Erielle again resisted the urge to hold her hands up to signal that she came in peace. “I only stayed here in the summers, when my parents were working and didn’t have anyplace else for me to go. I’m from Arizona. Well, New York, now.” She waited, but Allison didn’t offer any information of her own origins.
“Mom?” a sleepy voice called from inside the shop.
Erielle looked past Allison to see a small boy coming down the steps into the shop, rubbing his eyes. Erielle looked up. This part of the block had a series of two-story buildings, though the rest of the street had a long, low series of shops. Allison must live above the shop. That must be why she was out and about so early.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to get Hayden his breakfast. Go see who Mr. Duval knows who can fix your oven.” She waved toward the glorified convenience store on the opposite corner..
With that, she went back into the shop, closing the door behind her with a clang of the bell over the entry, swept up her child and hurried upstairs.
Strange way of doing business.
Erielle crossed the street—no traffic—and pushed open a glass door covered with stickers from various radio stations on the top, and metal grates on the bottom. She wondered, when the door rattled, if the stickers were holding the spider-webbed glass in place. The bell over the door cackled instead of clanged, and she looked up to see it no longer had a clapper. The store smelled like sour milk and dust, and she made a mental note not to eat anything from here. She looked over the high counter to a tanned, gray-haired man lording over the room, behind a display of lottery tickets, beneath a display of cigarettes.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Whatchoo want?”
“Nice way to greet customers,” she muttered. “Are you Mr. Duval?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Oh. I’m, ah, Erielle Benoit. I’m Etienne’s granddaughter. I’m living in the house at the end of the street.”
“I know where the house is.” The man narrowed his eyes. “That place is in no shape for the living.”
What an odd way to phrase it. “It’s not terrible, but I am going to need a working stove, and Allison across the street told me you might have a recommendation.”
The old man pushed back from the counter, marginally relaxed. “I know somebody I can send up your way, if I see him.”
It was her turn to frown. “I’m not sure I’ll be there. I’m looking for a job today.”
“You’re Etienne’s granddaughter? I thought she was a big shot off in New York City.”
She considered lying, since she hated to think of herself as someone who didn’t live up to her grandfather’s stories of her. But her life was pretty public these days. He’d find out the truth sooner or later. “Not anymore,” was all she offered. He could work for the rest. “Do you know of anyone hiring?”
He snorted and lifted a lazy hand in the direction of the street. “Barely jobs for people who live here.”
“There’s got to be something. Waitressing, maybe?”
“Hattie at the diner don’t make much in tips as it is.” He looked her up and down. “Biker bar, maybe, but don’t think no granddaughter of Etienne’s wants to be working up there. Rough crowd.”
She held in a sigh. That was what she’d kind of expected, and honestly had hoped she’d have other options.
“You gonna be able to pay? To get your stove fixed?”
“As long as it doesn’t cost as much as a new stove.”
“You might be better off with a new stove,” he muttered.
“Not in the cards.”
“I’ll find you someone who can do it cheap,” he said, his voice gruff.
For some reason, his tone made her feel a little better. “When do you think that might be?” she asked.
He lifted a shoulder. “Dunno. Depends when I see him. Should be today, though.”
She hated not knowing, hated not being in charge of her life, but she supposed she had better get used to it. “Thank you,” she said, and turned on her heel to walk out.
“You’re not going to buy nothin’?”
