you might think. Anyway, it’s a dull story. I’m making do all right.”
She opened one of the fruit drawers, rooted around, and brought out an old volume. “Yes, yes. Here we are,” she said, and sat down on a celery crate, daintily, like it was some kind of gorgeous silk tuffet.
Lola sat down on the cinder block next to it and watched Miss Bryant leaf through the pages of the book she’d selected. Lola was beginning to see that the Yesterday Boutique was not the nutty jumble that it seemed but a highly organized affair that made complete sense to Miss Bryant—crazy, but with a pattern, like her psychedelic pantsuit.
“Aha. Looky here,” Miss Bryant said.
Lola leaned in. It was a picture of the Wrigley house. Her house. A white-haired couple stood by the front door. “Judge Horace and Eunice Vance Wrigley, 1948,” the caption read.
Lola skimmed the text. These Wrigley people built the house in 1921 and left it to the county in their will. How funny to think the name Wrigley wasn’t always associated with juvenile delinquency. Lola pulled the new magnifying glass out of her jacket pocket and took a closer look. The fancy carved front door was unknown to her. It had been changed somewhere along the line for the metal-and-safety-glass model, the one with the tattletale keycard-swipe entry. She turned to the next page, which showed several pictures of the interior. She couldn’t believe it. Her house hadn’t always been a chopped-up maze of linoleum cubicles. It hadn’t always had those low, plastic ceilings with the fluorescent sticks inside, that sickening green paint. It was once an airy, graceful mansion.
“And here’s the rose garden,” Miss Bryant said, turning the page. “The Wrigley roses. An acre of roses. They covered the whole back lawn. People came from far and wide to see them in the summer. The Wrigleys didn’t have any children. They put all their love into the roses, I guess.”
Lola thought about the noisy car dealership that now covered the ground where the roses had once grown. It butted right up against the group home and reeked of tires. The stink made you never want to open the back windows. She was about to mention the dealership but stopped herself; Miss Bryant probably preferred to remember the rose garden as it had been all those summers when she was little.
The next pages showed pictures of a neat little brick downtown. It took Lola a few seconds to realize that she was looking at Ashfield. She skimmed through the rest of the book, surprised by the wide-open fields that ran all the way to the edges of town and the dusty two-lane roads that crisscrossed the center. Lola closed the book and handed it back to Miss Bryant, who returned it to the fruit drawer and slammed the refrigerator.
In a moment they were back at the replica snack bar.
“Thanks,” Lola said. “Your store is interesting. Way better than the mall.”
“Why, thank you,” Miss Bryant said. “Come back anytime. Tell your friends.”
Lola nodded and stepped outside. It was dusk. The rain had stopped, but it was cold and windy. She worked the combination on her bike lock and it clicked open. She was about to remove the chain when an idea came to her, so clear and alive that it was more like a voice than an idea:
Buy the green dress, Lola.
She dropped the chain and let it dangle as the voice got louder, more assured:
You want the dress. You have the money. You should have the dress, the gloves. Buy them. Buy them, Lola.
She rushed back through the double doors, not even bothering to lock up her bike. She made straight for the 1920s rack, Miss Bryant jogging after her. Lola chose the dress she’d admired, plus one blouse, one skirt, one bell-shaped hat, a string of fake pearls, and the only pair of shoes in the store that would fit her twenty-first-century feet. The shoes were a bargain at eighty-nine cents plus tax. In a dark corner of the stage under a pile of tennis rackets, she found several
She opened one of the fruit drawers, rooted around, and brought out an old volume. “Yes, yes. Here we are,” she said, and sat down on a celery crate, daintily, like it was some kind of gorgeous silk tuffet.
Lola sat down on the cinder block next to it and watched Miss Bryant leaf through the pages of the book she’d selected. Lola was beginning to see that the Yesterday Boutique was not the nutty jumble that it seemed but a highly organized affair that made complete sense to Miss Bryant—crazy, but with a pattern, like her psychedelic pantsuit.
“Aha. Looky here,” Miss Bryant said.
Lola leaned in. It was a picture of the Wrigley house. Her house. A white-haired couple stood by the front door. “Judge Horace and Eunice Vance Wrigley, 1948,” the caption read.
Lola skimmed the text. These Wrigley people built the house in 1921 and left it to the county in their will. How funny to think the name Wrigley wasn’t always associated with juvenile delinquency. Lola pulled the new magnifying glass out of her jacket pocket and took a closer look. The fancy carved front door was unknown to her. It had been changed somewhere along the line for the metal-and-safety-glass model, the one with the tattletale keycard-swipe entry. She turned to the next page, which showed several pictures of the interior. She couldn’t believe it. Her house hadn’t always been a chopped-up maze of linoleum cubicles. It hadn’t always had those low, plastic ceilings with the fluorescent sticks inside, that sickening green paint. It was once an airy, graceful mansion.
“And here’s the rose garden,” Miss Bryant said, turning the page. “The Wrigley roses. An acre of roses. They covered the whole back lawn. People came from far and wide to see them in the summer. The Wrigleys didn’t have any children. They put all their love into the roses, I guess.”
Lola thought about the noisy car dealership that now covered the ground where the roses had once grown. It butted right up against the group home and reeked of tires. The stink made you never want to open the back windows. She was about to mention the dealership but stopped herself; Miss Bryant probably preferred to remember the rose garden as it had been all those summers when she was little.
The next pages showed pictures of a neat little brick downtown. It took Lola a few seconds to realize that she was looking at Ashfield. She skimmed through the rest of the book, surprised by the wide-open fields that ran all the way to the edges of town and the dusty two-lane roads that crisscrossed the center. Lola closed the book and handed it back to Miss Bryant, who returned it to the fruit drawer and slammed the refrigerator.
In a moment they were back at the replica snack bar.
“Thanks,” Lola said. “Your store is interesting. Way better than the mall.”
“Why, thank you,” Miss Bryant said. “Come back anytime. Tell your friends.”
Lola nodded and stepped outside. It was dusk. The rain had stopped, but it was cold and windy. She worked the combination on her bike lock and it clicked open. She was about to remove the chain when an idea came to her, so clear and alive that it was more like a voice than an idea:
Buy the green dress, Lola.
She dropped the chain and let it dangle as the voice got louder, more assured:
You want the dress. You have the money. You should have the dress, the gloves. Buy them. Buy them, Lola.
She rushed back through the double doors, not even bothering to lock up her bike. She made straight for the 1920s rack, Miss Bryant jogging after her. Lola chose the dress she’d admired, plus one blouse, one skirt, one bell-shaped hat, a string of fake pearls, and the only pair of shoes in the store that would fit her twenty-first-century feet. The shoes were a bargain at eighty-nine cents plus tax. In a dark corner of the stage under a pile of tennis rackets, she found several
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