Memory Tree by Joseph Pittman Page B

to the gazebo at the last minute, darting across the street to the local grocery store, named Marla and Darla’s Trading Post. She might as well pick up some basics like milk and eggs, since the fridge at Richie’s was running low on supplies. As she approached the store, she noticed two dogs lazily hanging out on the front porch, both of them golden retrievers, near twins. The smaller snouted of the two cocked its head and gave her a curious look.
    â€œHey, pooch,” she said.
    â€œThat one’s Baxter,” said a voice, seemingly from nowhere.
    Trina turned to see a large-framed woman standing in the doorway, holding it open either in greeting or forewarning; her bland, humorless expression didn’t reveal much.
    â€œAnd the other?” Trina asked.
    Before the woman could reply, another woman who looked exactly like the first one loomed. From their hairstyles, if you wanted to call them that, to their blue-gray flannel shirts, these women were exact matches. The dogs weren’t far off, each with a red bandanna tied around its neck. Should call this place Noah’s Trading Post.
    â€œThat’s Buster, his father.”
    â€œOh, well, hello to both. So, uh, are you open?”
    â€œNeed milk, chips, that kind of stuff?” the second woman said.
    â€œOr some nice trinkets, postcards, that kind of stuff? Got Christmas cards in finally.”
    It was like this was a competition and Trina’s business the prize. Trina wasn’t sure at the moment what she wanted. “Perhaps I’ll have a look around, thank you.”
    â€œI’m Marla,” the first woman said.
    â€œSo that makes you Darla, I suppose.”
    â€œCould be,” she replied.
    This definitely had to be the strangest encounter she’d endured since arriving in Linden Corners. Why hadn’t Richie warned her about the eccentric twins? They seemed well versed in how to react to what the other was saying, jumping on the next sentence like they were playing a continual game of one-upmanship, with Trina their token game piece. No matter, she wasn’t going to linger long, so as the door opened wide to let her enter, she found Marla’s—or was it Darla’s? she was all confused now—eyes watching her every move as she looked around.
    One side of the store was a basic convenience mart, with a dairy case, soda cooler, bread and cheese, the essentials you tended to run out of more than other household items, and it was certainly easier to stop in here than traveling miles down the highway to the big grocery chain over in Hillsdale. Or was it? she thought, catching Marla or Darla staring at her and rethinking her need for milk. Richie liked it in his morning coffee, and so she grabbed a quart and a few other items that sprung to her mind, bringing them to the counter.
    â€œYou’re not even going to look at the other side of the store?”
    Trina turned around to see one of the two women pointing toward the rack of postcards that seemed to act as a divider between the grocery store and the so-called trading post, whatever that really was. Looked like other people’s junk, she guessed from this distance, like a perpetual yard sale. Just then she saw an older man emerge from the shelves in the back, shuffling along the floor with a scrape of his shoe.
    â€œOh, don’t let them get to you, my dear. They played this same game with me last year.”
    Trina attempted a response and found she didn’t have one. Instead, she reached into her purse for cash to pay for her purchases, hoping to make a quick exit.
    â€œName’s Thomas Van Diver,” he said, “and I’m guessing you’re Trina Ravens.”
    â€œUh, oh, actually, it’s Winter. Trina Winter. How . . . how do you know me?”
    â€œWell, Nora described you to Gerta, and Gerta and I were sharing stories at the Edge.”
    Who was this Gerta, and what was the Edge other than that rocker who