“Well, it’s certainly ... unexpected,” I say.
It is also decidedly phallic, and it is at least fifty feet tall. The dome-shaped tip juts up above the roofline at its back, proudly silhouetted against the early-summer sky.
Wren, my very best friend (and favorite person in the world aside from her equally mature son), barely contains a snicker beside me.
“How’d they get it up so fast?” she asks, a full-out guffaw chasing the words. “Oh god, the jokes are already writing themselves.”
“Didn’t you have Sam at sixteen? Fairly certain you know how they work,” I tease. Her eyes round for a millisecond before we collapse in laughter, curling into each other with our shoulders bumping.
“I see you ladies have taken notice of our new elevation,” Athena Cirillo says, lips rolled together to hide her own amusement. “Scaffolding for this new bit finally came down yesterday.” She strolls down the park path to join us in our gaping, her snow-white waves floating on the breeze.
“Morning, Sprout,” I say to the Brussels griffon tucked under her arm. Beady eyes spare me a watery blink.
“Do you know what it is?” Wren asks Athena with a nod toward the building. The bookstore owner can always be counted on for the inside scoop, like our very own goddess of small-town knowledge.
Athena turns back to the old warehouse and shakes her head. “All I know is that it’s zoned for dining or retail space,” she says.
Wren and I hum acknowledgments and go back to curiously studying the sight before us. The old brick building at the front of our coastline park hasn’t been operational for years. Not in my lifetime, at least. It’d been absorbed into Spunes, Oregon, and only ever used as a pseudo community center of sorts. The covered patio area up front provided shade for the biweekly farmers market, and the interior was used as town storage for things like banners and holiday decorations.
That is, until it wasn’t. Some months back, the place was completely cleared out, everything strewn across the expansive green lawn in tidy piles. Construction began a few weeks after.
“My guess is dining,” Athena adds. “Retail would likely be better with other shops surrounding it. Since this is somewhat solitary, I think a restaurant is more probable. Either way, Martha’s up in arms. This certainly won’t help matters.” She waves an arm up and down at the structure, letting out a weary sigh. “Aaanyway. I’m off to open the store. Have a great day, ladies. Stay outta trouble.”
We say our farewells before we pivot back, still silently contemplating.
“Huh,” I muse. A small twinge of excitement flares at the idea of a new restaurant. I think of my collections of food magazines at home, elaborate dishes I’d love to re-create, but probably never will. Still, my fingers itch to try something new. Incidentally, the only specific thing that comes to mind right now is eggplant parm.
Our heads tilt to the side at the same time. “Huh, indeed,” Wren supplies.
I break first, a snort tearing its way up my throat until we’re both in hysterics again.
“No, but honestly,” Wren says, swiping at a rogue tear when we wind back down. “How the hell did the phallus palace”—she gestures to the erected structure—“get approved? O’Doyle would never.”
“I would never what?”
We suck in twin gasps and immediately stand up straighter. Mrs. Martha O’Doyle of O’Doyle’s Feed and Supply—Spunes’s one-stop-shop for a myriad of everything from chicken feed to sporting goods—steps slowly into our line of sight. I claw at the wrist Wren’s got trapped between us even as she lifts her chin.
“Meridian,” the self-appointed town dictator preservationist intones, gaze narrowed on Wren. It’s more of a curse than a greeting. They’ve had it out for each other since O’Doyle petitioned against the bakery’s outdoor Christmas display two years ago, all because the elf-inspired vignette clashed with her more classical tastes.
“O’Doyle,” Wren parrots back.
Cue the spaghetti western ocarina. I chime in before either woman calls for a showdown at high noon. “We just meant that you’d never let any of Spunes’s buildings stay so”—I have to bite the inside of my cheek—“monstrous.” It’d be best not to push her right now, when we all know this building has been a sore subject for her since it was purchased. It’s no secret she’s been fighting it, filing petty complaints with the county merely because it’s an enigma she hasn’t had a say in.
The deep grooves that stitch across her lips purse tighter. “What on earth are you talking about?” But then she slowly rotates toward the new erection, and I shove Wren to make our escape, not glancing back until we scurry a safe distance away. When I do, O’Doyle’s head bobs at the capped cylindrical addition, mouth opening and closing in horror.
“Oh my god, she’s apoplectic,” I say, mirth barely contained.
Wren tugs me to an abrupt stop. “All right. Yesterday, you asked Sam if he ‘had a case of the morbs’ and now that. I’m gonna need you to stop channeling Victorian spirit energy and start channeling the energy of a modern-day-woman-not-yet-thirty-and-still-in-her-prime. There are so few of us left in this town.”
“You’re thirty-one, chuckaboo.” Thirty-two, in fact, but she pretends to forget and I’m supportive like this. I scrunch my nose in mock apology, and her chin dips into a baleful glare. “Fine. I’ll admit I went a bit rogue with the festival-trivia research. But since you won’t do it with me, I’m committed to using my newfound vernacular somehow.” I shrug.