Closed on Wednesdays

The message had arrived on Tuesday evening, between a request for money and a shoe sale. Wednesday, half past ten. Something for you to collect. Can you bring a car? Her mother used question marks as though she had to pay for them.

Mara moved a meeting and booked a car from the sharing service. On the way, she worked out what to say if this was about the accounts again. Last time, Ada had sorted the envelopes by colour. The blue tax envelopes were under the workbench, unopened, where she couldn't see them.

Her mother was up a kitchen stepladder outside the shop, unscrewing the opening-hours sign. The front was supposed to be cobalt blue. Ada had mixed the paint herself; sunlight brought out the green in it. A paler rectangle beneath the window marked the place where a card-payment sticker had spent several years.