldPictureHousetheater site, local store owners have mounted a spirited protest.”

Ananti-YellowBarnprotest?Ha.I’veseen one of those before.Itwas justPollyand a bunch of signs.

“ReporterJenAndrewsis live at the scene.Jen.”

Ipause with my mouth open and the spoon halfway there.JenAndrewsis standing in front of a sea of placard-holding protestors.It’squite the turnout.

“Whatthe hell?”Thewords are out of my mouth beforeIcan stop them.

Mrs.Lovewellleans in. “Careful,Ithink the lady on the tulip table might be a bit sensitive to bad language.”Shenudges me with her elbow. “Notme, though.Iswear like a sailor whenI’mnot in front of the guests.”

It’sallIcan do not toshushher soIcan absorb the debacle on the screen.

“Yes,Ted.Thanks,” says the reporter with an earnest nod. “Theowners of mom-and-pop stores that go back generations, as well as new entrepreneurs who’ve madeMainStreettheir home, fear for their futures ifYellowBarngets its way and turns this site”—she swivels and points dramatically at the empty lot—“into a store that could put them all out of business.”

Thetwenty or so people behind her start a chant of “SaveOurStreet” and pump their signs up and down in time to it.

Theshot pulls back, revealing even more people.

“Shit.”Thespoon drops from my hand and falls into the bowl with a wet thud.

Butmaybe they’re not all real protestors.Maybemost of them were only attracted by theTVcrew as they were passing, and don’t even know what’s going on.