14
“I don’t need all those,” Mrs. Finnamore says.
It’s 10:45 a.m. the next day, and I’m sitting in her kitchen with a half-empty cup of tea in front of me. I should have left
for my museum shift about ten minutes ago, since I need to pick Jim up on the way, but Mrs. Finnamore is really digging her
heels in about taking her medications today. When I came by to set them out at 8 a.m. (the time she’s actually supposed to
take them), she told me she would take them after breakfast. When I stopped by an hour later, she said her heartburn was acting
up. Now, it’s that she doesn’t need them.
“I mean... it’s up to you,” I say uncertainly, “but you know Debra wants you to take them.”
“Debra is not in charge of me.”
“I know. But the doctor wants you to take them too.” I actually looked all her medicines up online, and some of them seem
really important.
Mrs. Finnamore makes a dismissive sound. “Doctors these days don’t know what they’re doing. Bill didn’t take a single pill
his entire life and he was fit as a fiddle.”
Bill was Mrs. Finnamore’s husband. I hesitate. “Didn’t he die from diabetes, though?”
She looks at me sharply. “That was genetic .”
I sigh and put her med pack down. I have a feeling this isn’t happening today. “Okay, well... I really need to get going.”
Mrs. Finnamore fiddles with the handle of her teacup. “Those doctors didn’t do anything for Bill,” she says, as though I haven’t spoken. “They just wanted him to take insulin. Twenty years, they kept pushing those shots on him. And then when he finally gave in, it wasn’t six months later that he died.”
I bite my lip. I’m not a doctor, but I’m pretty sure Mrs. Finnamore is misunderstanding the situation. I think not starting the insulin for twenty years might’ve been the problem. But I’m not about to say that to her. I bet it helps having
someone to blame.
“Do you miss him a lot?” I ask.
“Oh, you know,” she says vaguely.
“Not really.” I give her a small smile. “The longest relationship I’ve ever been in was only two years. Weren’t you and Mr.
Finnamore together for, like, forty?”
Mrs. Finnamore fiddles with her teacup for another moment and then lets out a heavy breath. “You young girls are smart not
to get married too quickly.”
I hesitate, then say tentatively, “Were you... not happy with Mr. Finnamore?”
“Oh, we were very happy,” Mrs. Finnamore says colorlessly. “But youth is a precious thing.” She looks at me. “You should be
very careful not to waste it.”
An unpleasant shiver runs over my skin. I’m definitely going to have to dig into this Bill situation way more sometime. But
right now, I really have to go.
“I’ll stop by later,” I promise her. “We’ll have tea.”
She nods and says she’d like that, but I can tell her mind is still far away. There’s a heavy feeling in my chest as I drive to Jim’s. I was mostly joking when I told John I think the Wordle answers are con nected to my life, but I can’t fight the sense that Mrs. Finnamore’s warning really is related to me. Youth is a precious thing, she said. And mine is slipping away by the second.
Jim is waiting for me outside of his house, dressed in his museum security vest.
“Hello, dear,” he says, getting into the passenger seat.
I force myself to put on a sunny smile. “Sorry I’m late. Ready to fight off barrel thieves?”
Jim chuckles. “Ready.”
I roll down the windows to let in the warm, sweet-smelling breeze, and connect my phone to the car speakers. A bright, lively
song starts up.
“What station is this?” Jim asks.
I smile. “It’s not the radio. I made a playlist of songs from the fifties for you.”
Jim listens for a moment. “Is that the Diamonds?”
I nod.
He chuckles. “I haven’t heard this song in years.”
“I could make a playlist on your computer for you, if you wanted.”
“Oh, you know I don’t fuss much with that thing.” He’s quiet for another few minutes, tapping his fingers gently to the music.
I have to admit, the fifties music is really growing on me. It’s so folksy and cheerful. It’s not doing much to lift my mood
right now, though. Mrs. Finnamore’s words are still sitting like a weight on my chest.
“Is everything all right?” Jim asks, as we pull onto the road into town.
“Oh—yes, sorry. I’m just thinking.” I pause for a second, then ask, “Do you ever have any regrets about your life?”
“Of course not,” he answers, without even a second of hesitation. “Why? Is something wrong?”
“No. Not exactly.” I flick my blinker on at the stop sign. “I guess I’m just worried I’m wasting my youth.”
“You don’t like living here?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it,” I say, feeling a stab of loyalty as I turn onto Main Street. “I’m just not sure I’m happy
enough, I guess.”
“You’ll never be happy if you think too much,” Jim says.
I chuckle. “So your advice is to think less?”
“Exactly. It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” He gestures to the cloudless sky. “We’ve got good music, good company. What else do
you need?”
“I’m not sure it’s that simple.”
Jim waves a dismissive hand. “Life is only as complicated as you make it.”
I twist my mouth doubtfully. “But didn’t you ever hope your life would turn out to be... I don’t know, bigger than it was?”
“What do you mean, bigger?”
“I don’t know. More important, I guess. Not that your life wasn’t important,” I add hastily. “I just mean—I don’t know, was
it your dream to work at the post office all those years? Or was there something else you wanted to do more?”
Jim considers this as I pull into the museum parking lot. “There were thousands of things I wanted to do, I’m sure,” he says.
“But you can’t do everything you want to do in life.”
He says it like it’s simple, but if anything, I feel even more stressed than before. Because he’s right. You can’t do everything
you want to in life. Which means I have to be even more certain about what I decide to do. I don’t want to wind up like Mrs. Finnamore, mourning her lost youth and talking about her husband in that flat, lifeless way.
I sigh and follow Jim into the museum, where I settle in at the front desk and Jim heads off to the back. I take out a stack
of bright yellow Barrel Into Summer flyers, which I printed at the library last night. I’ve already put up about fifty around
town, at places like the community center and grocery store and pharmacy and bakery. I tape a few to the wall behind the front
desk, then, for good measure, I tape one across from the toilet in the bathroom. I’m determined that everyone who comes in
here to pee is going to leave knowing about this event.
I’m deciding whether or not I should put flyers near some of the exhibits when my phone buzzes in my bag.
[11:24] John: heading your way
[11:24] John: you want a coffee?
I bite the inside of my lip. Yesterday, I’ll admit, this text might’ve given me a fizzy little burst of excitement, but now
I’m not so sure. This is probably how Mrs. Finnamore got into trouble. She probably thought Bill was a bit of a looker, and
then he asked her out and she thought, sure, no harm in having one date with a good-looking chap, even if he’s clearly not
husband material. But then, boom! Eighty years pass by and her life is nearly over and she’s wishing she could go back and
get a do-over.
On the other hand, Jim would tell me to stop overthinking and just focus on being happy in the moment. Plus, the situation with John is totally different, since I already know he isn’t interested, which means I don’t have to worry about getting trapped in a second-rate marriage. This is just a silly little one-sided attraction. There’s absolutely no harm in enjoying it for what it is.
Yes. That makes sense. I’m going to go with that.
I turn back to my phone.
[11:25]: Would love one. ?
Five hours later, John still hasn’t left the museum.
He and I did Wordle together over coffee (PLEAT, on the fifth guess), then I took him to the back room to introduce him to
Trey. They’ve been back there ever since, hammering and drilling and having enthusiastic arguments about—I don’t know, how
to hammer and drill things properly, I guess. It sounds like they’re having fun, so I mostly leave them to it, popping back
every once in a while to make sure they haven’t lost sight of my (slightly whimsical) artistic vision.
Shelley is eventually drawn out of her office to complain about the noise, but she stops short when she sees that it’s Trey’s
doing. I think she might be a little intimidated by him, actually. She limits her complaints to a sour frown and then retreats
back into her office without even asking what they’re up to.
About ten minutes after she leaves for the day, a pretty, heavyset woman with short brown hair pokes her head in the front
door. She’s carrying two pizza boxes in one hand.
“Shelley gone yet?” she asks me.
“Er—yes,” I say uncertainly. “Were you hoping to speak with her? Or did you want to buy a ticket to the museum?”
She grins. “I’m hoping you’ll let me in for free. I’m Rose. Trey’s wife.”
“Oh!” I smile and offer my hand. “I’m Emily.”
“Figured I’d bring you all some dinner,” Rose says. “But not Shelley,” she adds conspiratorially.
I stifle a giggle. “The boys are out back.”
I lock the front door and turn the Open sign to Closed, then we head to the back room, where Jim is watching Trey and John
work. They’re only halfway done with the exhibit, but I can already tell it’s going to look amazing.
Rose balances the pizza boxes on a nearby barrel and we all gather around to eat. I’m a bit worried it will be awkward, but
Rose is one of those rare people who can make everyone feel instantly at ease. She chastises Trey for working with his injured
hand and gets a laugh out of Jim by calling his son a “total looker.” (Apparently Jim’s son was her teacher in high school.)
When I tell her about the Barrel Into Summer event, she offers to take flyers around her neighborhood to drum up interest.
“It’s about time someone did something with this place,” she says. “It’s such a beautiful building. And totally wasted under
Shelley’s management.”
“Rose and Shelley went to high school together,” Trey adds.
“And we used to work together at the grocery store,” Rose says. “She used to bounce around from job to job, putting in a million complaints about her coworkers and managers and trying to get put off on stress leave... When Josephine died, everyone hoped the historical society wouldn’t hire her, but I guess they wanted to keep things in the family, for Jo’s sake. But Jo would be rolling in her grave to see her running this place. They never got along when she was alive.” She shakes her head. “Maybe you can take over her job someday.”
I point at myself. “Me?”
“Why not?” Rose says. “You’d do a way better job than Shelley. And tourism is really skyrocketing these days. Mark my words,
this place will outstrip Summerside in a few years.”
I smile a little guiltily and say nothing, because it would be way too rude to say how I really feel. I love this place, but
being the manager of a tiny museum in small-town PEI is pretty much the opposite of my dream job. And even if it was my dream
job, there’s no way Shelley will ever give it up. She gets paid to sit in her office scrolling through Facebook while volunteers
do the actual work. Why on earth would she ever leave?
Rose changes the subject to ask how Jim’s daughter is doing since getting out of the hospital, and then she tells a story
about a customer at the grocery store who tried to smuggle a thirty-pound bag of dog food out under his T-shirt, which leaves
us all laughing over our last bites of pizza. A little after six, we all head out to our cars.
“Want me to drive you home, Jim?” Rose asks. “We live just up the road from him,” she adds to me.
Jim agrees, and the three of them head off in Rose’s car. John has parked a little farther up the street, near me. We walk
along the sidewalk together in silence. The air is cool and sweet-smelling, and the trees that line the road rustle gently
in the breeze. I glance sideways at John, who’s walking with his hands shoved in his pockets. I wonder if he thinks it’s strange
to be hanging out with me like this outside of work.
“Thanks for all your help today,” I say as we reach my car.
“No worries.” He pulls his car keys from his pocket. “It was fun.”
“I told you, barrel museums are super cool.”
John chuckles. “‘Super cool’ might be a stretch.”
“Extraordinarily cool, then.”
“Passably cool,” he counters.
I grin. “I’ll take it.”
A little silence falls between us, but for once, it doesn’t feel awkward. If anything, it feels sort of charged. Like the
end of a date, almost.
I bite my lip. I’m tempted to say something flirty to keep the conversation going, but that would be stupid. This isn’t a
date, and I don’t have a crush on John.
“Well, night,” I say hastily.
“Night,” he says. Then, as I open my car door, “Don’t start Wordle tomorrow without me.”
My heart does a stupid flip-flop inside my chest. “Or what?”
“Or nothing,” he says. “Just don’t do it.”
He shoots me a grin after he says it, and I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t do seriously twisty things to my insides.
“We’ll see,” I retort. Then I get into my car and let my head drop onto my steering wheel as he walks away.
I hope tomorrow’s Wordle answer is MORON.