It was a bright fall day in the Catskills village: cerulean sky, turning leaves, postcard perfect in every way. The historic white clapboard house that served as the mercantile couldn’t have been more picturesque. The film of dirt on its dark green shutters and the sagginess of its porch simply added to its patina. Though Belle hadn’t been here in twenty years, she remembered both like it was yesterday. Unease and weariness fought within her as she slammed the car door shut and tipped her two hundred dollar sunglasses on top of her straight brown hair. For good measure, she buttoned the smart tweed jacket she wore over her tastefully worn blue jeans. Her feelings might not be as buttoned-up as she wanted, but she could damn well look as if they were. The General Store’s wood front steps creaked the same as ever when she climbed them in her vaguely equestrian-style boots. Inside, she found the usual mix of practical supplies for locals and tourist crap. Because the tourist crap was dusty, Belle concluded that segment of Kingaken’s economy wasn’t flourishing.
