Bluegrass Hero. Allie Pleiter

“Now look here, Mr. Sorrent. I don’t claim to know how to run your farm, so I’ll thank you not to tell me how to run my shop. If those grown men come in here asking for soap, then I’ll sell them soap.”

      He stared at her, a little surprised.

      “I’ve given this a lot of thought,” she continued, emboldened by the fact that he hadn’t yet jumped down her throat. “I think the best thing for all concerned is for that soap to be in their hands. Disappointing them. I turned down their offers to pay all kinds of wild prices. And I made it mighty clear that the soaps would do nothing but remove grime.”

      Sorrent swung his weight onto one hip. “And you really think that sunk in?” It wasn’t exactly an agreement, but it was better than the tirade she’d expected.

      “Well, not yet.” His eyes narrowed to near slits but she continued anyway. “But if I’d held those soaps back, it’d be as bad as endorsing the rumor that they do something special. You and I both know they do nothing special, so the best thing for everyone is to get those soaps out, used and gone.”

      He crossed his arms. “No good can come of this.”

      “Nonsense. I think just the opposite. By tonight, you’ll have the cleanest, most pleasant-smelling farmhands you’ve ever had. And any and all rumors of Lord Edmund’s Pirate Soap and its unique abilities will be dead and gone.”

      He gave her a look that let her know just what he thought of that prediction. She smiled at him and held her ground. And then he surprised her. “My niece, by the way, went gaga over whatever it was that you picked out for her. Thanks.” He didn’t quite smile, but his expression edged toward a reluctant pleasantness, if you could call it that.

      “You’re welcome.”

      “Which makes me think you’re a smart businesswoman, so would you mind telling me what you’ve got against ATM machines?”

      Ah, so he had read her letter to the town council. “I have nothing against automatic teller machines, when they’re where they belong.”

      “And where’s that?”

      “In banks. Grocery stores. Theme parks. But not on four different Middleburg street corners. Honestly, it’s a four-block walk to the one at the bank. Now we’ve got to have them mounted on the streets like parking meters?”

      “People today don’t carry cash around. We’re in the age of the debit card, Ms. Montague, and we’d best figure that out sooner rather than later.”

      “Tell me, do you think people come out here to escape the city, or to see an ATM at every turn? It’s the parking meters and ATMs and bustle that they’re running away from when they come here. They don’t want a drive-through with burgers and fries, they want apple pie and coffee. I’m not against technology, Mr. Sorrent. I just don’t want to be accosted by it on every street corner.”

      He turned and looked out the window. “Four is not one on every street corner.”

      “We’re not a big town. Ballad Road’s downtown is just a few blocks long. The bank’s smack dab in the middle of it. We can’t expect the average American consumer to walk four blocks? I don’t know about you, but I like to think of my customers as a mite more capable than that.”

      “It’s a convenience thing.”

      “It’s just as much about town atmosphere as it is convenience. And tell me, have you given any thought to who it is that pockets all the service fees for those ugly little machines? And have you seen them? They’d look like giant metallic mushrooms sprung up on our street.”

      She had him there. “I grant you, they’re not very artistic,” he agreed, “but they’re cash machines, not sculpture.”

      “Our streetlights are streetlights, but they still look nice and fit the character of our town.” Emily crossed her arms over her chest.

      Sorrent shifted his weight to the other hip and scratched his chin. “What if there were only two—one at each end of the town farthest from the bank? And what if I talked Howard into putting you in charge of selecting the design and the mounting?”

      She was about to let him know that two ATMs was two too many when he held up a finger and added, “And what if twenty-five percent of all the profits went to the town beautification fund?”

      Emily fiddled with her register buttons for a moment as Sorrent watched her. She’d lost a sale last week when the couple buying dish towels didn’t have enough cash and didn’t want to use their credit card. She’d told them where the ATM was, and they said they’d walk down there and come back for the towels, but they never did.

      And she’d get to choose the design. Not Howard Epson, who couldn’t be counted on to choose red paint for a barn, much less a piece of public structure. And Howard would be forced to donate one quarter of his profits to the beautification fund—the fund that paid the extra money for those particularly lovely streetlights.

      Choose your battles, Emily’s mother always said. Know what hill you’re willing to die on and why. Sometimes your goals planned your solution, and sometimes your solution planned your goals.

      “Mr. Sorrent, you’ve got yourself a deal.”