Chapter 9: The Christmas Market

Norma took my route on Saturday.

"I drove 14 for twenty years before you had a license," she said, pulling on her gloves. "I know where every dog lives."

"It's a hundred and ninety stops, Norma."

"Then I'd better not stand here talking to you."

She took van 22.

Mitch watched her drive it out of the lot and put his hand over his heart.

The market downtown filled a whole square, white tents and string lights and a giant tree, with a brass band playing carols by the courthouse steps.

The four men were waiting by the hot cider stand.

The man from Columbus was older than he sounded, in a tweed cap, holding a printed photo in a plastic sleeve.

The dentist from Cincinnati wore a ski jacket and an expression.

The cement driver from Springfield was enormous and silent.

The man from Indianapolis carried an empty canvas bag.

"For my mother's china," he said. "If it's there."

Shay's Closet was a white tent near the tree, with gold balloons tied to the poles.

Shana stood behind a table piled with things I'd carried up her stairs.

The suede boots. A cashmere scarf. Three perfumes. A row of gold-rimmed china plates, priced fifteen dollars each.

She was filming herself on a phone stand, talking to her live sale in a red sweater with her hair in curls.

At the front of the table sat a big glass jar half full of cash.

The sign taped to it said, "For my little one's heart. Every dollar helps."

The man from Indianapolis stopped walking.

"Those are my mother's plates."

I put my hand on his arm.

"Let me go first."

I walked up to the table with my binder under my arm.

Shana saw me and smiled for her camera.

"Oh my gosh, my loves, look who it is. It's my delivery girl." She waved. "Are you lost, sweetie? My packages come to my house."

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