Carolina Mist by Mariah Stewart

some of the locals lingered over their coffee to discuss the latest news. As she walked across the street to Foster’s General Store, she was not unaware that curious eyes from the window of the cafe followed her as she opened the door to the one food market in Primrose. She smiled to herself, knowing that as quickly as she closed the door behind her, the folks across the street would be speculating on everything from her identity to her shoe size.
    Housed in one storefront that was part of a row of shops in a two-story white clapboard building, Foster’s was clean and bright, if limited in its selections. Rows of canned and packaged goods lined three aisles down the center of the store. A butcher’s counter ran across the back, and along the left side, crates of fruits and vegetables sat in wooden bins. She wandered up and down the aisles, trying to decide what to buy.
    “Need a basket, young lady?” a voice called to her from behind the butcher’s counter.
    “I guess I could use one, thanks.” She moved toward the back of the store, trying not to dislodge the items she’d stacked in her arms.
    The short, balding man in the white apron—“Young Foster,” she guessed, though he had to be in his fifties— held out a red plastic basket, and she tried to drop the cans of soup one by one inside, but they rolled down her front avalanche-style. He lunged to hold on to the metal handles.
    “Oops… ”
    “That's okay, miss, I’ve got it.” He held the basket out to her. “Anything I can help you with?”
    “Where would I find sugar?”
    “Aisle two. Right there with the baked goods.”
    She put a five-pound bag into the basket, then paused in front of the flour. Mayb e she could bake something… good, the package had a recipe for biscuits on the back. She grabbed a box of chocolate cake mix and a container of prepared frosting. She’d bake a little treat for Belle.
    Eggs, butter, yogurt, milk from the dairy case filled a second basket. Orange juice from the small frozen-food section, carrots, potatoes, green beans, apples, bananas, and grapes from produce. She was on her third red basket when she arrived back at the meat counter.
    Having proved herself a serious shopper, she had the full attention of the man in the white apron, who held out two whole chickens for her inspection.
    “That one looks fine.” She nodded, indicating the one in his left hand.
    “That be all?” he asked.
    “Ummm… blackberry jam.” She recalled Belle’s request. “Do you have some that’s made locally?”
    Young Foster held up a jar with a hand-printed label.
    “Yes, that’s it … and some breakfast sausage. Oh, and tea.”
    Belle’s supply of tea was low. Abby had noticed that she used the one bag several times over. The last cup had been barely yellow in color.
    “And coffee.” She poked down the nearest aisle and found a can of already ground beans and returned with it to the counter.
    “So,” the grocer said as he tallied up her purchases. “You buy the old Landers place?”
    “What? Oh, no.” She shook her head as she scanned the front page of the local paper in the wire rack on the side of the counter.
    “One of them new apartments out by the highway, then?” He never took his eyes off his work.
    “No, actually, I inherited a property in town,” she said vaguely.
    “Oh, then you must be Miz Cassidy’s grand-niece.” He smiled in recognition.
    “Why, yes, I am.” She nodded her head.
    “Fine lady, Miz Cassidy was. Best teacher I ever had.”
    “You were one of her students?” Abby fished in her purse for her wallet.
    “Miz… ”
    “McKenna. Abby McKenna,” she told him.
    “Miz McKenna, everyone who grew up in Primrose and went to school here had Miz Cassidy for fifth grade. Why, she taught here for better’n forty years. Whole town came out when she retired. And again when she was buried. She was one of a kind.” He shook his head fondly. “Wonderfu l woman, she was. A real lady, I might