Page 43 of Playing Dirty
Now, I was starting to realize that version of him didn’t exist. Not really.
Perhaps the version ofmethat believed in him didn’t either.
I was halfway through drafting a “friendly” reminder to our customer service rep about the cracked box of cleaning supplies when a light knock landed on the doorframe. Emma stood there, beaming like she was carrying good news in her purse.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything too exciting,” she said, already stepping inside with her tote bag slung over one shoulder and a digital tablet tucked beneath her arm.
“Only if you count billing discrepancies and expired freezer burritos exciting,” I said, pushing back from the desk. “What’s up?”
“I was just over at the Historical Society and thought I’d stop by. I’ve been working on the exhibit for the centennial—Lovelace: Then and Now—and of course, I have to include the market. I mean, it’s been a staple in this town longer than most of us have had birthdays.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “Seriously? You want to feature us?”
Emma dropped her tote on the guest chair and grinned. “Absolutely. This place has been the heartbeat of Main Street for almost a hundred years. Frontier Market is the perfect example of how the town’s grown and changed. I figured you might have some fun facts or materials tucked away in the office that I could use.”
“Wow. Yeah, sure—have a seat.” I stood and moved toward the old coffeemaker in the corner. “You want a cup?”
“Love one,” she said, settling into the chair like she had all the time in the world.
I poured us both a cup—hers with sugar, mine black—and handed hers across the desk before sitting back down.
She took a sip and started flipping through the papers she pulled from her tote. “I’m pulling together photos, historical notes, and maybe some artifacts. A few folks donated old receipts, newspaper ads, and other things like that. You wouldn’t believe the gems I’ve found.” Then she brightened. “Oh! Let me show you this.”
She pulled out her phone and tapped a few times before turning the screen toward me.
It was a photo, sun-faded and slightly blurry, of the old storefront, back when it was still called Bart’s Market. Wooden benches out front. A hand-painted sign hung above the door. Two kids with soda bottles sat on the curb, legs kicked out and grins as wide as summer. One of them looked suspiciously like a young Colt Bennett.
“Hard to believe it’s been almost a decade,” Emma said. “Before Frontier came in and corporatized everything.”
I smiled, but something tugged at my chest. “I remember that sign. And that window used to get foggy in the winter—you could draw pictures on it with your finger while your mom shopped.”
The memory hit unexpectedly. Sharp. Sweet. And kind of sad.
That place in the picture… it felt more honest. Like it belonged to the people who lived here—not some boardroom in another state. Somewhere along the line, the store had lost that.
Maybe I had, too.
“I’d love to include something current to show the contrast,” Emma went on. “If you could get a signed letter from corporate listing the current management and maybe a short write-up on the store’s presence in Lovelace, I can frame it next to the photo.”
“Sure,” I said, nodding slowly. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Wonderful.” She jotted a note in her tablet, finished her coffee, and stood with that same bright smile. “I’ll swing back by later in the week. Thanks again, Callie. This is going to be a beautiful addition.”
I walked her to the door, and as I turned back toward the desk, the image on her phone lingered in my mind: that hand-painted sign, the foggy windows, the feeling that things used to be simpler—and maybe a little more true.
Maybe that’s what bothered me the most—the difference between what was real and what looked good on the outside.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind Emma, I sank back into my chair. I reopened my laptop, pulled up the contact list for the Tucson office, and located the number. It was time to take care of this letter.
The line rang twice before a woman answered. She sounded cheerful and unbothered, like someone who’d had a full cup of coffee and no idea how heavy the world could be. I explained the exhibit Emma was working on, said we needed an official letter listing store management, and offered to write the draft myself.
“Oh, that sounds so fun! We can do the letter,” she said brightly. “We’d love to be part of something like that. But if it’s going to be displayed, it’ll need an actual signature from your regional manager. We don’t do digital for public-facing stuff like that.”
“Okay,” I said, grabbing a pen. “So that would go to Matt?”
“Yep, we’ll route it to him for sign-off.”
I leaned back in my chair, forcing my voice to stay casual. “I thought he was doing training in Tucson?”
