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often told Lola. “She’d be running the plant if she were a man.”
    After Lola’s mother was denied several promotions because she was “too outspoken,” Lola’s dad urged his wife to file a complaint with the union. Diane Zola wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted to fight her own battles, even if that meant losing. Go figure.
    â€œDon’t forget to keep track of your costs,” Lola’s mom reminded her. “Extra lemons, cups, sugar, sunblock, Melanie, flyers, and…” She hesitated as they pushed the cart up the produce aisle, past the peppers. “And chili peppers.”
    â€œMom, you’ve got to be kidding,” said Lola. “I’m not putting chili peppers in lemonade.”
    â€œNo, of course you’re not.” Diane Zola examined the chili peppers.
    Meanwhile, Lola’s sixth sense or female intuition registered yucky auras lingering at the other end of the produce aisle. Lola wiggled her nose, sniffing cologne, the kind Mr. Wembly wore. Her eyes spotted the back of Buck’s baseball cap.
    Not in the mood for phony pleasantries, Lola turned her cart in the opposite direction. She ducked behind the artichokes, peering over at Buck and his father, noticing several bottles of mouthwash in their grocery cart. They must guzzle the stuff.
    A booming voice interrupted her spy mission. “Lola Zola, are those your ferns hiding behind the chokes?”
    It was Ruby Rhubarb, the town matriarch, an astute businesswoman who had recently sold her chain of women’s accessory stores for a major undisclosed sum. With 10 percent of her profits, Ruby hit the poker table in Las Vegas to see if she could double her money. Her quick calculations, women’s intuition, and her beloved husband Harry’s lucky penny netted her a million dollars at the casino.
    Ever since her fabulous winning day, Mrs. Rhubarb had donated generously to worthy African-American charities and underserved students around the United States. She also advised the mayor on city budget matters, and restocked the Mirage Library with the latest books. In Mirage Ruby wasrevered as a hometown hero who didn’t do anything halfway. She dressed the part too, from head to toe—in designer clothes just right for her (secret) age.
    On this day her theme was pink. She wore a linen fuchsia dress with pastel polka dots and shoes to match. Not a hair was out of place.
    â€œOh, hi, Mrs. Rhubarb.” Lola barely popped her head above the assembled artichokes.
    â€œYoung lady,” said Mrs. Rhubarb, “you don’t have to play possum with me. What are you doing down there in artichoke land?”
    Lola was waiting for Mr. Wembly to escort his son down a different aisle. She prayed to the Pepper-and-Artichoke-Combo God that Buck and his father wouldn’t see her or her mother in the market. Who could imagine a more embarrassing conversation than “I look forward to having you as my employee, Mrs. Zola” and “I look forward to working for you, Mr. Wembly.”
    Barf.
    Not wanting to be rude, Lola made small talk with Mrs. Rhubarb. “How’s Mr. Rhubarb?” she asked mindlessly.
    â€œStill dead,” said Mrs. Rhubarb, matter-of-factly. “He suffered a heart attack at the ninth hole on the golf course, remember?”
    â€œThat’s good,” said Lola, preoccupied with Buck, whose eyes had just met hers.
    â€œGood?” Mrs. Rhubarb drew back. “Girl Scouts who sing to lonely ladies in nursing homes are good. A student who can write an A paper is good. A doctor who sees you right away is good. Good is not a dead husband.”
    â€œWhat else is new, Mrs. Rhubarb?” Lola stared back at Buck.
    â€œThe next conversation I’m about to have,” said the lady in pink, “and it isn’t going to be with the likes of you.” Insulted, Mrs. Rhubarb clickety-clacked down the aisle in her pink pumps.
    When Lola saw Buck