Instead of putting him in his place, she simply smiles and says, “Of course.”
“It’s small,” the man says. “Smaller than I want.” He walks past me like I’m not there and pushes open a door, disappearing behind it. “I don’t really need a kitchen either,” he calls from the other room.
Lennon looks at me and rolls her eyes. “This is why I only list residential properties,” she whispers.
The man reappears. “Rip out the kitchen, put in an office. It might work.”
“The last owner rented the kitchen out to make some extra income,” Lennon says. “She didn’t need a kitchen either.” She smiles.
“Yeah, well, her business didn’t last, did it?” he says, not looking at her.
“What are you going to do with the space?” I ask, mostly because I’m curious, but also because I feel like I’ve already written the story of this storefront, and he is not in it.
“Medical practice,” he says. “Chiropractic. I’m looking to open a second location on this side of town.”
“A chiropractor?” I blurt. “Wouldn’t you rather be somewhere... else?” This space is oozing potential, and he wants to suck all the charm right out of it?
The man frowns, then looks at Lennon. “Is this some sort of reverse psychology or something?”
“Uh, no,” Lennon says. She shoots me a look, and I widen my eyes in a silent apology. I walk to the back of the space and pushthe door open, stepping into the kitchen this guy wants to turn into an office.
Which is a terrible idea, by the way.
I look around the space, mind swirling again, and I overhear him tell Lennon he’s got two other places to see, and he’ll let her know.
Ideas start to form, coming at me at light speed, the kind I couldn’t stop if I tried. I can practically hear the conversation, the laughter, the seating. I can even see the paint color.
And a whole world of possibility.
I haven’t dreamt in such a long time.
Lennon appears in the doorway. “You would make a terrible Realtor.”
I fold my arms. “You’re telling me when you look around this amazing space you think,You know who should move in here? A chiropractor!”
She shrugs. “No. I don’t. It would be a shame not to make it something amazing. The stationery shop was adorable; they just couldn’t make it work. Even with the extra income from a catering company.” She takes a few steps into the kitchen and the door swings behind her. “So what would you put in here?”
“A bakery.” I say this almost without thinking, like the answer to that question was ready and waiting. “With a small-town theme. I’d call it The Porch. Or The Front Porch. Something...”
Lennon’s eyebrows shoot up. “Go on.”
“It would be like... a pause in the middle of all the busyness of the city, you know? A place to encourage real-life interactions. Maybe we wouldn’t even have Wi-Fi.”
“That’s bold,” Lennon says.
“The whole idea would be to...” I search the air for the right words and find them instantly. “Sit, sip, and stay awhile.”
Lennon leans against the metal counter. “Did you just come up with that off the top of your head?”
I shrug. “I’m just making stuff up.” I was always good at daydreaming. Or at least I used to be. I’m so out of practice.
“But it’s good. No wonder your ex-husband can’t do his job without you.” She laughs. “And what would you serve at The Porch?”
“Homemade signature desserts.” I turn a circle in the kitchen. It’s not a large space, but it’s big enough. “The kind you’d find at your favorite farmhouse picnic or church potluck. And there would be sun tea and a fresh-squeezed lemonade stand—oh my gosh, my gram made the best lemonade. She always said it was more sugar than lemon, but that’s what made it so delicious.” I smile at the memory.
I walk back out into the main area, and the pieces of the daydream start to shift, coming together so clearly that I can’t believe it’s not real. “I’d paint everything white and hang white twinkle lights around the whole space. Maybe install a few porch swings for seating, but I’d make it so everyone felt like they were here with friends. Even if they showed up alone.
“Oh! And I could handwrite little conversation starters right on the sleeves of the drinks or the dessert napkins. The menu would change depending on the season, and I’d really focus on elevated versions of the desserts my gram made. She never wrote down her recipes, but I have them all memorized.” I pause, then say quietly to myself, “Sit, sip, and stay awhile.”
