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Show Hannah Mae and the Mona Lisa 21 parking lot bulged with cars. A fancy sedan pulled out and sped by. Colby waved but the lady inside sneered like she had brushed up against a grimy wastebasket. Grummel's would be fierce competition. "We'll need to fix the place up," I said. "I know," Colby confirmed. "That's what I told you." "No, you said you needed to fix the place up some. That means slap on a little paint and hammer in a few nails." I pushed against the table and it collapsed to the ground. I narrowed my eyes. "We're paying for the location," Colby mumbled, apologizing. I walked about the plywood shack and tested the lumber. "At least the comer posts are solid," I noted. "There's some left-over wood in the bam," he said. "And plenty of nails. And paint in the tractor house." I knew Colby had high expectations, so I didn't let on to my doubts. I helped him close the awning. "Did you order strawberries?" I asked. "I called after school. We can pick them up Saturday." "You think we'll have this place finished by Saturday?" My tone was doubtful. Colby slumped his shoulders and I wished I had held my tongue. We climbed into the tmck. Colby stayed quiet and shifted through the gears a ^ Qtl we rumbled down Charlie Grover's road. Across the fence lay Mr. Morris' forty acres, close cropped by a few boarded horses. |