The Mall - Megan McCafferty Page 0,34

desperate I was to find a new purpose, a new plan to fill the next thirty-five days and help me forget that my family had fallen apart.

“Well,” I answered finally. “Do we have time to go to Wood World?”

Drea reached into her bra and pulled out the map.

“Cassie Worthy,” she said with a smile, “I thought you’d never ask.”

18

THE TRUTH

For as long as there was the mall, there was Wood World. Its lengthy motto was carved in—what else?—wood and displayed in the front window.

WE SELL WOODWORK, WOODWORKING TOOLS, WOODWORKING SUPPLIES, WOODWORKING PLANS, AND WOODWORKING KITS FOR THE PASSIONATE WOODWORKER.

“Please tell me one of your exes was a passionate woodworker,” I said.

“Plenty of my exes knew how to passionately work their wood…”

I gagged. Drea hawnked with wicked amusement.

The sign was Wood World’s only form of promotion. And yet, this funny, fuddy-duddy little shop had survived since 1976, when trendier neighbors—a studio offering disco-dancing lessons that turned into an all-Smurf store that turned into the local headquarters of the Tiffany fan club—had died. It was one of those super niche stores that never advertised because their devoted customers wouldn’t shop anywhere else. Three of those devoted customers—all in flannel shirts despite the heat but rolled high enough to reveal their forearm tattoos—were having a very animated discussion.

“As an accent wood, it don’t get much prettier than purpleheart,” said Gray Flannel.

“Only commercial wood in that color,” said Blue Flannel.

“Hard as hickory, but pricey,” said Green Flannel.

“That’s because it comes from the Amazon,” said a heavy-set man with a snow-white prospector’s beard. His flannel shirt was red. He looked way more like Santa Claus than the guy the mall hired every year to play the part for family photos.

“Sylvester,” Drea said as she pretended to examine a birdhouse. “The owner.”

“How do you know his name?” I whispered.

“You seem to forget that I grew up here,” she said, meaning the mall. “And you don’t have to whisper because he can’t hear us over the music.”

After a few minutes of boisterous discussion, the three men in flannel departed with Wood World shopping bags. That left us alone with Sylvester, who hadn’t gotten up from his stool. He hummed along with the John Denver song about country roads that was playing just a little too loud for anyone who wasn’t already half deaf, whittling a block of wood with one of the hundreds of knives of varied sizes and sharpness that were available for purchase. If Sylvester hadn’t so readily evoked the twinkly eyes, merry dimples, rosy cheeks, and cherry nose of the famous Christmas poem, I would’ve been terrified.

“So, what’s our strategy?” I asked Drea.

Drea admired the smooth curves of a cutting board. “The truth.”

“The truth? What do you mean the truth?”

“I mean, the truth,” she said simply. “We tell him we want to pry up the floorboards behind the cash register because we’re on a treasure hunt.”

“Why would he let us tear his store apart?”

“He might not,” Drea said. “But he is an elder. He deserves respect, not bullshit. Plus, he has been on this earth long enough to see right through any scam. So, let’s just be direct. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you had your heart set on seducing him,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. “But I have to warn you, he’s been happily married for fifty-five years…”

I poked her with a salad spoon. She poked me right back with a fork. Our jousting got Sylvester’s attention.

“Can I help you ladies with something?”

His voice was rich and warm and southern by way of the North Pole. It was sweet potato pie and gingerbread. Hummingbird cake and candy canes. Peach cobbler and eggnog.

“Hi, Sylvester,” Drea began, “you don’t know me but…”

Sylvester might have been half deaf, but he definitely wasn’t blind. His eyes got even twinklier when Drea approached his stool.

“Now, you just stop right there, young lady. Of course I know you. You’re Gia Bellarosa’s girl.”

“Drea.” She extended a hand and fluttered her eyelashes girlishly.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I got a feeling it got nothing to do with y’all taking up woodworking as a hobby.”

Drea gave me a pointed look. See? I told you he was no bullshit.

“Well, you see, Sylvester,” Drea began, “my friend Cassie and I— Have you met Cassie?”

I stepped forward and extended my hand.

“How do you do?” I swear I nearly curtsied like a debutante at a cotillion.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Cassie,” said Sylvester, giving my hand a shake.

“We’re on a treasure hunt,” said Drea.

Sylvester