“Dot, you’ve been giving us pies for free for forty years,” he said. “Let us pay you once.”
So I took it. And Tuesday morning, after the tomatoes, I walked the four blocks down Main Street to cash it.
I’ve been banking at Farmers & Merchants in Millbrook for fifty-eight years.
I didn’t think twice.
The bank is a little red brick building on the corner of Main and Second. Two stories. White columns out front that George always said were too fancy for a town of four thousand people. A brass plaque by the door that says FARMERS & MERCHANTS BANK — EST. 1968.
Inside, it smells like old carpet and new money and the peppermints they keep in a glass bowl on the counter.
It’s cool in there. That was the first thing I noticed. The air conditioning was blasting. My sweat went cold on my neck.
Shelly usually works the window.
Shelly Haskins. Fifty-four years old. She’s been at that window since her kids were little. Since 1998. She knew George. She came to his funeral. She brought a casserole and cried harder than some of his own cousins.
She always asks about my roses.
“How are the Peace roses this year, Dot?”
“Blooming like crazy, Shelly. I’ll bring you some.”
And I always do. A big bunch, wrapped in wet newspaper. She keeps them in a coffee can on the counter by her window until they drop their petals.
Shelly wasn’t there.
There was a young man in a blue suit behind the counter instead. Thirty, maybe. Thin. Very clean. His hair was cut short and combed with something shiny. He had on a white shirt so starched it could have stood up by itself, and a tie the color of a robin’s egg.
