Page 18 of Patio Lanterns

But he’d been a very good boy and had been on his best behaviour at Rick’s, so she also sifted through the bin of fetch toys, picking out a squeaky miniature football. Mutt immediately wagged his tail in approval, and Robin envisioned them asking Rick to come out to play. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.

She took the items to the counter and began unloading her basket. With no clerk in sight, she hit the little bellhop dinger. Ding-ding. Was Mrs. Crawley still in the store? Surely, she was too elderly to be working there alone and had someone lending her a hand.

Robin was about to ring the bell a second time when she noticed the handwritten sign taped to the antique cash register: We appreciate your patience. We’ll be right with you. On the wall behind it was the classic Absolutely No Store Credit in big block letters. That sign had been up for as long as she could remember, back before she even knew what it meant.

It struck her that with an unmanned till, it would’ve been ridiculously easy to rob the place blind, yet she couldn’t ever recall hearing about such an incident. That was the neighbourhood, for you. Cottagers in the area knew and trusted one other, and the honour code was the only security system most people needed.

Not that Robin hadn’t tested it herself. When she was maybe six years old, she’d swiped a pack of gum from the store. She’d been quite smug about it until Lark and Dove told Lil’ Miss Sticky Fingers that spooky Mrs. Crawley once put a spell on a kid for stealing a chocolate bar. The tall tale wasn’t all that far-fetched, especially since the shrivelled storekeeper looked frighteningly like the witch from Hansel and Gretel.

From that day on, Robin remained a little terrified of the old lady, yet never let fear paralyze her to the point of abstaining from Swedish Fish and Sour Patch Kids.

Her sweet tooth prompted a renewed grumbling in her stomach now, reminding her that she’d skipped breakfast. She hadn’t even thought about it until that moment, her appetite likely suppressed to feed other, more ravenous needs.

She eyed up the neat rows of chocolate bars stacked beside the counter, a Coffee Crisp calling her name. Not knowing how much longer she’d have to wait, she immediately tore into the yellow wrapper and took a satisfying bite through its crunchy layers, sending sprinkles of wafer dust floating down onto her shirt.

As she snacked, she examined the locked cabinets behind the counter, a veritable jewel case of clandestine goods stocked with booze and wine, cartons of smokes, condoms, and fireworks. Lake Whippoorwill sure knew how to party.

Finally, frail Mrs. Crawley poked her little wrinkled tortoise head out of the stock room. Shockingly, she didn’t look a whole lot older than she did years ago, although her thinning hair was now merely gossamer. Robin managed a weak smile hello.

Mrs. Crawley—the crone had never married, but it didn’t seem right to use the title “miss” with anyone whose age had to be calculated by carbon dating—did not smile back. Instead, she saved her momentum to shuffle out in her house slippers. Chilled molasses moved faster. Naturally, it took another ice age for Mrs. Crawley to reach the counter and begin tallying the purchases one by one, including the discarded candy wrapper.

Robin watched her gnarled fingers poke at the oxidized cash register keys. The translucent onion skin covering the old woman’s shaky hands had practically melted away, revealing a crisscrossing of her raised blue veins. Robin wondered if her own smooth, youthful skin would someday dissolve, and made a mental note to slather on hand lotion later.

She didn’t want to break the old woman’s concentration, lest she have to start all over again, but the wait prompted her to make an impulse buy from behind the counter. “Sorry, but could I also get…” she pointed to the condoms dangling below the row of booze, “the second box from the right, please.”

Mrs. Crawley tapped the box of ultra thins with her long, yellowed nail. “This?”

Robin nodded. It felt strange to be buying condoms from the same lady who once sold her Archie comics. But she’d taken the last of her cock sock stash to Rick’s and had to replenish her supply.

Mrs. Crawley put the box with the rest of the items, then rang up the tally. “Comes to seventy-eight twelve,” she announced before slapping down a paper bag.

Robin paid, then filled the bag under Mrs. Crawley’s watchful eye. She tucked Mutt’s food under one arm and scooped the bag off the counter with the other. “Thanks,” Robin said, “have a nice day.”

“Be careful,” the old lady muttered.

Startled, Robin met her eyes. Dullish and pale, like clouded green marbles, they seemed to stare right into her soul. “I’m sorry…?”

“Be. Careful.” Mrs. Crawley annunciated clearly a second time. The words rang ominously like the tolling of a bell. What the hell did that mean? Be careful of what?

Shit. The old biddy must’ve lost her filter.

Robin marched down the centre aisle to the front of the store, Mutt dutifully clip-clopping at her side. Her arms full, she’d barely extended her fingers to grasp the door handle when suddenly, it swung inwards. She jumped back, her nerves already jangled like the bell swinging overhead. “Hey! Watch it!”

“Oop, sorry!” A polite apology squeaked from the other side of the door, the offender obscured by the Open sign and a patchwork of notices plastered to its window. “Oh my God…!”

Robin blinked. “Dove?”

“Robin!” Dove brightly beamed. She slid her designer sunglasses onto her head, pushing her blonde tresses back in effortless waves. Like it wasn’t enough that by thirty, Dove already had it all—a swanky condo, a robust retirement fund, and a sweet, la-dee-fucking-da job—but she also had the nerve to be one of the most kindhearted people in the world and as stunning as a Disney Princess.

“What are you doing here?” Dove asked. “I mean, what are you doing here already?”

“We said the twentieth, didn’t we?” Robin shrugged, figuring there was no reason to reveal her scheduling snafu. “It’s the twentieth.”

“I’m just so… well, you made it.” Dove wrapped her arms around her, crushing the bag of groceries between them. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” Robin reciprocated, and it wasn’t even a lie. It had been months since she and her sisters had been together. Since their mother died. “Have you been to the cottage yet?”

“We’re on our way now. Just topping up the gas tank.”

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