Page 41 of Patio Lanterns

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.”

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