Stewart Green felt quite grand as he emerged from his Rolls-Royce, dressed to the nines in a top hat, navy-blue double-breasted suit with pinstripe slacks. With his ornate walking stick, he took a quick moment to adjust his hat, casting a sneering glance toward frowning pedestrians who had stopped to watch him.
Ordinarily, bystanders were excited to see the star receiver of the Twin City Bears, but the once adoring residents of Rockwell had grown resentful ever since he had begun buying up land. Stewart did not care what they thought, as long as they left him and his people alone.
Tweaking his fashionable mustache, he turned back to help his companion out of the car, brushing aside his chauffeur who had been about to lend her a nonexistent hand. The red-haired rhubarb gave a charming smile of thanks. She was not as well dressed as her companion, wearing a second-hand blue coat over a modest pink dress with a peeling pink purse, but to Stewart, she was the loveliest sight for miles. Donna had been his high-school sweetheart and later his college girlfriend, the one who got away.
He was not about to make the same mistake twice.
After a sumptuous lunch, he had asked her for a stroll through the snowscape of old Rockwell Park (now Stewart Park). Donna stuck close beside him as they visited their old favorites: the shore where they used to skip stones as kids, the tree where he had carved their initials after the homecoming dance, the footbridge where they used to meet after supper when their families wouldn't miss them.
"A lotta great memories here," he said slyly as they leaned against the side of the bridge, admiring the frozen patterns of the narrow creek. "Maybe you can help me remember some…?"
"Too cold for that," she smiled, giving his top hat a playful flick.
Stewart gave her a look of pretend surprise. "Is it cold? I hadn't noticed."
She let out a girlish giggle and gave his double-breasted suit a gentle tug. "C'mon, Green Machine."
Stewart normally did not allow anyone to pull or push him along, not even his teammates from the Twin City Bears, but he only smiled as he followed Donna's lead. He felt a wonderful peace around her which he had not felt since his college days, and he had laughed more in the past two weeks than he had in the last fifteen years.
I'm going to marry that woman, he promised himself, already making plans.
Two weeks earlier, Stewart had done something he had not ever expected to do again. He returned to Rockwell.
Despite owning the whole town's land, which now bore his image, he had had little recourse to return to his old home, preferring the life of a football star with a mansion in the wealthier part of Twin City. All his business deals regarding Rockwell were handled through his personal assistant, Jim Gourdly, and Stewart was content to reap the profits and punish his former neighbors at a distance. But with the acquiring of his father's toy-train factory, Stewart deigned to return to his roots in order to savor his delicious vengeance.
"They should have given this back to me when they had the chance," Stewart said under his breath as he hopped through the familiar old building. "It would have saved them all tears, but now they have to learn a lesson."
"Don't mess with the Green Machine," Jim supplied, his usually pleasant orange face now wearing a sinister smile. Stewart had met Jim when he had first started doing celebrity endorsements at the Twin City television studio. Although originally aspiring to be a news anchor for Wide World of Spores, Jim had eventually become Stewart's PR agent and personal assistant.
Standing in the center of the factory, Stewart slowly turned, taking in the high ceiling, the tall windows, the silent conveyor belt, and the hut-like structure against the back wall which had served as his late father's office. For Stewart, this was sweet revenge. By rights, he ought to have inherited the factory after his father passed, but the old man had left it to the town of Rockwell. When Stewart had offered to buy it, the town council had refused to sell. It had taken Stewart years of quietly buying up the town's real estate (and some back-alley deals) before he finally got what he wanted. To rub salt into the wounds, he would replace the workers with robots — which would also turn him a nice profit with how much he saved.
"No one says no to Stewart Green," he said under his breath as he scanned his recovered factory. He hadn't even liked the factory that much when Dad was alive, but it was the principle of the matter. Stewart would not tolerate anyone keeping him from what was rightfully his.
He turned toward the door. "I feel like celebrating. Does the old drugstore still sell root-beer floats?"
"You mean Stewart's Drugstore?" Jim returned with a grin. "It'll serve Aunt Ruth's green bean, garlic goulash if the boss demands it."
"Great."
They took the Rolls-Royce into town. At the front of the corner drugstore, the French pea chauffeur opened the door for them, and Stewart climbed it first. Straightening his hat, he scanned the street with satisfaction, but he suddenly stopped stock still, appalled.
"What is that?" he demanded.
Jim tugged on his white collar. "What's what?"
Stewart pointed his walking stick toward a billboard atop his television store across the street. It was an advertisement for his upcoming amusement park, showing his face in the foreground while veggies headed toward an arched entrance with a roller coaster behind it.
COMING SOON
STEWIE WORLD
AMUSEMENT PARK
Jim scanned the sign for several seconds, searching for the offending flaw. He gulped dryly.
"Uh, I thought it was a good picture, but we can change—"
"Not that," Stewart snapped. "It's supposed to be Stewart World. No one's called me 'Stewie' since college."
"Simmer down, big fella," Jim urged. "Our survey says the public finds 'Stewie World' more welcoming and family oriented than 'Stewart World.' It'll bring in more customers."
"Do you see anything else that's labeled 'Stewie' in this town?" Stewart demanded, gesturing with his head. Rockwell Town Square was filled with his stores and merchandise: Stewart's TV's, Stewart's Records, Stewart's Toys, Stewart's Cafe, Stewart's Pet Supplies, Stewart's Tax Returns, just to name the ones in his line of sight.
"A simple change, big guy," Jim assured him. "Ultimately, it's about what you want."
"And don't you forget it," Stewart warned, adjusting his top hat. He started to stalk toward the drugstore door, wanting his root-beer float more than before and silently promising unemployment to the soda jerk if he failed to deliver perfection, but something else made him stop, a voice calling his name.
"Stewie?"
He whirled around in rage.
"Who called me that?!" he demanded, ready to sue the culprit to their last nickel.
…But his fury vanished when he caught sight of the dark eyes watching him from down the street, the full lips dropped open in surprise, the braided red hair that caught the winter sun, the slim figure poised with shock and expectation. His heart thundered in his chest.
"Donna?" He stepped toward her. "Donna Red?"
She nodded, her expression warming. "Stewie Green. I didn't know you were back in town."
She looked just like she had in college, and beautiful memories flooded Stewart's shocked mind: moonlit walks and town picnics, strolls around campus and school dances, pep rallies and secret kisses before football practice. Everything else seemed to float away, and Stewart hurried toward her, wearing a smile which his face hadn't borne in years.
Jim wisely made himself scarce, and Stewart wasted no time asking Donna about her dinner plans. She at first had to decline because she had agreed to take the evening shift at her job, but as she worked at Stewart's Records, that posed no problem for the Green Machine. A quick phone call to the general manager resolved the issue, and the former couple spent a pleasant evening at Stewart's three-star restaurant in the next town over.
With the boss dining, the service was even more impeccable than usual. The waiters appeared at the faintest signal, and the chef outdid himself with the gourmet dishes. There was only one mishap, when a busboy nearly spilled dishes at Donna's feet, but she smilingly assured him he was doing a good job. Her cheerful expression kept Stewart from firing the busboy on the spot.
"I always try to be understanding with service workers," she explained. "Comes from working in retail."
"You're a wonderful lady, Donna," he said, and he even slipped the almost fired busboy a twenty, just to show Donna he agreed with her.
It was amazing how easily they slipped back into their old groove, talking as if their fifteen-year separation had never happened. Stewart regaled her with his stories from playing for the Twin City Bears, and Donna chatted pleasantly about last year's church picnic, and about Morty Bumble and his wife Linda raising their daughters, and about her favorite regulars at the record shop.
"So, what happened to becoming a teacher?" Stewart asked, gazing at her. Donna had studied at his alma mater to be an elementary school teacher, and she had been close to graduating when he had left for Twin City.
Donna shrugged. "After my dad got sick, all the tuition had to go to his doctor's bills. My mom and I were the only ones who could support him, so I took whatever jobs I could get."
Something a husband could have helped out with, Stewart noted. Especially a rich one.
Donna looked momentarily sad, but then she shook her head, smiling.
"But the record business is really fulfilling. I get to learn all kinds of music and meet all kinds of people."
"And see a certain cucumber's handsome face on a few album covers," Stewart slipped in slyly.
Donna ducked her head with an embarrassed giggle. "Don't you start."
"I couldn't resist," he chuckled back. "So you're really happy at my store? My general manager treats you well?"
"Sure, Pete is great," she nodded, "and his wife stops by around lunchtime and brings us all sandwiches. And I enjoy my regulars, like the teens or this one old man who likes 1920s jazz. A good customer can sweeten up a sour day, especially if the last customer was bad."
"What bad customers?" Stewart demanded sharply. "Point me to them, and I'll tell them they'd better not mess with someone important to the Green Machine."
She arched her pink eye ridge. "Would that important person be me, Stewart?"
She did not sound flattered or flustered; rather, flat. Stewart cleared his throat, reaching for his glass.
"I really meant to send for you," he insisted, "but I got so busy with the games and practice and other stuff. By the time I had a free moment to think about marriage, I figured you had given up waiting for me and found some lucky vegetable to settle down with."
She slid her knife over her mashed potatoes, making a trail through the rich gravy. "I didn't."
Stewart scooted forward in his chair, rattling their glasses and silverware a little. "So, no Mr. Donna Red in the picture?"
"Only met one guy who ever came close to getting that name," she replied.
Good, he thought, beginning to smile.
She looked at him, then away. "I had hoped to see you at your dad's funeral."
Stewart shifted uncomfortably. "I never liked funerals, ever since Mom passed… and I couldn't step on that train to go through the same thing with Dad. But I handled all the arrangements, really."
Stewart expected her to give him a look like he was a lousy son on top of a lousy boyfriend, but instead she nodded slowly.
"I figured as much," she said. "His death was so unexpected, falling down the stairs like that, and no one found him until it was too late."
"He always refused to have a live-in assistant," Stewart said. "I offered to pay for one, but he was too proud for that."
"He was an independent fella," she smiled sadly. "I miss him."
"Yeah," said Stewart, running his tongue over his lips. He glanced at her. A strange thought surfaced in his mind, inappropriate to say out loud right then but also logical in its own way.
I don't want to die alone like Dad did.
But he didn't want a nurse hovering over his infirm self, or some toady waiting for him to finalize his will. What he wanted at his side when he finally went out was… was…
His gaze trailed over Donna's mint green face, red hair, and wonderful, affectionate, gorgeous eyes.
What I want… is my wife.
For the next two weeks, he actually found himself enjoying Rockwell. When he was not tied with his plans for the factory (which he insisted on handling himself rather than let Jim have all the fun in his revenge scheme), he spent as much time as he could with Donna. A strange nostalgia mixed with fervent hope pushed away his usual distaste for the old-fashioned streets, and where he once saw trashy buildings and woefully underdeveloped landscape, he now sought opportunities to relive precious moments with Donna. He took her ice skating on Gourd Pond, to the converted Stewart's Cinema, to the candy kitchen for her favorite banana split.
"I used to save up my allowance to buy you those," he remarked as he leaned against the counter. "Now I own the store and can give you the entire menu if you want."
"Let's just start with the banana split," she laughed.
Stewart had almost forgotten what real laughter sounded like, but it came so easy to him when he was around her. Donna was so positive and sweet that he could not help mimicking her. She was so different from anyone he knew in Twin City, so caring and genuine. He would not mind trading all the sports banquets and society parties to have her gentle presence beside him. His cavernous mansion would feel a lot less lonely if he knew she was somewhere within it.
He was determined not to go home without her, even if it took a year of wooing to convince her.
The only downside was the constant fear and anger he saw in the people of Rockwell. Normally, Stewart liked seeing them squirm, since they had caused him so much trouble in the past, but he had to remind himself that they were Donna's friends and neighbors. Until Donna was safely in his mansion back in Twin City, he did not want to provoke his enemies into taking out their frustrations on her. When the townsfolk shot him wary looks, he tried to soften his features for Donna's sake. When a few vegetables crossed to the other side of the street to avoid him when he was out walking with Donna, Stewart fought off the urge to find out whether any of them worked for him, granting them mercy in front of his sweetheart. When Jim was sharp with a waiter at the hotel while Stewart ate breakfast, Stewart reprimanded his assistant.
"My lady works in retail," he reminded him, "for the moment."
"Right, boss," Jim said nervously and quickly apologized to the server.
After two weeks, Stewart thought he and Donna were ready for an important, yet delicate, conversation. Stewart was a forward-thinking guy and a fast mover, but he knew Donna was an old-fashioned girl. Even though they had been considering marriage when he had left, fifteen years was a long wait, and she might want to be properly courted all over again. Still, Stewart thought he might test the waters and see if she was willing to talk about marriage.
He just needed an opportune moment.
He thought a winter stroll through the picturesque park the day after the first January snowfall might aid his endeavors. Memory lane could verge into lover's lane, if he handled it correctly.
They did two loops around the park path, reminiscing. As they strolled, Donna began to hum some of the songs they used to enjoy, her smile inviting him to join in.
"Some people pay to hear me sing, you know," he quipped, twirling his walking stick.
She lowers her pink eyelids into a demur look. "What do I have to pay?"
"Just your company," he grinned, moving his walking stick around her waist to pull her close to him.
Side by side, they harmonized:
"Shine on, shine on, harvest moon,
Up in the sky.
I ain't had no lovin'
Since January, February, June or July.
Snowtime ain't no time to stay
Outdoors and spoon.
So, shine on, shine on, harvest moon."
Donna suddenly took hold of his walking stick, swinging herself around until their noses almost touched.
"For me and my guy," she finished sweetly, batting her eyes invitingly.
Stewart did not hesitate, dipping in for a kiss.
That nearly forgotten lightning shot through him once more, and her plump lips moved against his as if they had never breathed a word of farewell. She nestled close, her little nose nuzzling against his cheek. When they drew apart, just an inch or two, Stewart was smiling.
"Even better than I remember," he murmured.
She raised herself up on the vegetable equivalent of her tiptoes to plant a peck on his round nose. "Let's just not wait fifteen years for the next one."
He smirked. "No arguments here."
He leaned in for another, but she turned her head away playfully.
"It's like the song says, Stewie," she giggled coyly. "Snowtime isn't ideal for cuddling."
"Then we'll have to go someplace warmer then," he answered, keeping in step with her. He gave his mustache a little stroke. "My hotel suite has a lovely fireplace, with a bag of marshmallows, some Graham crackers, and chocolate bars. Any interest…?"
Stewart gave strict orders to the front desk that they were not to be disturbed unless it was important. They tossed their coats onto one of the two expensive couches and settled in front of the crackling fire for their impromptu roast. Stewart toasted two marshmallows while Donna prepared the cinnamon crackers and chocolate bars. Working together, they crafted two beautiful (and delicious) s'mores.
"Just like we did in high school on those cold nights," Donna smiled before she took a nibble.
Stewart nodded wistfully. "And afterwards, I'd lie down on a cushion, and you'd rest your head on my chest, and we'd watch the fire until it became embers, and your dad said I had to go home."
Donna tilted her head toward the ornate couch, her eyes glittering. "There's a cushion right there."
Stewart grinned. "Fancy that."
He retrieved a large, plump, luxurious cushion and stretched out on his right side. She took off her earrings, slipping them into her dress pocket, and settled beside him, almost kneeling. She laid her head on his chest, nestling down.
"You have a beautiful heartbeat," she grinned.
"Some people are surprised I have a heart," he said wryly.
"Well, I know it's still in there," she assured him. She tilted her face up to meet his skeptical gaze. "Maybe people don't like how you own the whole town now, but you're not a slumlord. You keep Rockwell looking nice, and that brings in the tourists, which gives the townsfolk more jobs."
"Thank you," Stewart grumbled. "I give, give, give to this town, and all anyone does is complain."
"And working at Stewart's Records is pleasant, most days," she added. "Pete had trouble finding work before your store hired him, and he rose through the ranks to G.M. And I've always had enough money to eat from working there."
He smiled at her. You don't have to work another day in your life, if you play your cards right.
Aloud, he said, "I should've had you around as my PR agent. A few words from you does wonders."
She laughed, but for a moment a hint of sadness slipped into her eyes.
Stewart glided his invisible touch over her hair.
"I really messed up," he murmured. "I should have taken you with me to Twin City."
"Just like that?"
"Well, we could've found a preacher along the way," he pointed out. He checked her face, wondering if she was opposed to that topic. Seeing no umbridge, he continued, wiggling his shoulders. "We talked about getting married after we both graduated. I should have just taken you with me. Then I wouldn't have been so busy with football that I let you get away."
She shifted, laying her chin on his side.
"A relationship is a two-way street, Stewie," she said. "I could have kept sending you letters like I promised and made you remember."
"What made you stop?" he asked.
"Well," she said, sitting up, "one day I opened the paper to see a picture of you standing next to some heiress at a sports banquet."
"She was my boss's niece," Stewart said quickly, pushing himself up. "It was just one blind date. Honest."
"And a few weeks later you were with a different girl at some movie premiere," she continued.
"I owed a teammate a favor, and he made me take his sister."
"And yet another girl was with you at some ribbon-cutting ceremony."
"I lost a bet — and she was only interested in my money, anyway."
Donna gazed into the fire. "When the Cucumber Times named you 'Most Eligible Bachelor' for the fourth year in a row, I gave up hope of you ever coming back."
He reached for her, tilting up her chin with his intangible touch until their eyes met.
"And I'm still a bachelor," he said.
"And why is that?" she asked softly.
"Because," he said, "out of all the women I've gone out with, only one ever made me want a second date."
She was silent, but the look in her hurt eyes shifted.
Stewart tilted forward and laid a kiss on her lips. She leaned into him, closing her eyes.
I'll give you the entire world, if you ask for it, he wanted to promise her, drawing her close until she was half-draped across his lap. He had lost her once to his own forgetfulness, but he was determined to keep her this time around. All he had to say was "Marry me," and she would be his forever, if he was bold enough. He was sure of it now.
He intended to say those two words; he began to push her back, just a little, in order to form those precious syllables, but a soft sound at the door broke through the room's stillness, like paper moving over the doorstep.
Stewart opened one eye, and a peek showed him an envelope had been slipped under his door. He straightened, breaking the kiss, and cradled Donna against him.
"Donna, it's here!" he beamed.
"Huh?"
He scrambled to his feet and helped her up as well before he bolted for the anticipated envelope. He retrieved the letter opener from where he had stored it in his suite desk, and he slit open the seal. He unfolded the papers inside, greedily scanning their contents.
"This day just keeps getting better and better!" he crowed. He waved the paper. "Darling, look at this!"
Mystified, Donna joined his side. "What is it, Stewie?"
"The invoice for my robots!" Stewart grinned. "Everything is ready to update my dad's old toy-train factory."
She looked at him sharply. "What kind of updates, exactly?"
"The kind that saves me a fortune!" Stewart told her. "Picture rows of conveyor belts manned by robots putting together Stewart's Toy Trains. It's going to be the most technologically advanced toy factory this side of the Mississippi!"
Donna stared at him. A shadow stole over her soft countenance. "But if robots are putting together the trains, what about the vegetables who work there now?"
"Don't need them anymore," he chirped. "We're talkin' about thousands of bucks! That's money I can spend on something, or someone, special."
He gave her a little wink, but her eyes narrowed, troubled.
"If you lay them off, where will they find work?"
"That's up to them," he shrugged. "I'm not their babysitter."
She took hold of his coat. A strange desperation had appeared on her face.
"Stewie, won't you reconsider?" she pleaded. "That many people laid off at the same time will have trouble getting re-employed. They might not be able to keep their homes or feed their families. Some of them live paycheck to paycheck."
Stewart frowned, starting to get annoyed with all her questions. Acquiring the factory — and fulfilling his revenge — had been a project he had been invested in for years, and instead of celebrating with him, Donna was sticking up for his enemies.
"If they don't have the common sense to have a savings account, how does it concern me?" he sniffed.
Donna gripped his lapels. "Stewie, you don't mean that."
"Don't I?"
She released him and drew back, chilled by his tone, but she quickly recovered. Donna was far from a fiery redhead, but a spark of righteous indignation began to etch her usually gentle visage.
"You honestly don't care if families — if children — are left homeless?"
"If I tried to help every last child in existence, I wouldn't have a dollar left to keep helping them." He sneered. "Pick your battles better, Donna. You won't win this one."
Donna straightened her thin shoulders. "Stewart James Green, are you even listening to yourself?"
"Are you listening?" he retorted. "The repairs alone are going to cost a fortune. Cutting out the employees will allow me to break even in no time."
"Or," she countered vehemently, "you could be the good man I know is hidden in there somewhere and take care of your workers like your father did."
"My father died in debt," he snapped, "and he gave the factory to strangers instead of his own son. This town is only getting what it deserves."
"Deserves?" she repeated, incredulous.
"I put Rockwell on the map, and they couldn't give me back my inheritance when I offered to buy it," he said. "Once they understand who really runs this town, maybe I'll help out with the unemployment rate. Stewart World is going to need employees, after all."
Donna shook her head. "Stewart, this isn't you. You aren't some cartoon villain. These are people you grew up around. They're your friends and neighbors."
"I don't have friends here, Donna, except you. I owe these people nothing."
She raised her chin. "Well, some of them are my friends, Stewart, and I don't think I can be around someone who deliberately mistreats people I care about."
She spun away, marching for her coat on the couch.
"Donna, be reasonable," Stewart urged her. "I'm willing to hire them at one of my other businesses, right? They'll be back on their feet in no time. Let's go back to our marshmallows and talk about this later."
She slipped on her blue coat, shaking her head. "You just don't get it, do you?"
You're the one who doesn't get it, he wanted to snap. He had already stated his position, how the town had snubbed him and stymied his attempts to get his property back, how he was being a shrewd businessman and had no responsibility for workers who he hadn't even hired. Still, she was acting like he was in the wrong!
But he could tell she would not listen, even if he laid out every reasonable argument under the sun. She did not have to say it, but he already knew the ultimatum that would be coming: either her or the robots.
I'm trying to propose to this woman, he fumed to himself helplessly, but she's more interested in this two-bit podunk!
…And just like that, he had an idea.
Slowly, a smirk stole over his face.
He straightened his white tie. "I might let the employees keep their jobs, if I had proper compensation."
Donna regarded him warily. "They don't have a lot of money."
"I don't want a single dime from them," he assured her, closing the distance between them, "or a nickel or a penny or whatever else they have. I'm after something… irreplaceable."
"Like what?"
He brushed his invisible touch over her hair. "The only thing more important to me than money."
Her eyes widened, comprehension clicking. Without an invitation, Stewart removed her coat and tossed it to the side.
"It's simple, really," he said. "You want the factory workers to be happy. I want the robots, which I've paid good money for, so we negotiate. You put something up, and I put something up. I'll get rid of the robots and let the workers keep their jobs if you, Donna Red, will be mine."
She stepped away. "Stewart…"
"Even if we were speaking from a purely business standpoint, it's a worthwhile move," he quipped, stroking his mustache. "A financial empire needs an empress — and a few heirs to take over things after I retire. But I'll take you just as you are, Donna Red. As long as you're mine alone, I'll ask nothing else of you."
She stared at him, stupefied.
He smiled encouragingly. "What do you say, Donna? We can finally fulfill all those special dreams together."
Her mouth fell open, and for a moment she seemed to struggle to speak. He inclined his head toward her.
"Just say yes," he purred, drawing her toward him.
But he met resistance as her intangible touch pushed him back. She recoiled away from him, narrowing her eyes.
"Donna?" He stared at her.
She drew herself up.
"I don't accept marriage proposals that are business deals," she said coldly, "or blackmail."
She whirled away and grabbed her coat once more.
As she slipped it on, Stewart snapped, "Don't be a child. I'm the one who is making a financial sacrifice for this marriage. You will literally become one of the most powerful women in our state and live in a mansion and have your own car and expensive jewelry. That's how much I love you, Donna."
She ignored him, grabbing her pink handbag next. She maneuvered around the couch, avoiding him, and made for the door without a word of goodbye.
Glaring, Stewart started after her. "I said 'I love you, Donna.'"
He reached for her, grabbing her shoulder, but she whirled around — and slapped her purse across his face.
Stewart staggered back, startled.
Donna raised her chin, her eyes cold, and stormed out of the suite.
Stewart's pride would not let him go after her until the next day. He spruced himself up beyond his normal grooming and stuffed a few Benjamins into his breast pocket, wanting her to see exactly what she was missing out on.
"No one says no to Stewart Green," he repeated to himself all the way to her residence.
He had bought the boarding house on Main Street years ago, little expecting his old flame would lodge there to help her parents save money. He strode in, demanding to see the manager.
"Is Donna Red in?" he asked stiffly.
The gaping carrot woman cleared her throat. "Ah, no, Mr. Green. Donna left last night."
He started. "Left? To see her parents?"
The carrot shook her head, wearing a look that pleaded for him not to shoot the messenger.
"No, sir. She packed up, paid her last rent, and took a cab to the train station."
"What?!" he demanded, feeling a strange sinking in his stomach. "Did she say where?"
"She - She didn't want to talk about it," the carrot stammered.
Stewart's mouth fell open. His mind began to reel, but a fresh wave of anger helped him focus enough to point his walking stick at the stairs.
"Give me the key to her room," he ordered.
The carrot complied, and Stewart stormed up alone. Donna's room was spotless. The bed was made. The dressers were clean from dust. Any hint of a personal item was gone. Stewart looked around, half hoping she had left a note saying something like, "Stewie, I was wrong. Come see me at this address." He even checked behind the nightstand in case her note fell down.
Nothing.
"Good riddance," he spat, pulling the brim of his top hat down toward his narrowed eyes. He stalked back to the car and snapped an order to his chauffeur to take him back to the hotel.
He glared out the window at the passing buildings. Here and there, he saw glimpses of his own face on advertisements and billboards, but instead of the usual sense of satisfaction, he felt little connection to any of it. It could have just as easily been some other entrepreneur's empire or something from another world.
All the blood, sweat and tears that went into taking over Rockwell, and it could not make Donna stay.
His throat tightened at the thought — and he hated that feeling. No one had made him feel weak or insignificant since he was a child. He had offered Donna his heart, and she had treated it like a pebble in her shoe.
Fire began to course over him.
"Who does she think she is?" he seethed, blinking back the infuriating tears. "There are women who would sell their grandmothers just to become Mrs. Stewart Green, and she slapped me!"
He did not get where he was by quitting. He had taken down businessmen ten times more obstinate, and he now owned their former assets. Who was Donna Red against the Green Machine?
At his hotel, he burst out of the car without waiting for the chauffeur, knocking the poor pea down with the door. He barely noticed, single-mindedly focused on getting to his suite. His anger mounted with every hop, and he was ranting even before he reached his door.
"I'll find her. Who does she think she's dealing with? Anywhere she lodges, I can buy the building and threaten to evict the other tenants. Anywhere she tries to find work, I can buy the business and fire the hard-working employees. Let's see how high and mighty she feels then!"
At his suite he fumbled with his key, nearly scratching the gilded doorknob. He slammed open the door, then slammed it shut. He headed straight toward his desk and pulled out his address book. At the back he had a few numbers which he only called in situations like these. He turned to one and carried the book over to the phone.
"If she wants to play games, we can play games," he said under his breath as he picked up the receiver. "Who does she think she's dealing with?"
He began dialing.
Invisible to the enraged cucumber, a yellow squash calmly turned to his shaken companion.
"What are you thinking of, Stewart?" he asked gently.
The real Stewart — the one devoted to his darling Donna and their three beautiful children — stared at his crueler self in disbelief. His green lips quivered, trying to form words.
"So," he said with difficulty, "in this world… my dad died because I wasn't around to take him to the hospital after he fell down the stairs; my boys were never born; Emma wasn't adopted, and Donna now thinks I'm some kind of monster. All because Famous Stewart caught that football."
"One little change can make a big difference," Gabe said sagely.
Stewart hopped toward his infuriated double, who was impatiently waiting for his unsavory contact to pick up the phone. The real Stewart had rarely wanted to punch someone in his life, but right then he could have knocked some sense into his worse self.
Disgusted, he turned to the mysterious train conductor.
"Why can't Famous Stewart see that he needs to stop being a vengeful jerk and treat Donna and the town with the respect they deserve?"
"When a man has convinced himself the world revolves around him, he starts seeing people as subjects instead of neighbors."
"He doesn't even know what he's missed out on," Stewart said, glaring at his double. "Donna would have loved him completely if she had married him — she already loved him. They could have gotten married and adopted Emma, but he blew it. She'll never agree to marry him if he keeps acting like this."
He had not relished watching another man kiss his wife (even if it was technically himself), but he would rather have Donna be happy and cherished by Famous Stewart than treated as something to be bought.
"Something to think about," Gabe said, and as he spoke, a gray fog began to steal over the scene, unnoticed by the other cucumber. "One more stop, Stewart."
"Anything would be better at this point," Stewart said as he turned away, already doing his best to push the horrible images from his mind.
THE END
