Longtime Institution to Shutter
Thomas N. Westerly, proprietor of Westerly Dry Goods on Market Street in the village, announced yesterday that the store will close at the end of the month.
Established by his grandfather Nelson Westerly more than eighty years ago, the small department store thrived until early this decade. Mr. Westerly attributes its demise to a confluence of factors that include the decline in population, the economic downturn, and, in the wake of inflation, shoppers abandoning the business district in favor of two recently opened discount chain stores on Colonial Highway as well as the new Dutchess Mall in Fishkill.
“We just can’t compete,” Mr. Westerly said from his office on the second floor of the brick building, where his desk resides in the shadow of a framed sepia photo that shows his grandfather sitting in that very spot in 1920. Other than the merchandise itself, little has changed inside the building Nelson Westerly built in 1893. However, a glance out the window reveals nearly deserted sidewalks, countless available parking spots, and empty storefronts that bear Going Out of Business Sale or Space for Rent signs.
Asked what he’ll do next, Mr. Westerly shrugged sadly and shared a situation echoed by many local merchants: “This store is the only livelihood our family has known for three generations. I had hoped my son would step in when he graduates from college next year. Now, I guess we’ll have to figure out something else.”
Chapter 7
Even on weekend mornings, Rowan’s body clock wakes her early, drop--kicking the day’s to--do list into her brain before her bare feet even hit the hardwood floor. Most Sundays, she has time to walk the dog, shop for groceries, and put them away long before she leaves for ten o’clock Mass at Holy Angels.
But when she opens her eyes today, she finds that the light falling through the skylight is all wrong. It isn’t morning at all. According to the digital clock on the nightstand, it’s nearly noon.
Jake’s side of the bed is empty; probably has been for hours. She stretches and yawns, thinking about coffee and wondering how she’d managed to sleep so late.
The house is quiet.
She must have been really tired, or . . .
Oh.
Yesterday comes rushing back to her; not just the day but the awful week. Her well--rested Sunday morning contentment evaporates in an instant.
She closes her eyes, wishing she could beam herself back to last Sunday, when she was up early to make pancakes for Jake and all three of her kids before church as Thanksgiving weekend wound to a close. On that morning, her heaviest burden was the knowledge that Braden and Katie were heading back to college before nightfall. It had been ages since she’d given Rick Walker more than a passing thought.
Flash forward a week, and she’s thought of little else.
Rick was, predictably, the last thing on her mind last night before she fell asleep, but at least she hadn’t dreamed of him. She yawns and starts to stretch, realizing that she’d been so exhausted she hadn’t dreamed of any—-
Hearing the distinct sound of a floorboard creaking overhead, she freezes.
Someone is in the attic.
She bounds out of bed, opens the bedroom door, and sees that the door leading to the third floor is ajar. A shaft of yellow light spills into the dim hallway.
Not pausing to throw a robe over her makeshift nightshirt—-one of Jake’s old T--shirts—-she hurries toward the hall bathroom, where the shower is running. Mick must be in there. Jake would use the one off the master bedroom. Still, she opens the bathroom door a crack and calls, “Jake?”
“Hey!” Mick, cranky, is behind the shower curtain. “Geez, Mom! I’m in here!”
“Sorry.” She closes the door again and calls from the foot of the attic stairs. “Jake?”