Summary: Changes abound when a pretty stranger comes to a tiny town.
Author's Note:
This fictional work is a small town, slow-burn romance with some light humor and some conflict along the way. For any who might ask, it takes place when COVID isn't a concern. ________________________________
Nobody ever moves to Bettleys Corners.
A tiny town in the middle of nowhere, Bettleys Corners is set smack dab in the middle of the American Great Plains where it's flatter than a flitter biscuit for miles on end and raging twisters can drop out of the sky at a moment's notice. The summers are hot and usually dry, and the winters are long, cold, and windy. In short, it's not a place for the faint of heart.
There's only about a thousand people in our whole part of the county and, in addition to the weather issues, there's a good reason for that. There's just not much to do here except farm or provide goods and services to those supporting farmers, and it's a long way to anywhere fun. Big cities like Denver, Kansas City, Wichita, and Omaha are hours away and it takes over thirty minutes to even reach the nearest bowling alley, skating rink, and most everything else down in Creek City.
Yes, people leave Bettleys Corners, few return, and almost nobody comes to stay.
Of course, there are occasional exceptions.
Some of the local boys and girls head off to college and some come back with a spouse in tow. Those have a tendency to stick around.
Two of the construction workers who helped build the county reservoir ended up staying, too. One opened up a little construction company and the other married a local girl. That was well over a decade ago and the guy with the construction company is still here as is the local girl. She's married to him now with the other guy long gone.
I stood outside my hardware store at the corner of Bettley and Main Streets with a broom in my hand looking at the big eighteen wheeler as it pulled away from one of the two traffic lights in town. The name of the moving company on the door of the cab was one I'd never heard of, but it was from New Jersey, according to the line written just below the company name. There was no name on the trailer, but the plate on the back was from Jersey, too.
"Somebody's lost," I mumbled to myself as it headed up the road. I finished sweeping and went back into the store, wishing I had customers, or better yet, a buyer.
I was one of the equally rare exceptions; I'd escaped from Bettleys Corners but returned. After college and grad school, I'd gotten a good job, traveling the world as an engineering consultant based in Chicago. There was an engagement for several years, but whether it was the frequent travels or the lack of commitment on either of our parts, that eventually fell through.
Then, when Dad died, Mom took over the hardware store but it was too much for her, so I came home for a few weeks to help her sell it before starting a new job in Arizona. She got sick before we could find a buyer and over eight years later, I was still here with Mom long buried, the store still up for sale, my current girlfriend (if you could call her that) over a hundred miles away, and my dream of Arizona still as distant as ever.
There were a handful of customers during the day but the store was empty when closing time rolled around so I locked up promptly at 6 and was about to walk home when I heard it, the same tractor trailer as that morning. I watched as it approached and went through the green light. The driver and the guy in the passenger seat both looked hot, with the passenger fanning himself with his cap.
I briefly wondered where they'd been and who was moving out since nobody ever moves to Bettleys Corners.
***
It was a few days later when the front bell tinkled as someone entered the store.
I came forward from where I was working in the rear to see a tall woman dressed in blue jeans and a light-tan t-shirt looking at a display. The shirt was tucked in, making it rather form fitting, and a fit form it was. Even wearing flats, she was at least 5'-10, just a few inches less than my 6'-2. Lots of dark, brown hair cascaded almost halfway down her well-defined back. I was smiling as I approached.
"Good morning, ma'am. May I help you find something?"
She turned toward me to reveal a pretty face with beautiful, dark brown, doe eyes, perfect teeth in her smile, and flawless skin that would have made a Victoria's Secret supermodel jealous. A pair of dark sunglasses sat atop her head.
I smiled at her and would have enjoyed the view longer but she replied, "No thanks, just browsing." She turned back toward the display, putting an end to further discussion and polite observation.
Early to mid-thirties, maybe? I might have attempted to refine my guess on her age but the bell tinkled again, drawing my attention. My great uncle, Horace Bettley, was entering the store. He waved, suppressing a yawn as he stepped behind the counter to get a cup of coffee.
"Hi, Uncle Horace, how's it going today?"
"Fine, fine, Alan. Looks like it's going to be another hot one today."
"Yes, sir. It's Bettleys Corners; what else can you expect?"
"So true. Course it's not Arizona hot..."
Somewhat like James Garner planning to go to Australia in that comedy western, I'd always wanted to live in Arizona and had been planning to move there to take a new job when Mom's call came. Like Garner's character in the movie, I still talked about moving to Arizona at times, so Uncle Horace tended to remind me about the grass not always being greener on the other side.
"So what's your plan for today?" I asked the elderly man as I poured a cup for me.
"Oh, 'bout like usual, I expect, but I do have one piece of news. Final numbers on the fundraiser are in. We made just over $1,900 in profit this year. Final report on Monday."
"That's not so bad."
"Yeah, I guess," he grumbled. "Almost two bucks a resident, but if we could do something bigger to draw people in from beyond the county line, like back in the old days, it wouldn't take years to get stuff done."
"You can only do so much, Uncle Horace."
I looked at the old man. He was well over 80 with a ring of white hair around his bald head. Lines covered his face and he walked with a slight stoop, always carrying his oak cane with the brass tip and the brass buffalo head on the handle.
Horace Bettley, the great great grandson of our town's founder and my late grandmother's older brother, was a fixture around town, often wandering from business to business to talk with the shop owners and townspeople before heading to the little park at the southwest corner of the original Bettley's four corners where the roads crossed, right across from my store, meeting up with several of the other elderly men to spend the day in leisurely pursuits, coming across the street into the store when they needed to use the restroom or buy a cup of pop at the soda fountain.
"Alan, since ya' mentioned it, that's something I wanna' talk to you about."
"What's that, sir?"
"Son, I'm gettin' on up there and may not have too many more good years left. Hate to say it, but this year's fundraiser took a lot out of me. What would you say to standing for grand poobah in the next election?"
There was a loud snort from a couple of aisles away, followed by a coughing spell. I looked up at the overhead mirrors to see my lone shopper wiping her nose. "Excuse me!" she said before stuffing the tissue in her pocket and putting another item in her basket.
"It's not a hard job, Alan. Hell, I've been grand poobah for almost all of the past ten years or so since Delmer died and served quite a few more times before that. The only hard part's the annual fundraiser, and that's just once a year."
"But it takes months to get ready for it and everybody gets pissed if it isn't successful!"
"True, but you can do it, son, and it won't be that much of a problem for you since you already close the store early on Mondays."
"Uncle Horace, I can't," I said, and then I played my trump card. "I came home to Bettleys Corners to help Mom and then sell the store after she died. True, I've never been able to find anyone to buy it
yet
, but I still don't want to do anything to tie myself down in case I get a seller. After all, I'm still moving to Arizona."
He shook his head knowingly, having heard that more times than I'd prefer to admit. "Hotter 'n hell fire in Arizona, boy. Yeah, we get a twister a few times a year but that heat, it's every damn day. You oughta' think on that, son, and think about standing in the election. After all, it's only a few months away."
He extended a hand and I took it, helping him up out of the chair. "Well, gotta' go. Gonna' tell everyone 'bout the result and see if I can drum up some support for your campaign."
"But Uncle Horace," I protested again to his back as he walked away. "I haven't said I'd run!"
He gave a little wave off with his free hand and said without looking back, "No, but if we wait 'til you decide, son, ya' won't have time to campaign."
He shambled out the door without another word and was off to the next shop. I watched him through the front window, thinking about what he'd said, but the clearing of a shapely throat drew my attention.
The woman was standing in front of the counter, the basket in her hand. "I'm ready to check out now," she called.
I rang up a claw hammer, a pack of small wire nails, a box of 8d nails, a roll of duct tape, and a can of WD40. My eyes opened wider when I saw the last two. With a grin, I asked, "You're not an engineer, are you?"
Her face hardened and her eyes, so dark and lovely moments earlier, glared at me as if a tempest. "No, but I've heard the stupid joke enough."
Taken aback, my own face fell as I looked at the register. "Ahem, that will be $21.97."
