Ezoic
“That’s six,” he said. “You said seven.”
Ezoic
I looked at him.
“The seventh seat,” I said, “goes to whoever is the branch manager of Farmers & Merchants in Millbrook.”
He didn’t move.
“As long as they live in Millbrook,” I said. “Not commuting from the city. Living here. In town. Shopping at the IGA. Eating at the diner. Going to the bake sale.”
“Mrs. Whitaker—”
“Your year’s up in April,” I said. “Mr. Hale will offer you a promotion. Back to Des Moines. Regional something. A big office. A big raise. You’ll be able to buy a lot of suits.”
Brandon was staring at me.
“Or you can stay,” I said. “Rent a house in Millbrook. Learn to grow your own tomatoes. And sit on the board that decides whether this town keeps its bank.”
He looked at his hands. Brown with dirt. Rough now. A blister on his right palm from the hoe.
