The Checklist by Addie Woolridge (color ebook reader TXT) 📗

was to keep things as brief as possible. Grab conchas at the bakery and wander the market. An hour in and out. Dylan hoped the act of walking would loosen everyone up. Nicolas could be funny, and if she could catch the right situation, her family would see that. By the same token, the market was packed with artists and artisans making a living with their crafts. If she was lucky, Nicolas might even observe how people like her parents paid their bills. Then they could finally put the whole tired financial conversation to bed.

“There are a lot of people here.” Nicolas jostled into her, pulling her attention back to the present.

“The market is always crowded on weekends,” Bernice said, slowly herding the group toward the bakery stand.

From the outside, Pike Place seemed entirely composed of tourists waiting for the fish throwers, but a number of locals were always mixed in. For all the standard fare, the sellers at Pike’s always managed to have that one ingredient you couldn’t find anywhere else. A rare spice or a funny cut of meat was easily had here, making it worth a local’s time to brave the selfie sticks. And there were a lot of selfie sticks out today.

Neale perked up. “This is one of the oldest public markets in the country.”

“I didn’t know that,” Henry said, intrigued by Neale’s random factoid.

“Yup! Before the market was built, farmers used to take their goods to wholesalers on Sixth, who would then sell them to consumers at a ridiculous price. Eventually, some corruption was exposed, and it led the farmers to found the market.”

“Interesting,” Bernice said over her shoulder.

“Before World War Two something like two-thirds of the sellers were Japanese Americans. They were forced out, because people are trash,” Neale added, fully leaning into her role as tour guide. “Many of them didn’t recover their stalls.”

“Shameful.” Henry frowned at the nearest stand as they waited in the bakery line.

“Now there are two primary beefs at the market. One is between the crafters and the farmers over space. The other is with the city. The market provides social services and low-income housing that city ordinances frequently threaten,” Neale finished, sucking in a deep breath. “Hi. May I have two orejas? Please.”

“How do you know all this?” Nicolas asked, half smiling as Henry and Bernice placed their orders.

“Neale loves random facts. She learns everything about a subject. Then surprises everyone with this font of information like seven years later,” Dylan said, smiling up at her sister before turning her attention to the woman taking orders. “Hi. How are you?”

“Good. What can I get for you?”

“Concha and a coffee, please,” Dylan said, her attention pulled between the woman behind the counter and her sister’s explanation of which books she’d read on the history of the market.

“Same as her,” Nicolas said, gesturing to Dylan, then turning back to Neale. “You sure read a lot. Of course, you have the time.”

Neale’s forehead wrinkled, as if searching for a way to see reading as a bad thing. When she found no logical explanation internally, she asked, “What do you mean?”

Despite the roughly five thousand people surrounding them, Dylan was convinced the entire market could hear a pin drop, her family was so still.

“You have a lot of time on your hands given your career.” Nicolas chuckled and walked away from the counter to let Henry pay.

“What is wrong with you?”

For a heartbeat, Dylan believed she had only thought the words. At least until Neale smiled at her, and Nicolas stopped smiling.

“What do you mean?” He phrased the question exactly how Neale had a few moments prior, but the words were menacing. Neale’s smile was replaced with one of abject disgust as Nicolas’s neck began to turn the color of a rare steak.

“All the information Neale shares, and you decide to pick apart her career?” Dylan could not make herself back down. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Henry paying, his eyebrows dancing up his forehead.

“I was joking, babe.”

“No, you weren’t. You thought you were slick. Couching cheap shots in a joke,” Dylan said, shaking her head and starting a brisk walk back toward the parking lot.

Nicolas blinked at her for a second before pulling even with her shoulder to answer. “What has gotten into you? You always say your family is not normal.”

Dylan tried not to shove people out of the way as she made for the exit. Checking over her shoulder, she could see her parents and Neale exactly five feet back, doing the worst acting jobs of their lives. If this was how they pretended not to eavesdrop, she would hate to see them onstage.

“I can say that because I say it with love. They are my family.”

“Babe, I like them too.”

Dylan snorted.

“I’m thinking about you. Do you want them siphoning off your 401(k) when they get old?”

“Siphoning?” She bit back a response about her parents’ money and focused on the real problem. “What I wanted was for you to try, just a little,” Dylan said, reaching the entrance to the market. “I wasn’t even asking for charm, just kindness and a modicum of respect.” Her voice rose more than she had anticipated. Nicolas hated for her to speak too loudly in public, and she was sure she’d never hear the end of it later.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant that they aren’t really stable. Neale doesn’t even have a job,” Nicolas said, pulling on her arm.

“Nicolas, they are artists. Not war criminals.” Yanking her arm free, she started to fish around in her purse for her keys. “Do you know how much business savvy it takes to be working artists? I’m sorry we can’t all have CPAs for parents. Actually, no, I’m not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nicolas asked, narrowing his eyes.

“For the love of God, your parents go on the same cruise every year. How do they not die of boredom? I know my family is odd. But that is just