Chapter 32
Ali
Iwas back at the store early, letting myself in before the bell of the front door had a chance to announce the day. It was a time that had become sacred. A time to think. To reflect. To dance around the store like it was my happy place.
Once opened, the store hummed with a steady stream of customers from open to close.
Nothing like the day I crash-landed here.
The Lakeside Corner Market had started to feel less like a small-town shop and more like the early days of the Barefoot Contessa in the Hamptons—charmed, artisanal, and bustling.
Inside, it felt like stepping into Germany’s Black Forest. I borrowed from the streets of Gengenbach and the elegance of Baden-Baden. Every curated display, hand-lettered label, and local good was meant to feel intentional. Part of a bigger story. Wildflowers at the center of it all.
Even the cuckoo clocks on the walls, imported from that region, highlighted the wildflowers. Ornately carved and impossibly precise, they ticked a steady heartbeat through the shop—one that made Lakeside feel a little magical.
That had been the aim all along. To capture the magic I’d first felt here with Gibby.
In Gibby’s world, small town didn’t mean dull. It meant always running into someone who knew your name. And knowing the shape of each other’s lives. Yes, that sometimes tipped into nosy—but more often, it felt like care. Like community. Like love.
Gibby had been known here. Seen. Supported. Adored.
She’d belonged to this place. Belonged in it. Just like me?
That thought. It startled me every time it sprang into my head like an obnoxious student shooting her hand into the air, desperate to be called on. Impossible to ignore. Pick me as your new complicated thought to keep you awake at night.
I didn’t want to acknowledge it because all the questions would follow. Because if, like Gibby, this was my place and these were my people, what did that mean for me?
Wouldn’t settling here mean just that? That I was settling? Retreating to a small life because I couldn’t make it in the big leagues? Failed to launch, or maybe it was more launched to fail? Either way—it was failure.
This was supposed to be my soft place to hide out. Not where I’d expected to find a home. Friends. Love. Jake.
“Ali. Where you at, girl?” a voice hollered from the back. Impossible. She was still recovering.
The scrape and click of titanium crutches jerked down the aisle. “Oh, there you are!” She was out of breath and looked disheveled, her hair not quite as neat as usual. Her face was flushed. She leaned on the right crutch heavier than the left.
“Betsy! What are you doing here? You still have a few weeks off. Here, let me help you.” I reached to help her, but she shooed me away with swipes of her arms. Her wrist was obviously mended.
“Don’t treat me like a child—or an invalid. I’ve been getting quite enough of that from my crabby big brother, thank you very much.” That would explain the agitation.
“At least let me get you a chair. Crutches are tiresome, no?” I wheeled the office chair out into the store and launched into one of my stories to distract her as she calmed down.
“I once sprained my knee skiing in the Swiss Alps—oh my God, the rescue team on that mountain! Betsy, if you could have seen them. True mountain men.” I helped Betsy ease into a more comfortable position.
“I got distracted by something, and whoop, went over the edge into a drift of fresh powder—”
I stopped. Betsy’s brows knitted together. She looked . . . angry? Concerned?
“What’s going on, Betsy? Did I mess something up?”
She sighed. “Reach into my bag. Take out the magazine.”
It was a slick Sunday Tribune business insert. The kind fanned out in waiting rooms at doctors’ offices.
“What’s this?”
“You tell me. You’re in it.”
A flicker of excitement. “I didn’t pitch anything to them.”
“Flip to the dog-eared page.”
I flipped it open and froze. A full-bleed photo of Cary, Ryan, and Dylan Glenn stretched across the spread under the headline: “Seeds of Success: How a Corporate Powerhouse Helped a Small Town Bloom.”
My name appeared halfway into the story.
“Redirected from behind the desk and into Lakeside.”
Working for them. Improving Lakeside for them. Their strategy. Their vision. Their credit.
I snapped the magazine shut.
This couldn’t be happening.
Tears burned. Pressure crowded my throat. Heat climbed my spine. My skin felt too tight for my body.
Panic.
I bent over and braced my hands on my knees.
Inhale. Two. Three. Four.
Hold. Two. Three. Four.
Exhale. Two. Three. Four.
Hold.
Jake’s box breathing. It worked.
Slowly, I straightened. Let my lungs fill. Lifted my chin.
Betsy watched me.
I searched her face for the usual signs—doubt, suspicion, disappointment, dismissal.
But they weren’t there.
“You know this is a lie, right?”
“Is it?” She cocked one brow.
My face dropped. Just for a second. A reflex.
I continued to stand tall.
“Of course it is.” My voice took flight—a skier launching from a jump. This time I was going to have a sturdy landing. With clarity and strength.
After all I’d been through and all the ways I’d become more myself while here in Lakeside—these assholes. This article. I wasn’t going to let them take it away. Least of all Betsy’s hard-won trust.
“I am not here on their behalf.” More conviction. “They threw me out like a used pizza box. I have nothing to do with them.” My words were focused, unwavering.
She paused. Then nodded.
“Atta girl!” A smile that held pride stretched across her face. “I know you have nothing to do with those jerks.” She nodded and rested her chin on her hand, elbow propped on the chair arm. Relaxed, but also certain.
“You’ve been working your tail off for us since the moment you walked into this town. I just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t let them knock you down again, eh? I like to see the fire in you roar.”
We were interrupted when the back door slammed hard enough to rattle the glass vases on display in the center of the store.
“Those motherfuckers!” Misha barked as he stormed toward us. “Apologies, Betsy. You may wish to shield your delicate ears. I’m about to dredge the English language of its filthiest depths.” His words rushed out of him.
“Good,” Betsy said calmly. “You can say ’em for me.”
He pointed at her like a prosecutor. “You do not for one millisecond believe that GlennGlobal-sponsored fiction, do you? Because my baby girl would neh-ver.” His hands flew up, conducting an invisible orchestra of fury.
“This is a hit piece. A clumsy, pathetic character assassination ill-conceived by out-of-touch men who have the moral flexibility of overcooked pasta.”
“Misha—”
“These man-children seem tragically unaware that our Ali does not wither under this kind of false narrative.” He jabbed his finger toward the floor. “She reorganizes the fucking garden.”
“Misha, you don’t have to convince me. I’m on your side. I mean Ali’s side—whatever. I agree with you!”
He blinked aggressively. Reset.
“Oh. Well. Course you do.” He pressed his fingers to his chest and shifted his hip out.
He waved a dismissive hand and began pacing. “How dare they take credit for her ideas. Her work. Her brilliance. Fuck those motherfuckers.” He exhaled in a burst. “Okay, I’m done.” A pause.
“Well. Actually,” he continued to Betsy. “What are you doing out of bed? Aren’t you still convalescing, my dear?”
“Carl, and his too-tight panties, came with the article this morning. As soon as he had his back turned, I made a run for it.”
“Ooh, girl. You’re going to be in so much trouble.”
Betsy grinned. “I know. Can’t wait.”
They fist-bumped, and Misha turned to me. “Anyway. Are you okay?” Misha grabbed my arms and pulled me in for a hug.
“I cannot believe this garbage. They’re . . . They’ve . . .” He paused. Collected his thoughts. Looked me directly in the eyes with a steady, unblinking gaze. “Alison Unicorn Mermaid Sparkle Pants Bennet, do not shut down. They wronged you. You did nothing to deserve this.”
The anger reserved for GlennGlobal and for the article simmered in my belly. But also a new feeling rose in me. One I didn’t have words for quite yet.
Then a knock. This time from the front window. It was Marjorie, Maggie Jo, Stacy, and Eric. I unlocked the front door and let them slip in, apologizing to the line of customers waiting to enter.
“How are you? What can we do to help?” Marjorie asked. It was clear they too had seen the article.
I adjusted myself. Rolled back my shoulders.
Ready to defend myself. But when I looked down the line of my friends, I didn’t see an inquisition brewing there either.
My new friends. My community. They were a stone wall of .
. . support. These people were here to prop me up.
Is this what it felt like to be loved and supported unconditionally?
“Who do they think they are?” Stacy asked with a bite to her tone.
“They can’t get away with this,” Marjorie added.
I stayed mostly silent other than the occasional whimper of emotion that tumbled out as a breath hitched. These reactions were unexpected.
I wanted to offer a solution. Some way to take GlennGlobal down.
The moment called for a motivational speech.
A brilliant solution. But I was at a loss.
Knowing what I knew about the company. The Glenn family.
The power within those walls. The vitriol.
The lies. The damage to communities. It all felt too huge. Too heavy.
I pressed my lips together, closed my eyes.
“I think the damage is done. I don’t know what we can do to undo this.” I shrugged—a weak gesture but all I could muster.
The air had shifted, and somehow I knew who it was before I even saw him.
I opened my eyes to find Jake. He must have come in from the back with a gentler entry than Misha.
He was always gentle but steady. Exactly the energy I needed in this moment.
His expression was unreadable, though. His flexed arms crossed his chest, closing him off from me. Concern was written all over his face.
I smiled timidly and walked toward him.
Please meet me halfway. Please already know. Please don’t abandon me.
His arms dropped. He took a couple of steps. Opened his arms. The space I needed. Right there. Against his chest. Under his chin. It absorbed me. Comforted me. Calmed me.
He kissed the top of my head and whispered, “You got this.”
“I suspected it all along. Where is everyone? Betsy?” It was Carl coming in from the back, the sound of his grump bringing me back to reality.
“Carl Kettering! Did you follow me here?” Betsy shouted.
“Betsy, you move at a snail’s pace. It wasn’t hard,” Carl retorted with squinted eyes—a big brother talking down to his little sister. Then he pointed aggressively at me.
“You. I knew you were no good for this town. You’re a puppet for that company. A phony.”
He raised his arms and pivoted around our group. “Are you all happy now? She swung the door to Lakeside wide open for those greedy bastards.”
Stopping in front of me again, he said, “You think you’re so clever with your fancy marketing and big ideas.
I could see right through it. I knew you would abandon us.
Just like you did Libby. And the Lakeside Libby knew .
. .” His voice cracked with the mention of her name.
He cleared his throat before adding, “It’ll be gone too. ”
I didn’t know Carl even knew Gibby, let alone felt such strong emotions for her. About her.
He pointed at me again as he spoke to the group. “That’s what she does. She abandons. She’ll move on and forget all about us.”
Jake stepped into the space between Carl and me. Stood like a shield. Whatever glare he steadied on Carl silenced him.
“Dial it back, Carl. Now. You do not get to speak to her that way. She has plenty of other bullies to stand up to. She doesn’t need you on that list.” His voice was deep, direct, and very, very serious.
Jake offered no justification. No defense. Just a hard line.
Carl stepped back.
“I’m . . . I’m not a bully,” he stuttered.
“You sure are acting like one, Dumpy.” Betsy’s voice dripped with disappointment.
“I . . .” Carl looked at me over Jake’s shoulder and I looked back. I saw sadness there. In his eyes. A sadness I recognized. Was it for Lakeside? Or something else? Someone else? I thought of Gibby. Maybe because he’d mentioned her. But I could have sworn I saw it right there in his sadness.
A tear streaked down my cheek. Carl blinked. Then turned and walked out.
I reached to touch Jake’s back. He stuck up for me. He chose me. They all had.
Two new figures from the back of the store came into view.
“Dad?” It was unexpected and completely out of context. My father was standing in the Corner Market. He looked tired. I was confused.
“Alison.” My full name lacked warmth in his voice, but it wasn’t cold. Just formal. Typical.
“Dad?” was all I could say in reply. A question. Was he really here? Was this real?
“I don’t understand. What are you doing here? How did you get here?” I asked, looking around. Searching the faces around me for answers.
Jake cleared his throat.
“Your dad and Kathy—” He gestured to the woman standing slightly behind Dad.
It was Kathy, from compliance. From GlennGlobal.
“They were trying to reach you. I met them on your porch. They showed me the article.” He looked between Dad and me, then lowered his voice so only I could hear. “I hope it was the right thing to do.”
I nodded. It was slight so probably not convincing, but I was in a state of confusion and, well, devastation.
The article was a lot to process. But sadly, humiliation and manipulation at the hands of GlennGlobal—that I was used to.
It was the reaction of all those around me that was foreign and perplexing. I was not used to this.
As if the universe had it all timed perfectly, the wall of cuckoo clocks bellowed, jolting me back to the Corner Market sales floor. It was time to open for business. My problems weren’t going to keep life from moving forward.