The ride into work was not a quiet one.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Whoosh!
Tina had threaded a pair of bungee cords through the truck’s open windows, affixing Rosie haphazardly to the roof. Now the cupcake bobbed and crashed with each bump in the road, letting in every manner of cold wind.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Whoosh!
Tina sang along to Hits of the Eighties, a radio station on her cell phone, calling it therapy for what she had just witnessed.
Harley turned the truck onto Main Street, passing the Mad Hatter tea shop, the Spice Up Your Life spice shop, and the Holy Grounds coffee shop. She stopped in front of Tina’s Treats and put the truck into park.
Tina hopped out of the Chevy and said, standing in the open doorway, “I need you to promise me to be ready at six sharp for the historical society meetin’ tonight. Everybody and I mean everybody important’s gonna be there, and I need to make a good impression for my business.”
“I promise.”
Tina neatened her jack-o’-lantern sweater and dropped her cellphone in her skirt pocket. “And answer your phone every once in a while. Being off-grid is actually not cool, especially when you’re always late.”
Though this was probably true, Harley did not acknowledge Tina’s remark, only said, “I’ll pick you up at five forty-five.”
After waving goodbye to Tina, Harley headed down the narrow alleyway connecting Tina’s Treats with the Henrickson family liquor store, Smoky Mountain Spirits, and parked the Chevy in the loading zone. She lifted a crate of apple brandy from the truck’s bed and entered the store’s back room, a large, open floor plan which included a desk for her laptop, a small kitchenette for making hors d’oeuvres, and a series of shelves for extra storage. After setting the crate on the prep table, she removed a bottle of the brandy and carried it inside the shop’s public area.
The three-story brick building, constructed in 1835, had initially housed Mildred’s, a department store specializing in women’s clothing. Over the last two centuries, the building had transformed from a department store to a doctor’s office, to a restaurant, to a pharmacy, the deed changing hands nearly a dozen times before it came under Harley’s grandfather’s ownership twenty years ago.
The structure retained its original hard wood floors, large storefront windows, and exposed brick walls. With the natural wood shelves and stainless-steel light fixtures, the shop possessed a rustic yet modern appearance, blending the town’s historic roots with its modern-day attraction for tourists.
In the center of the public area, Harley’s grandfather had installed a bar where customers could congregate with a cocktail sample while taking a break from shopping. Over the years, Harley had met many interesting people at the bar, many tourists who shared fascinating life stories as she served them one of her creations. The cocktail menu changed daily based on the season, the fresh ingredients, and her mood that day.
With that in mind, she set a bottle of whiskey on the bar and studied the liquors lining the shelves behind her. She removed a series of bottles and, along with the whiskey, added shots from each to her vintage cocktail shaker. With a cocktail spoon, she gave the concoction a good stir and added the mixture to a series of plastic sampling cups.
“The Autumn Orchard,” she said, naming the drink and garnishing it with an orange peel.
As customers wandered the store, sipping an Autumn Orchard cocktail, hopefully they would feel compelled to purchase a bottle of whiskey, brandy, or moonshine.
Yet something was missing. She glanced around the store. Garlands of colorful leaves hung like streamers from the shelves, the storefront window showcasing copper stills and antique whiskey bottles. Just then a woman passed by the storefront window, her dog pulling her by its leash. The dog wore a black-and-yellow striped sweater with two antennae protruding from a headband on its forehead. A bumblebee dog.
Yes, of course, she thought. Halloween.
After a few moments of searching in the back room, she found an orange wooden bucket painted to resemble a jack-o’-lantern. She returned to the shopping area and filled the bucket with individually wrapped peanut butter cups and pieces of toffee, the perfect accompaniments for whiskey.
Harley glanced at her watch. She had just enough time to unload and stock the remaining bottles of liquor before opening the shop. Afterward, she would sit down at her laptop and print out recipe cards for the Autumn Orchard cocktail that customers could take home with them.
But a draft had seeped into the old building, sending a chill up her forearms, and she decided to build a fire in the potbellied stove. As she knelt beside the stove and added strips of kindling to the growing flames, she realized the previous night’s storm had not only ushered in a cold front but a blanket of newly fallen leaves on the curb. With the fire at a crackling pace, she grabbed her broom from the back room and ventured out onto the sidewalk, sweeping the first of many autumn leaves.