By Joan Connor

In the village, there are two candy stores—the one on Main Street with the spinning red stools, and soda jerks working the fountain, and the rustling newsstand, and the shelves of souvenirs everyone forgets—and the other one, the forbidden shop down the steep leg of the road with no name sliding toward the abandoned woolen mill on River Street.

The merchandise in the other one collects dust beneath the curved glass of the wooden counters. Father tells us the candy there is museum quality—mallow cones and wax lips, marzipan and peppermint straws, Turkish taffy and cream filberts and licorice pipes, and spearmint leaves, coconut watermelon slices, and bacon strips.

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