Falling for Summer by Bridget Essex

hundred more people here than there were when I was a kid.  I notice several new houses along the way, new builds mixed in with the old, but the town center itself is exactly as I remember it, with its little main drag, the ice cream shop (Twirly's!) in the same location, and the green-and-white store front of the general store on the corner. 
    I pull into one of the general store's parking spaces and turn off my car.  I hold the keys in my hand as I look up at the those wide front steps, the front steps that I used to sit on when I was a kid with my little sister, the both of us splitting the amount of penny candy that a dollar could buy us—which was a lot of candy. 
    I take a deep breath, and then I'm out of the car.  I'm going to get some beer, some fresh corn on the cob, if they have it—I remember they used to—and some chips.  I'm up the stairs, and then the same general store bell rings out from the front door as I open it and cross the threshold, the exact same jingle that used to sound when Tiffany and I would come in for our candy. 
    God, that takes me back.
    Gramma Morrie was the already-ancient woman who ran the shop when I was a kid.  I'm a little shocked—and a little in awe—when I open the door and step inside, and she's still there, sitting behind the counter, looking not that much older than she did when I was little and in search of sweets.
    She glances in my direction, and then her eyes widen, and she's getting up off her stool, smiling hugely, pushing her dentures back in her mouth as she pats down her crazy, every-which-way hair that always mesmerized me.
    “Mandy?  Mandy Tedlock?” she asks me with a hoot, hobbling around the edge of the counter to throw her arms around me, not waiting for my response.  “Of course it's you!” she tells me then, giving me a little shake before she lets me go and takes a big step back to take me in.  “My, you're a woman now.  Damn, I'm old,” she tells me with a slight cackle, as she clicks her dentures in her mouth.  “But, hell, you look good!”
    “Thanks, Morrie,” I tell her with a smile.  I'm a little embarrassed at the praise, but then it's Gramma Morrie.  She'd tell me if she thought I looked like shit, and she'd say it exactly like that, so it really is a compliment that she thinks I look good.  “I'm here for some junk food!” I tell her then, making a beeline for the back coolers and the beer beckoning me.  I'm hopeful that she's not going to bring up my sister, but I know better.  I just need to grab the things I want, and then I can pay her in cash and race for the door if she asks too many pressing questions.
    But she starts in on those pressing questions pretty much immediately.
    “Where are you staying?  Since your folks sold your house, which I always thought was a shame, you must be staying at...Lazy Days Campground?” she asks, one brow arched as she grins at me toothily. 
    Gramma Morrie is sharp as a tack.  And she misses nothing.
    “That Summer is a nice girl,” she says carefully, her brow still up.  She didn't wait for me to even answer her.  She glances at me now with her beady eyes, pinning me in place.  “How are you two getting on?” she asks, drawing out the words as she raises a gray brow.
    “We're getting on really well,” I tell her quickly, grabbing a couple of six packs from the cooler.  I snatch two bags of chips off the rickety old shelves (the chips are covered in dust; this is not Gramma Morrie's busy season) and scoop up some unshucked ears of corn from the wooden bin by the door.  “Do you still have popsicles?” I ask her, hoping she'll let it go.
    But of course she won't.
    “You know Summer is one of those queers?” provides Gramma Morrie helpfully.  She's still grinning toothily, and the way she says the word queers bears no malice, so at least that's...good?  I set the beer on the counter in front of her, along with the chips and corn.
    “I do,” I tell her with a