Here's the start of my short story - the rest is in writers forum under "Small Town Love Story." It's light fare, pls let me know if you enjoy, ideas. ////

It was the kind of town that you passed through while you were on your way to bigger things. But it was quaint and tourists seem to like its quiet and relaxing treats as they refueled for the moment. They would experience the main street that had its odd assortment of delights. There was a Vietnamese restaurant and down a few doors, an Italian family pizza restaurant with a nice little kitchen setting. A Mexican restaurant was in the next block. A few shopping places dotted the main street and with its wooden Indian atop the barber pole, Long Reach's Barber and Style enterprise served both men and woman. Zoe's Java Shop was the newest converted place. It was next to an old antique shop where Mrs. Claudia Foerster kept a lot of the old things from people who were leaving Benedictt. The recession had changed things and some people said she kept the town's soul. Many of the old people were dying off and the young people were moving out to seek their fate in the city.

The French Room had Mrs. Foerster's favorite collection of antiques, most of them large pieces of furniture that she had collected over the store's thirty-plus years of existence since her husband's death. She kept the room under lock and key as a testimony to Mr. Foerster's serious aversion to all things French and Continental. Rumor was that Mr. Foerster had been one of the German prisoners kept in the defunct Army camp a few towns away. But as with all rumors, it had died with his death.

It was the day for the tea meeting of the women’s group held at the Foerster Antique Favorites on Main Street. The ladies gathered about the settees, the armchairs, the mirrors, nightstands and an oak sideboard. There were a couple of vanities. a writing table and a Louis XV maple armoire. Mrs. Foerster was especially enamored of the Louis XVII chair that she herself set upon and its matching ottoman. These had been reupholstered in a mauve and red rose fabric. The ladies remarked well on Mrs. Foerster's taste as they usually did when they held their bimonthly meetings of the Benedictt Town Women’s Benevolence Society.

Brenda was in the back of the shop, behind the counter, pouring boiling water from the stove into the second tea kettle. She had just returned a day ago to peddle about, sweeping and dusting items in the main part of the store, located outside the French Room in a rather glorious junky setting.

She was surrounded by lots of porcelain artifacts and old clocks. There were a couple of pedal driven singer sewing machines that had probably survived the town's long-ago millenary industry. There were chair and table sets from kitchens of families who had to leave and plenty of dressers among choice antiques, captain chairs, a caged bird house and heirloom furniture. A number of old black dialing telephones set upon pieces of spotted varnished maple furniture and cedar chests. There were unique art deco mirrors and drop tables.

The antique shop had plenty of old clothes. Mrs. Foerster had let Brenda sort through the clothes and pick out a few things as a way of paying the girl. Before she had left town with her ma a few months ago, Brenda had been paid a minimal part-time salary. Back then, the ma’s arguments with Mr. Potato Head had started to escalate. When he lost his work, he finally lost the control he had on his strong drink. The arguments turned to the beatings and Mr. Potato Head became a vestibule of pure meanness. The time had been worse than the period with Brenda's stepdad. They had left town and stayed with ma's older sister a few towns away, crowded for nearly a year in a small room with the sister’s infant daughter.

Brenda poured the hot water into the kettle of the tea set. It was a strong white porcelain set, hand painted. Mrs. Foerster said it was a Queen Victoria set, another one of her proud items obtained since the death of her austere husband. It made no difference to Brenda as she carefully took the silver tray service into the room and placed it on the "Low Table" next to the first tray before the chattering women.


"Oh, Brenda is back. When did you come in, dear?" asked Ms Halliput. She was in her late fifties like most of the ladies. Mrs Foerster was the oldest in her late seventies and her granddaughter, the web genius from the city, was the youngest in her twenties.

"Look at her, she still has her coat on. It must be chilly in the shop," remarked Ms Tompkins, putting a few sugars in her cup. Brenda remembered Ms Halliput as being with the hospital, Ms Tompkins was new to her and it wasn't her business what she wore.

The seven or eight ladies were prime and polished in their formal business finery. They were all sitting before the low table. Carol, the granddaughter, sat away from them in a near corner, surfing away with her laptop on an ornate writing desk.

However much the ladies differed from each other, they were more the standard sort rather than the odd. They reflected the tone of the town's maturity. With smiles drawn easy from a week of and work and concerns, their relaxation was a careful one and Mrs. Foerster's elegant setting was their due for the business purpose they took up for the month.

"Are you cold my dear?" Ms Tompkins asked.

Brenda smiled at the woman and left the chattering to get back to her duties in the main shop. She hardly knew any of them and gave them no thought as she stood before the old wall mirror admiring the coat Ms Foerster had given her. The old lady had always been nice to her. Next to the mirror were the flapper dress and cloche hat hanging under glass. Ms Foerster was always trying to get Brenda to put on. She had explained it was a dress her own mother had worn.

In the mirror, the down coat she wore was light purple as if it had went through too many machine washings. Brenda rubbed her hands all down the squared-stitched sides and over the rip extending from the pocket on the right side. She had always wanted a down coat, and this one she very much appreciated. To her, it was as good as new because it was hers and it was warm.

Brenda was a plain looking girl. She had finally accepted herself as being unattractive and from what she had seen, it was no big deal that she was probably facing a loveless life. It was funny because in high school. she had lots of girlfriends. It was a simple deduction from the fact that the girls did not at all look like the remarkable TV images of beautiful American life reflected throughout the world. Her friends were all shapes and sizes and she knew she no figure for the flapper dress. Brenda scored her size round and straight and that was that.