Chapter 35: David's Request
Brebner's General Store smelled like dust and resignation.
The shelves held the same products they'd held for decades—generic brands, outdated packaging, the particular selection of items that accumulated when nobody thought to modernize inventory. David Rose stood near the cleaning supplies section, glaring at a bottle of dish soap like it had personally offended his ancestors.
"This is what passes for skincare in this establishment," he said, not looking at me. "In case you were wondering why I look perpetually exhausted."
I'd come for light bulbs—the motel's maintenance schedule required restocking, and Brebner's was closer than Elmdale. But David's presence shifted the errand into something more complicated.
"The soap aisle isn't usually where I find you."
"I'm not here by choice." He finally looked up, and the familiar theatrical disdain was present but somehow muted. "I'm here because Wendy thinks 'product research' means staring at shelves until something magically improves."
"Wendy?"
"The owner. Or manager. Or whatever her title is. She tolerates my suggestions the way one tolerates a persistent mosquito." He crossed his arms. "I told her the store could carry better products. Local things, regional artisans, anything that doesn't look like it expired during the Reagan administration."
"What did she say?"
"She said 'that's not how we do things here.'" He mimicked the phrase with savage precision. "As if tradition were an excuse for mediocrity."
I grabbed the light bulbs I'd come for, giving him time to work toward whatever he was actually trying to say. David Rose didn't make small talk about retail strategy without a purpose.
"You know people," he said finally. "In the region."
"Some."
"Vendors. Suppliers. The motel must have contacts for..." He waved vaguely at the concept of commerce. "Things. Food things. Supply things."
"It does."
The admission cost him something—I could see it in the tension of his jaw, the way he wouldn't quite meet my eyes. David Rose didn't ask for help. David Rose complained about problems until someone else solved them or they went away on their own.
"I want to improve this place," he said. "Not as some kind of civic duty or character-building exercise. I want to improve it because the products are terrible and it personally offends me to look at them every day."
"Okay."
"Wendy won't listen to me because I'm 'new' and 'don't understand small-town business.'" The air quotes were audible. "But she might listen if I had actual contacts. Actual vendors who could provide better options at competitive prices."
"You want me to connect you with the motel's suppliers."
"I want you to give me names. People who might take my calls. That's all." He paused, then added reluctantly: "Please."
The word sounded like it had been extracted under duress, and I filed it away with all the other moments of David Rose vulnerability I'd witnessed—the grocery store humiliation, the confrontation in the lobby, the gradual thawing of hostility into something that might eventually become tolerance.
"I can do that."
His expression shifted—surprise, quickly concealed. "Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"You're not going to... I don't know, extract some kind of favor? Make me promise to be nicer to you? Leverage this into ongoing social obligation?"
"No."
"Why not?"
I set the light bulbs on the counter and turned to face him fully. "Because you asked for help with something reasonable, and I know people who might be able to help. That's it."
David stared at me like I'd started speaking a foreign language. His defensive architecture was designed for transactional relationships—people who wanted things from him, people who expected reciprocation, people who kept score. Uncomplicated assistance didn't fit his mental framework.
"That's... surprisingly not horrible of you."
"I'll take it."
I paid for the light bulbs while David processed this unexpected development. He followed me out of the store, still looking confused but no longer hostile.
"I'll text you the names tonight," I said. "There's a produce distributor in Elmdale who works with local farms. A specialty goods wholesaler in Toronto who does regional deliveries. A few others who might be interested if you can make a business case."
"You're actually going to help."
"I said I would."
"People say things all the time without meaning them." He wrapped his arms around himself in the gesture I'd come to recognize as self-protection. "Especially here. Everyone's friendly in that aggressive small-town way, but nobody actually follows through on anything."
"Then I'll be the exception."
Something flickered in his expression—not quite trust, but the possibility of it. The recognition that this interaction had gone differently than expected, and maybe future interactions could go differently too.
"Thank you," he said. The words came out rough, almost painful, like his throat wasn't accustomed to producing them. "I mean it."
"You're welcome."
He turned toward the motel without another word, but his posture was different—less rigid, less armored. I watched him walk away and thought about the long road ahead.
In the show, David's transformation had been gradual—seasons of development, relationship-building, the slow discovery of what he actually wanted from life. I wasn't trying to accelerate that. I was just trying to be present for it, available to help when help was wanted.
Rose Apothecary is still seasons away, but the foundation is forming.
The thought carried me back to the motel, where the light bulbs needed to be inventoried and the maintenance schedule needed updating and a dozen other tasks waited for attention.
But something had changed. David Rose had asked me for help and said thank you when I offered it.
In this town, with this family, that was progress measured in inches—but inches still counted.
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