Chapter 12
CHAPTER
TWELVE
CINDEL
Three hours and sixteen minutes in a rental that smells like sourdough and menthols. I opt to drive with my hair up and the windows down. Thank my lucky stars this shit box has Bluetooth capabilities, allowing my temporary torture chamber to at least have quality tunes.
Living in the city, I’ve never had the need to own a car, but my parents were sure to teach my brother and I how to drive.
Theo, of course, excelled at the task. He even had a short stint being a valet driver until he got fired for backing a Porsche into a light pole.
I enjoy driving but know my skills haven’t flourished past automatic, base-model cars.
I wear my crimson, striped sweater, a pair of thick tights, and a pleated skirt.
I really need to get to the laundromat because most of my clothes were beginning to reek like The Black Sheep.
Hopefully, my parents don’t cringe at the odor of cloves and stale beer clinging to the fabric.
They know I’ve had a lot of jobs since college and after a while, they kind of stopped keeping track.
I’m sure my mom would have choice words, if she actually knew the kind of place I worked at.
As I drive, my thumbs make themselves at home, forging a new hole right through each sleeve.
My knuckles are covered, as I battle to stay warm against the chill that whips through the car.
I refuse to close the windows and be imprisoned with this stench.
My weekend bag sits on the passenger seat, overflowing with clothes, a charger, two books, and the materials I require to finish up a project for the Craft Bazaar, coming up next week.
Three hours and sixteen minutes morph into four hours and some change, when an overturned maple syrup truck blocks both lanes.
Traffic piles up, and we are sitting ducks until a tow truck arrives, and the state’s road crew are able to scrape the road for one lane to pass.
When I tell my mom, she becomes anxious to leave, since they would have to take a slightly different route.
They want to arrive at Martha's Vineyard before dark.
So, with a quick, sorry we can’t stay any longer! Followed by a, love you, exchanged via text, they head out.
My karaoke skills are becoming fine-tuned over the long drive, as I sing along with Gwen Stephani and Shirley Manson.
As I continue into the more mountainous terrain, a song comes on, I don’t recall adding to my curated playlist. It starts with a howl, then a tambourine joins in.
Slow, eerie lyrics about a little girl in red being in the woods, all alone.
The words scroll by the screen with the song name: “Lil' red riding hood.” Not bothering to change it, I focus on making the right turns, according to the GPS, so I don’t wind up in the wrong place.
I did however plan to remove the ever so creepy song from my playlist, so I wouldn’t have to listen to it again.
The red marker off the side of the main road indicates I have arrived at my destination.
I pause momentarily, since no one is behind me.
Taking in the long winding driveway, lined with oak trees.
Cautiously I follow the path up the side of the mountain, to a gravel parking area.
A short stone wall separates me from a magical, single-story home.
Ivy cascades down every surface of the structure; lattice windows hold wavy glass, while wooden arched doors made the charming home present as, cozy and inviting.
My parents told me a little about the historical home.
Originally built in the 1920s, it was the kind of place out of a storybook with a blissfully ignorant princess and a fleet of tiny grumpy men, obsessed with treasure.
After I park, I grab my bag and start down the lush path toward my new residence for the next few days. Trees shade the home from every angle. With moss-lining the cobbled path, it seems that even sunny days aren’t enough to warm the grounds.
My dad did a wonderful job maintaining the gardens.
Even though the cooler temperatures slowed down a majority of growth, the foliage is still breathtaking.
Purple ghost shaped flowers line the walkway in front, while a small garden along the side of the house, overflows with rainbow Swiss chard.
It looks like nature's candy, although I don’t recall ever eating it.
Surrounding the property and well into the valley below, is a canvas of fall colors.
Shades of yellow, crimson, and pumpkin-orange cover the expansive mountain views.
I show myself in, using a key underneath the small pelican statue, to the left of the front door.
Just where my parents said it would be. Little specks of dust try to dance across the soft lit room as I step into the classical dwelling.
It appears as if the flecks of lint are attempting to spin and swirl, much like the memory I commonly revisit at night.
I hear something… snapping me from my thoughts, Kingston urgently trots up with happy tail wags.
I oblige by collapsing to the floor and burying my face in his Frito scented fur.
I love his delicious bagged chip smell. After a substantial number of good boys and belly rubs, I find my way to the kitchen, where I set my stuff down.
I also sent a quick text to my parents and Andrea.
Arrived Alive!
I happily wander around the massive house to get a lay of the land, Kingston right beside me.
The largest bedroom is right off the kitchen and appears to be the most lived-in.
It must be where my parents reside while watching this home.
Attached to the sleeping area is a lovely sunroom with an antique, wooden table and matching chair.
I could see myself sitting out here, finishing up projects for the Craft Bazaar.
Kingston follows every step of the way, being the best tour guide.
Just past the kitchen is the living room, complete with reading nook and a grand, navy-blue fireplace.
This house has to be worth over a million bucks!
An extra bedroom just off the sitting area is set up as a study, but my mom mentioned a guest suite outback was made up for my stay.
Hot on my heels, Kingston and I race from the back door to the guest house, about a hundred feet away from the main structure. He wins.
The door opens right into the sleeping area, resembling a miniature version of the house I just toured.
The room is large enough to be comfortable for a short stay, but you have to go from one dwelling to another if you want to access food.
My favorite part is the romantic, clawfoot tub in the corner of the bathroom.
I look forward to washing the stench of the ‘rental car’ off me, in that incredible bath.
After unpacking a few of my things and participating in a spirited round of fetch in the yard with Kingston, I plan to use the rest of the daylight hours to craft, out on the deck.
My parents were right; it is very peaceful here.
It was an ideal time to “get away.” Andrea and I didn’t part on good terms. I regret not trying to see her before I left this morning.
I replay our conversation, trying to analyze if it’s something I said or was she blowing this whole, new guy thing out of proportion.
Should I have led with the earbud and stalker bit?
Of course not, because that sounds like a situation that would incite a whole lot more concern than some innocent flirting with your boss.
Okay. Let’s play devil’s advocate. If it’s not Eamon… then. Who else could it be? A regular customer at the bar? Someone from Star Mart? No one comes to mind, but it only takes one misinterpreted smile to make some weirdo become obsessed with someone who is just trying to do their job.
Really… is it only one-sided? I was stupid enough to take the lonely device home. If I just left it there… I wouldn’t be having this perpetual feeling of being followed or watched wherever I go. I played a part in this. Be that as it may, trying to get rid of it has backfired each time.
Technology was much simpler when I was younger, although it was extremely cumbersome.
Back then, headphones had to rest over my hearing aids.
Now, everything is so advanced I can use my hearing aids to listen to music or earbuds as hearing aids.
They have the capability of doing both. Although, my earbuds have a better sound quality and farther range.
It’s also nice to wear them and appear as if I’m occupied.
I find people don’t bother interacting with me, if they see the little antenna hanging from my ear.
After a while, they do become uncomfortable.
My hearing aids are made for my ears, so I can tolerate them for a much longer period.
Technology may have come far… but it also has the capability of being truly terrifying.
Placing my sparkly Caboodle onto the corner of the wooden desk, I run my hands along the surface appreciating the grooves and notches that the natural wood birthed.
Whether it is the view of the mountains, the cold-crisp air, or the pleasant home; I am keen to create art.
Especially atop something so instinctively beautiful.
I line up rows of rainbows, silk threads on the desk, then carefully arrange earring hoops and metal teardrops in a small dish next to me.
Most of my larger handmade items were back at the apartment, but I want to add accessories, so my booth’s table wasn’t bare at next week’s event.
After some trial and error, I taught myself how to make silk thread and tassel earrings.
Items like these not only draw people into your tent but increase the quantity of items sold per customer.