Chapter 4 - The Aisles of Plenty
The automatic doors of the SuperValu on the edge of town hissed open, admitting a gust of frigid autumn air that made Mara shiver despite the heavy wool coat Everett had insisted on buying her from a children’s boutique down the strip mall before they drove over. She stood just inside the entrance, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the place—the towering pyramids of canned goods, the bright neon lights reflecting off gleaming linoleum, and the rich, complex aroma of roasting rotisserie chickens and fresh bakery bread.
To Mara, who was used to the depressing half-empty shelves of the corner bodega where everything was marked up and past its prime, this was a cathedral of abundance.
“Grab a cart, Mara,” Everett instructed, steering a gleaming chrome trolley out from the nesting row.
“It’s... it’s too big,” she stammered, staring at the deep basket.
“That’s because we have work to do,” Everett said, his expression neutral, though his eyes held a quiet intensity. “Your mother needs groceries. And you need a proper dinner. Start with the basics. What does she like to eat?”
Mara hesitated, her small hands resting on the cool metal handle. For a moment, she looked like a general planning a military campaign with insufficient intelligence. Then, she pointed down the first aisle.
“Soup,” she said decisively. “Chicken noodle. The kind in the red and white can. Mom says it’s the only medicine that works when your chest hurts.”
“Get a dozen,” Everett said.
Mara’s eyes widened. “A dozen? That’s... that’s too many.”
“We have a cart that holds fifty,” Everett replied, walking toward the soup aisle with long, measured strides. “Load them up.”
For the next twenty minutes, the SuperValu transformed under their quiet direction. Mara moved down the aisles with increasing confidence, her initial hesitation giving way to practical necessity. She selected loaves of whole-grain bread, cartons of whole milk, eggs, fresh produce, and a large bag of oranges that she insisted her mother needed for Vitamin C. Every time she reached for a store-brand item to save money, Everett gently substituted the higher-quality version, placing it in the cart without a word of explanation.
As they rounded the corner toward the dairy section, a loud, obnoxious voice cut through the ambient instrumental music playing over the supermarket speakers.
“Well, look who’s slumming it today, Everett.”
Everett stopped the cart instantly. His shoulders stiffened, the relaxed posture he had maintained all afternoon evaporating in a fraction of a second.
Standing by the yogurt displays was Richard Vance, senior partner at Vance & Sterling Capital and one of Everett’s primary competitors in the commercial real estate and distribution sector. Vance was dressed in a tailored cashmere overcoat, a silk scarf knotted casually around his neck, and a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his face.
“Richard,” Everett said, his voice dropping into a register that was dangerously flat.
Vance stepped closer, his eyes darting past Everett to look at the cart. When he saw Mara standing there in a brand-new wool coat holding a carton of eggs, an expression of amusement crossed his face.
“I didn't take you for the charity type, Hale,” Vance drawled, loud enough for half the aisle to hear. “What’s this? A new corporate social responsibility initiative? Or did you finally decide to adopt a tax write-off?”
Mara stepped closer to Everett’s side, her small hand brushing against his trouser leg. She didn't say a word, but her entire body language screamed defense.
Everett looked down at her for a fraction of a second, feeling the sharp, familiar anger rise in his throat—not at Vance, but at the casual, casual cruelty of men who had never known what it meant to count thirty-five cents for a bowl of soup.
“Mind your own business, Richard,” Everett said, his voice cold enough to freeze water.
Vance chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just asking, old man. Just asking. Careful you don't spoil her too much—people like that never know how to appreciate a handout.”
Before Vance could finish his sentence, Everett stepped forward, his tall frame cutting off Vance’s view of Mara completely. The look in Everett’s eyes made the younger executive take an involuntary step backward.
“If you ever speak about a guest of mine like that again, Richard,” Everett whispered, each word clipped and deliberate, “you won't have to worry about our next board meeting, because you won't be able to sit through it.”
Vance’s smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine apprehension. He cleared his throat, adjusted his scarf, and turned sharply down the frozen food aisle without another word.
Everett turned back to Mara, his expression instantly softening as he looked down into her wide, worried eyes.
May you like
“Are you okay?” she whispered.
Everett offered a tight, reassuring smile, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. “I’m fine, Mara. Better than fine. Let’s go pay for these groceries and get your mother home.”
