Before I could explain myself, Maggie and Julian had taken off, exploring the store with glee, Maggie stopping nearby and sizing up an expensive-looking bird feeder.
“Don’t worry about them,” Walt said as if he could sense my anxiety. “You kids play sports?” he asked Ellie. “My daughter-in-law coaches the basketball team. A tall girl like you should play.”
My moody tween stared at him for a minute, then turned and stalked in the direction Julian had gone.
I gave him a tense smile, my face heating. “She’s getting used to a new town.”
Walt collected all the items I’d come in for, then he gave me a 15 percent friends and family discount and told us about the upcoming fall festival.
“Just keep an eye out for the Maple Street Mafia.” He held out a tape measure to Julian, insisting he keep it, which would probably make my son’s year. “They mean well,” he continued. “Most of the time.”
“The… what?” My chest tightened.
Mafia?
I looked out the front windows, scanning the sleepy New England tourist town. Could this really be a hotbed of organized crime?
He shook his head and shuffled away, not the least bit concerned about the information he’d just given me.
I’d worry about that later, I supposed. With the kids in tow, I dropped our purchases off at the car. Then we cut through Market Street toward the grocery store, passing not one, but two cheese shops along the way.
Huh. I really liked cheese.
A truck passed us, the driver honking, and two cyclists waved from the road.
“Are these people okay?” Ellie asked, her lip curling with derision.
“I think people just wave here,” I offered weakly, though I was equally confused by the hospitality.
The grocery store looked like a cottagecore film set. The flower boxes out front were overflowing with blooms, and there was a whimsical hand-painted sign featuring a smiling maple leaf waving hello.
“This place is strange.” Scanning the storefront, Julian pulled his noise canceling headphones over his ears.
We had a well-established grocery store routine, and step one for my son was donning the headphones. Grocery stores were sensory overload for a neurotypical person, but for Julian, who was sensitive to noise, visual clutter, temperature changes, and bright lights, it was a battle.
I pulled a bright yellow shopping cart from the corral and wheeled it inside, instantly finding myself surrounded by twinkly string lights and overflowing baskets of produce.
“Welcome to Sugar & Sprout Market,” a middle-aged woman wearing a headscarf chirped. “I’m Emma and I’m so pleased to meet you.”
I gave her a tense smile. How was it that the kinder these people were, the more on edge I became?
“The new teacher?” she asked. “From Maine?”
I nodded. Did I really want to give this stranger details about my personal life?
“We are so grateful you’re here.” There were a few other shoppers around, though none of them were close, so Icouldn’t tell if she was using the royalweor if she was referring to the voices in her head.
Julian pushed his headphones down, his focus fixed on the floor in front of him. “Do you have ice cream?”
His sweet voice interrupted my anxiety spiral, cutting through the concerns about all these unfamiliar people knowing who I was and what I did for a living.
I rested my hands on his shoulders and bent forward, reminding him to make eye contact.
“We sure do,” Emma said. “We also have a reading nook and a little free library.”
Maggie’s eyes widened, and I swear hearts danced above her head.
“And what do you think about trying our newest blackberry jam?”