The plant manager’s smile faltered, creases deepening across his forehead. “Your… boss, Hollister? I thought you ran this shop. A man of your capabilities, I assumed you were the principal operator.” He gestured vaguely at the Snack-Caddy, which had now reversed neatly into Nadine’s lap, depositing a fresh bag of malt balls. “That contraption is pure genius! A game-changer for plant efficiency!” Nadine, half-hidden by the plush cushioning of her recliner, took a slow, deliberate bite of a malt ball. The crunch cracked sharply in the hush between grease racks. She held up an index finger before Vance could respond. “Actually, Mr. Quigley, he’s right. I *am* his boss.” The cannery owner spluttered, collar straining against his throat. “You? But you just… you just sit there, Miss Finch!” He looked from Nadine, comfortably ensconced, to Vance, who was beaming with unapologetic pride. The rest of the onlookers—the few remaining townsfolk, still reeling from Jolene’s antics—shifted uncomfortably. Brenda Gable, who had somehow appeared at the edge of the crowd, clutching a half-empty thermos, narrowed her eyes. “Precisely,” Nadine said, popping another malt ball. “Vance is a brilliant inventor. He creates. I direct his creative output. It’s a very modern arrangement. And as his boss, I have to say, a lump-sum buyout? No chance.” The manager turned magenta. “No? Miss Finch, we’re talking about a substantial figure! Enough to buy this entire… establishment! You wouldn’t have to lift a finger for years!” Nadine raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something almost resembling effort crossing her face. “Years? Mr. Quigley, that sounds like a temporary solution to a permanent problem. My goal is never to lift a finger, ever again. A lump sum has a nasty habit of running out. No, what we need is a continuous, passive revenue stream.” Vance watched her, a soft smile gracing his lips, his gaze filled with open admiration. He knew exactly where this was going. Brenda, however, bristled. “Are you telling me you’re going to extort the cannery for more money, just because you’re too lazy to work?” “Extortion is such a harsh word, Brenda,” Nadine purred. “I prefer ‘strategic partnership leveraging unique intellectual property for mutual, long-term benefit.’ Now, picture this. Every factory in the Verdant Republic. Every cannery, every textile mill, every processing plant… using Vance’s motorized internal inspection and delivery system. Think of the efficiency. Think of the safety. Think of the profits.” Quigley leaned forward, sweat glistening on his collar while dollar figures flickered behind his squint. “And what would that mean… for you, Miss Finch?” “Fifty percent,” Nadine stated, without missing a beat. “A fifty percent lifetime royalty on every single mechanized unit that incorporates Vance’s design. Forever. For as long as those machines are operational, Vance and I get a cut. No upfront costs for you, sir. You just license the technology, build it, and we share the ongoing prosperity. You get the fame, the growth, the credit for modernizing the Verdant Republic. We get to… well, continue our very effective supervisory arrangement.” She gestured between herself and Vance with a half-eaten malt ball. Quigley stared, aghast, before a calculating grin split his round cheeks. He extended a hand. “Miss Finch… you’re a menace. And a genius. Fifty percent it is! Provided, of course, that Vance Hollister agrees.” Vance didn’t even glance at the industrialist. His eyes were fixed on Nadine. “Whatever my boss says, goes.” He took her hand, not to shake Quigley’s, but to gently intertwine his fingers with hers. He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. “You really are something else, Nadine Finch.” “I know,” she replied, a faint blush dusting her cheeks, a rare sight. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’m due for another nap. All that talking has quite exhausted me.” Vance chuckled, his gaze never leaving her. “Before you do,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his overalls. He pulled out a fresh, gleaming box of imported malt balls, the kind she especially loved. He knelt on one knee, right there amidst the lingering smell of burnt rubber and triumph. The town gasped. Brenda’s thermos clattered to the ground. Nadine, for the first time in memory, sat bolt upright on her couch. “What in the…?” Vance opened the box. Nestled amongst the rich, dark chocolate spheres was a small, velvet-lined ring box. He flicked it open to reveal a diamond, sparkling like a captured star. “Nadine Finch,” he began, his voice surprisingly steady, “I promised you a lifetime of malt balls. And I promise you a lifetime of total stillness, except for me. Will you do me the honor of doing nothing, forever, by my side? Will you marry me?” Nadine stared at the ring, then at Vance’s earnest face. A slow, utterly genuine smile spread across her lips. “Vance Hollister,” she said, her voice softer than usual. “That is the most profoundly appealing proposal I’ve ever heard. Yes. Of course yes.” Cheers erupted from the townsfolk, a stark contrast to the earlier tension. Even Brenda offered a small, weary smile. The prospect of a stable economy, built on smart innovation rather than back-breaking labor, had settled over Mudlark like a warm blanket. In the months that followed, the cannery’s grand vision materialized. Vance’s robotic dollies streamlined production, leading to unprecedented prosperity for the region. The demand for hard labor waned, replaced by skilled oversight, and the town flourished. Brenda Gable, witnessing the transformation and still recovering from her own near-fatal exhaustion, found a new path. She opened a small, sun-drenched café called ‘The Slow Brew,’ serving artisanal coffees and pastries. She still worked hard, but it was a quiet, contented effort, without the frantic drive to outdo anyone. She often saw Nadine, carried by Vance, passing by, and would offer a genuine wave. Sometimes, Nadine even waved back. As for the wedding, it was exactly what Nadine wanted. She refused to leave her custom recliner. So, the kindly Reverend Pilcher, a man who had seen everything in the county, simply walked into the workshop. Vance, in his cleanest overalls, stood proudly beside her couch. Nadine, wearing her favorite silk housecoat, held Vance’s hand, a small, knowing smile on her face. “Do you, Nadine Finch, take this man, Vance Hollister, to be your lawfully wedded husband, promising to do absolutely nothing but love, cherish, and occasionally nap beside him, for as long as you both shall live?” Reverend Pilcher intoned, barely suppressing a chuckle. “I do,” Nadine said, her voice clear and firm. Vance beamed. And so, Nadine Finch found her happily ever after, exactly where she wanted to be. Years later, the valley was a beacon of comfortable prosperity. The whirring of conveyor cables filled the air, a steady hum of progress. From her perpetually plush recliner, a trashy romance novel in one hand, a fresh malt ball in the other, Nadine occasionally glanced at the window. Vance would be out in the sun-dappled driveway, tinkering with a new, even more advanced Snack-Caddy model, whistling a cheerful tune. He was a man deeply in love, building an empire of ease for the woman he adored. She sighed contentedly, flipping a page. Life was perfect. Gloriously, utterly idle.

Happily Doing Nothing