Chapter seven: Proposal

Swiggett's General Store was dark, except for a single bank of lights over the meat counter.

"I want to show you something," Fred Swiggett said, pulling Allie Henderson into the dairy locker, a chilled paneled room sealed with a heavy door.

"Very funny. It's freezing in here," she said.

"Wait," Fred said. He dragged a stack of milk crates from the wall, revealing an object covered with a tarp. "Ta-da!" he said dramatically, and whipped off the cover, unveiling a long rectangular sign, emblazoned with "Swiggett's Superette" in red, white and blue letters.

"Well?" Fred demanded.

"Well, what?" Allie said.

"What do you think?"

"It's a sign," she said.

"A sign? It's a heck of a lot more than that. Look," he said, pointing at it. "Superette. No more General Store. We're moving into the modern age. Finally."

"That's nice," Allie said.

"Hey, what's with you tonight?"

"I told you. It's cold in here," she said. She shook her head. "Oh nothing, I'm sorry. I'm having trouble with Jeff."

Fred lifted his eyebrows in an I-told-you-so arch and said, "He needs a man around the house."

"He's got Pop."

"Pop's an old man. Jeff needs a father figure, a man he can look up to."

"And that, I suppose, is you?"

"None other," Fred said, slicking back his hair.

Fred wrapped his arms around Allie. "So what do you say?" he said, nuzzling her neck. "Let's make it official. Tonight."

Allie twisted out of his grasp. "Fred, please," she said. "I want to get out of here. I'm cold. And I've told you before, I can't make any decisions during holly season." She headed for the door. Catching sight of the holly wreaths piled on the floor, she stopped.

"Are these Pop's wreaths? Fred, what are they doing back here?"

"Oh, for crying out loud, Allie. There is no more wreath season. Pop doesn't want to accept that. Neither do you. But that's the truth. How many buyers does Pop have?"

"I don't know. The usual."

"No, not anymore. The big stores are selling plastic wreaths."

"That may be so, but there are still people who like the natural way," she said. "And Radio City still wants its big wreath. That hasn't changed."

"Yeah? Who's going to make it? People aren't going to do it for nothin.' It's the '60s, Allie. People expect to get paid a decent wage." He stopped. "Does Pop even pay minimum wage?"

She shrugged. "Everyone knows you don't get rich making wreaths."

"Exactly my point. You're wasting your time. You know what?" he said, his eyes lighting with excitement. "Come work here. Mabel's not worth the money I pay her. Now, you and I, we'd make a great team."

"Fred, you don't listen," she said, crossing her arms and hugging herself.

"Allie, come on," Fred interrupted. "You're the one not listening. I can't even sell any of the darn things."

She bent down, picked up a wreath and held it up to his face. "Maybe people would buy them if you put them out in the store instead of burying them back here."

"Allie, if it'll make you feel better, I'll put some out right now."

"Fred, don't do us any favors," she said, handing him the wreath. "I told you, I'm cold. I want to go home. Now." She walked out of the dairy locker and into the store.

Fred shook his head and dropped the wreath back on the pile. He paused to admire his sign, and replaced the tarp and crates that concealed it. He left the locker, angrily slamming the door shut behind him. A sign posted on the wall fluttered to the floor. Cursing, Fred bent down to pick it up, and read the boldfaced type:

"Your Rights Under the Fair Labor Standards Act. Federal Minimum Wage. $1.15 an hour, effective Sept. 1, 1961. $1.25 an hour effective Sept. 1, 1963."

"That Mabel! Can't even hang up a sign right," he muttered. "And I've got to give her a raise next year?" He pressed the sign back onto the wall.

"Fred!" Allie called impatiently. He gazed out toward the store, looked back at the poster and studied it, running his finger down the page until he reached a line that said, "For additional information, contact the Wage and Hour Division office nearest you."

Fred smoothed back his hair, a smile spreading across his face. "Here I come, darlin.' "

Next chapter: Betrayal