Page 6 of Under Pink Skies

Even then, it had been months since Kelly had a new idea, and with that, it had been months since anyone in town had needed to place a special order.

I looked to the stocked aisles and sighed heavily. The store had been in hot water long before I took over as the acting manager, but with each passing day of minimal customers and even more minimal income, the future looked bleak. I tried my hardest in recent months to focus more on stocking non-perishable, non-food items that had longer shelf lives, but that inventory didn’t move as fast as the food. Being the only true grocer in town outside of individual farms made Watford General a central location for people to come to for things like milk, eggs, and seasonal vegetables, as well as the occasional fruit and fresh cuts of meat during the right season. The two commercial refrigerators lining the back wall of the store had been the best investments I could have made for the store.

I finished counting the cash and wiped my forehead with the back of my arm. I had a sinking feeling that the window unit air conditioner—the only source of airflow in the entire store—was on its last legs. Not only would it make me miserable, but it would also put undue stress on the refrigerators and freezers. If they went out on me . . . I couldn’t let myself go there.

When he was sober, my father had told me to never borrow tomorrow’s problems. I let out a sarcastic snort as I picked up my inventory clipboard to update the spreadsheet later on tonight. Just as I rounded the corner of the main counter, the phone rang. The sound jolted me from my thoughts; my pulse quickened as the all-too-familiar anxiety about who was on the other end of the line crept back in.

I picked up the receiver where it hung against the pillar, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly and quietly.

“Watford General, how can I help you?”

“Hello, is this Abbigail Collins?”

I inhaled sharply. Now that was a voice I hadn’t expected to hear.

“This is she,” I said, feigning nonchalance. Watford General wasn’t the only thing in hot water. My own financial future was at stake. I’d poured every cent of my personal savings into trying to keep the store and my father afloat. “I have to say, Councilman Kaser, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

“So formal,” the man said, giving a polite chuckle. “We’ve known each other practically our entire lives, Abbie. We can have a laid-back conversation.”

I rolled my eyes. “As you wish,Trent. How can I help you?”

“I’ll cut right to the chase here, Abbie, as I know your time is valuable and so is mine, of course.”

I would never understand how the baby-faced kid, who was several grades older than us, turned into this arrogant douchebag, but I kept my mouth shut.

“The Watford town council has been brainstorming ways to drum up the local economy. As I’m sure you’re aware, it’s been a rough few years for economic development, and as your local government officials, we want to do something about it.”

I couldn’t stop the scoff that escaped my lips. “With all due respect,Trent, it’s been several years since the pandemic knocked everything off kilter around here. Why has the council decided now is the time to revamp things?”

Trent paused, either taken aback by my bold response, or considering the right answer to my question. “That’s a valid question. I’m sure many other small business owners share a similar sentiment. For transparency’s sake, Watford has received a rather large grant from the state of Washington specifically for bolstering rural economies and promoting local small businesses. For the last several weeks, the council has been deliberating on the best way to use these funds. I believe we’ve come up with the perfect idea.”

“I’m listening,” I said, biting my bottom lip to keep the frustration from my voice. I really did not have time for this.

“Do you remember Founder’s Day?”

The doorbell above the main entrance jingled, and one red-faced, sweaty Kevin Phillips appeared, mouthingsorry, sorryas he threw his backpack over the checkout counter and grabbed his apron. I threw my hands up in awhat the hell, Kevin?gesture, but he paid me no mind, grabbing the inventory clipboard and the box cutter and getting to work. Hire local teenagers, the small business blogs had told me. Invest in your local workforce. But at what cost to my sanity? I’d thought hiring Imogen’s brother was a safe bet, but Kevin was still a teenager through and through.

My brow furrowed, and I rubbed my temple, trying to focus on the conversation at hand.

“Of course I remember Founder’s Day. I’ve lived here my whole life. It’s been several years since they held that celebration.”

“It’s been ten years, to be precise,” Trent said cheerily, and my heart sank.

“A lot can change in ten years,” I choked out.

“Indeed,” Trent replied, “and much has changed with our town. That’s why we want to bring back Founder’s Day this October. It will actually be the 55thanniversary of Founder’s Day, so the timing is ideal. And we all know how beautiful Watford is in the fall.”

My jaw hit the floor.

“October?” I sputtered. “You want to put on a massive festival inOctober? That’s less than three months away.”

Trent laughed on the other end of the line while I stood there gaping like a fish out of water. Either he’d said something funny, and I missed the joke, or my shock was the joke.

“It’s a short timeline, yes, but we had to wait for the Washington State Treasury Department to confirm that they had dispersed the grant funds. This is our ‘building back’ year for the festival, so it doesn’t have to be large, but we want it to be impactful. We want to draw attention to all of the lovely small businesses in Watford and the campsite Noah Wilkinson has just remodeled and expanded.”

A dull ache formed in my temples.

“Why not just cut checks to all of the local businesses in Watford that the pandemic and subsequent economic downturn has affected? Why funnel all that money into one event?”

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