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opinion or whatever you think the other vendors’ opinions might be.”
    “Glad to help,” I said.
    The two men we approached stood out from everyone else. They looked nothing like market workers, or food truck chefs. They were both in dress pants, dress shirts, and ties. I couldn’t imagine how miserable they were in the heat. I was empathetically relieved that they didn’t wear jackets, too.
    I glanced quickly back and across the parking lot again. Harry still hadn’t moved at all as far as I could tell.
    I gave my full attention to Allison. I was honored to be her “bad guy” if I needed to be. She rarely asked for or needed my help. She was so darn good at everything. It was always great to be Allison. I liked it when I had a rare moment or two of it being great to be me.

Three

    I wasn’t given an opportunity to display my “blunt” skills.
    Though Mr. Lyle Manner and Mr. Robert Ship were nice enough, they were also very formal. I wasn’t used to formal and it made me uncomfortable. Allison introduced them specifically as Mr. Lyle Manner and Mr. Robert Ship, and they didn’t ask that we call them by their first names, so we didn’t.
    Mr. Manner was from a local branch of the American Investors Bank and Trust. He was tall, very thin, with a pointy chin and short, perfectly smooth gray hair. His gray pants were a shade lighter than his hair, and his red tie made a bold statement against all the gray. He reminded me of a photographic special effect that turned the entire worldblack and white and shades of gray except for a few splashes of red here and there.
    Mr. Ship was from the Monson City Business Licensing Division, or MBD for short. He was just barely taller than me and round, with a totally bald head and the most adorable nose I’d ever seen. I wondered if he thought lots of people were cross-eyed because of where their eyes landed when they were talking to him, right on his nose.
    “Ms. Reynolds,” the tall Mr. Manner said to Allison as he looked down at her and she looked up at him, “I understand you don’t feel like you should interfere with your vendors’ bank account decisions, but I assure you, having them all bank at one place, one bank, will make their lives much easier.”
    “Please call me Allison. And I appreciate what you’re saying, but I think you might misunderstand how we do things here. There is no account sharing, Mr. Manner. Each vendor does their own thing. They are individual stall owner/operators. There’s no benefit to them to all bank at the same place because they each have their own accounts, chosen for their own reasons. Perhaps they bank close to their homes, or along the routes they travel. They have to do what’s best for them, individually.”
    They didn’t know Allison nearly as well as I did, of course, so they probably didn’t hear the incredulity in her voice. To her credit, she was toning it down, but I knew what was causing it. How could someone in the banking industry not understand that farmers’ market vendors were individual owner/operators? Everyone was in charge of their own products and their own money. Frankly, it was one of the benefitsof working at the market. Bailey’s offered us a location, but we still got to have our own businesses.
    “All right. Well, here’s a proposal. What if we remove all banking fees for the Bailey’s Farmers’ Market main account if at least twenty of your vendors move their accounts to our bank?”
    “Oh,” Allison said. Again, she tried to hide it, but I could hear her disbelief, even with just one word. The “deal” felt more like bribery than a business offer. “Well, I’m not sure I’m the person you should talk to about that. I’ll pass it along to the market owners, or you are welcome to talk to them yourself.”
    “Did I hear you say you’re a local banker?” Peyton appeared behind my shoulder.
    “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Lyle Manner, at your service,” he said as he extended a hand.
    “Peyton