Chapter 9: The Landlord

I said no, and my father didn't speak to me for eleven months.

That was fine.

In those eleven months, Good Dog Supply paid back its loan early and hired six people.

We also put in a real wash station with a real drain.

The dollar-store balloon was finally retired to a shelf behind the register.

Ben called it a museum piece.

On a cold Monday in March, our landlord came into the store at ten past nine.

He stood in the doorway with his hat in his hand.

His face was grim.

"Vicky," he said. "Ben. I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Ben asked.

"I sold the building."

I put down the box cutter.

"The whole plaza?"

"Last week. A holding company made an offer I couldn't turn down."

He wiped his forehead.

"I didn't know who it was until the closing."

"Who was it?"

He didn't have to answer.

The bell over the door rang.

My father walked in.

He wore a good wool coat and carried a leather folder under his arm.

Two customers were choosing treats at the counter, and a woman was kneeling by the wash station with her Labrador.

Everyone looked up at the same time.

"Morning, Vic," my father said.

It was the first time he had said my name in almost a year.

"Dad."

"Kreutzer Holdings," he said, and tapped the folder. "That's me. I bought the plaza. All of it, including this unit."

The landlord stared at his own hat.

"I'll leave you to it," he muttered, and slipped out.

I came around the counter.

"What do you want?"

"I want to give you a new lease."

He opened the folder and slid out a stapled packet.

"The old one's up at the end of the month. Market rate."

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