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original Gilpin’s founder, kept the store pretty much the same as it was during Charlie Gilpin’s time, with a few exceptions, most notably electricity. A true general store, Gilpin’s still sold everything from hardware to dry goods to wedding dresses. Ralph’s rubber sole shoes squeaked on the wet wood floor as he advanced. “Haven’t seen ya in a while, Mike,” Ralph said, extending an arthritic right paw. “Watch the floor.” The two men shook hands.
    “I been working, Ralph. How’s Maude?” asked Hobart, easily.
    Ralph leaned the mop against a shelf of canned peas and corn, and settled in for a friendly chat. “She’s Maude! Cookin’ up a storm for some church fundraiser goin’ on tomorrow. They’re tryin’ to get money to replace them pew cushions. She’s doin’ jest fine; but I ain’t so good,” he added plaintively.
    “Anything serious?”
    “Jest the rheumatism. But it’s to be expected in February, I guess.”
    “Sorry to hear it,” Hobart replied, sincerely. “Seems like spring’s gonna be early this year, so hopefully we’ll all feel better soon.”
    “Ya ain’t got no reason to feel poorly—yer just a kid!” Gilpin scoffed.
    “Don’t try to make me feel sorry for you, Ralph; it won’t work. You haven’t aged a day since I moved down here from Maple Grove 12 years ago,” Hobart rebutted easily. “Tell Maude I said ‘hello’ and that I’ll stop in for some of her bread pudding soon.”
    “Ya better come ovah for suppah tomorrow night and tell Maude yerself,” the wiry shopkeeper suggested. “She misses having a handsome face around.”
    “I thought that’s why she kept you,” joked the carpenter, hooking a thumb into the belt loop of his jeans. “Five o’clock on Saturday, still?”
    “Ayuh,” said Ralph. “Show up then and there might be some dessert left.”
    As if on cue, a wall-clock melodically chimed the rural Maine supper hour. “Hey, do you still have some drill bits back in Hardware?” Hobart said, turning to business.  
    “Think I might,” replied Ralph. “What big project ya got goin’ on now, Mike?”
    “Aw, nothing major; just finishing Joe Cooley’s sugar house up on Common Hill,” said Hobart. “He wants it done before the sap starts to run, which looks like it could be any day now. I broke my bit earlier. Cheap piece of junk from the big box store.”
    “Tut, tut,” said Gilpin, a bit gleefully. “Ya get what ya pay for. What size ya need?”
    Hobart glanced around the thinly peopled store. He had been planning to buy just the one drill bit, but he changed his mind. “I’ll take a complete set, if you’ve got one,” he answered.
    Ralph Gilpin grinned and twisted adroitly like a player on an old-timers basketball team. “Follow me, Mike,” he said, threading his way among half-empty but neatly-stocked shelves to the back of the store where the hardware department was situated. “Let me see – ah, here she is. Complete set of drill bits; only $32.95.”
    Hobart knew he could purchase the drill bits much cheaper at the big-box store in Bangor, but then, as Ralph said, you get what you pay for. Plus Hobart regularly tried to support Gilpin’s dwindling business. “I’ll take ‘em,” he said, reaching for the plastic package and stuffing it into his jacket pocket.
    “Anything else ya need?”
    Hobart was about to reply in the negative, when a movement two aisles over caught his eye: a waif of a woman with a shiny black coif like a chickadee was carefully examining a display of old-style kitchen items. She was a stranger to Hobart, who knew everyone in Sovereign. The carpenter thought she was the freshest, most natural-looking girl he had ever seen. What was SHE doing in Sovereign, Maine? Unconsciously, he caught and held his breath.
    The old shopkeeper followed Hobart’s stare. “Pretty gal, ain’t she?” said Ralph, in a confidential tone. “The two of ‘em came in the store a short while ago, wantin’ somethin’