Chapter 23: Day Ninety

My mother was still in the shop at nine that night, wiping the same square of counter.

"You'll rub it away," Hattie said.

"It's a good counter."

"It's been wiped nine times."

"Then it's a very good counter."

She put the cloth down and looked around at the room.

There were four doors on Thackeray Row now, side by side under one awning.

Broughton & Daughter on the corner.

Linnea's letterpress next to it, with the proofs still pinned in the window.

The baker had her ovens in the old tailor's, and the smell of her bread came through the wall every morning at four.

The potter's kiln room sat at the back, and she had stopped wearing her coat indoors.

Day ninety had been the grand opening.

The line started at six that morning and reached Bull Street by eight.

I had stood behind the counter in my grandmother's apron, and my seven people had come back, every one, with their own keys.

My father sat on a stool by the register, giving change to children.

He said it was his job, and nobody argued.

Now the shop was empty of customers, and the only lights were over the pouring table.

"I'm proud of you," my mother said abruptly, to the room.

"Mom."

"I should have said it in the chapel. I'm saying it here."

I hugged her, and she smelled of lemon polish and casserole.

"Go home," I said. "Dad's asleep on the stool."

She looked, and he was.

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