Chapter 4 #3
After putting a small chicken breast under the broiler, I locate a flowered plate in one of Mabel’s overhead cabinets, then break into the bag of salad I bought today, creating a masterpiece that involves one of Mr. Freeman’s tomatoes.
The thought occurs to me to Instagram my work of fresh garden art—before I remember I no longer have that capability. I’m off the grid.
By the time I’ve eaten and cleaned up, the sun is sinking lower over the winery and I’m hopeful Chief Cordray has gone in for the evening.
Plopping my sun hat back on, I head out and get acquainted with Mabel’s garden hose, grateful it has a spray nozzle attached, and I drag it around to give my new flowers a healthy drink to start reviving them.
My mother was great with flowers, and I think she’d be pleased to see me trying to care for some.
It’s when I stop spraying that I hear the phone ringing inside. I drop the hose and run to answer like a woman on fire. How did people ever survive without caller ID?
Inside, I snatch up the avocado-green receiver. “Hello?”
“You sound out of breath,” Sydney says.
“And you sound like a breath of fresh air,” I reply, since hearing her voice makes me happier than I’ve been all day.
“Is it as bad as you made out, Jess?”
I plop down in the easy chair next to the phone and spill every truth in my head.
“No, it’s not horrible—it’s just ... not what I expected.
And it’s so secluded. And there’s not much to do without the internet I reasonably anticipated.
And I had to drive an hour to get a bag of salad and some boneless chicken breasts.
And I guess it’s all just making me feel . .. even more alone than I am.”
“I’m sorry you feel so lonely. Is there no one you could socialize with at all?”
Okay, I instantly see the irony. “Well, there’s this neighbor guy who seems friendly, but I don’t want anything to do with him. I practically ran away from him an hour ago, even though he was doing me a favor.”
“Is he creepy?” she asks. “Ugh.”
We’ve both dealt with our fair share of creepy men, so I have to be honest and tell her, “No, I don’t get that vibe from him. And he’s the chief of police, which I know doesn’t automatically absolve someone from being creepy, but he seems like ... a normal enough guy who means well.”
“Thennnn ... why are you running away from him?”
It’s a great question, I admit. I think through it carefully.
And I get somewhere. I don’t like the place I come to, but I tell her anyway.
She’s the woman in my life I can do that with, say all the things in my head, good or bad, smart or stupid.
“Maybe I’m just embarrassed. About not liking the way I look right now. ”
“You’re attracted to him then,” she says, like she’s just catching on to something I already know.
But I quickly correct her. “Not even remotely. He’s your classic country bumpkin. He wears a stupid, tattered cowboy hat that looks like it’s been nibbled on by mice. Not my type at all.”
“Then why does it matter what you look like with him?” She sounds truly puzzled.
Which I understand. But I have an answer.
“I think it’s because he’s ... a man in my age range who seems to be single—at least I think he lives alone.
And even though I’m not attracted to him—it’s just that I .
.. wouldn’t want him to think I was . I wouldn’t want him to think the poor cancer patient is into him.
I wouldn’t want him to be nice to me because he feels sorry for me.
Which is ... maybe why he is being so nice to me. ”
“How do you know he knows you had cancer? He’s never met you before, so he doesn’t know anything about you, including what you usually look like.”
I take that in, let out a sigh. “Maybe he doesn’t. But Kevin probably mentioned it. And even if he didn’t ... my hair. No matter who you are, this isn’t normal hair.”
“Um, I disagree. Many strong women choose to wear their hair super short or not there at all.”
“They’re prettier than me.” It just comes out, quick and honest.
“No,” she says knowingly. “They just know they’re beautiful, with or without hair. You need to know that, too.”
Sydney, Sydney, Sydney. I love her for saying that, but the truth is, she loves her hair as much as I loved mine. She’s never been where I am.
We talk a long while, catching up: Jayden is amazing and she might have sex with him soon even though the non-horny side of her intended to wait longer, the kitchen crew ripped up my old flooring today but seem tidy about it, she’s having lunch with Kevin on Tuesday, and she’s excited about a new shampoo she’s trying.
Though she adds to that last part, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I’m an insensitive lout.”
I let her off the hook because we’ve been talking about shampoo for years, and I’m actually pretty excited to be washing my hair again these days.
Funny the things you don’t think you’d miss.
Anyway, I tell her about Mabel’s clouds, and the lake, and the five pots of flowers I bought, and about nice Mr. Freeman and mean Joy Lynn.
We go on and on for two heavenly hours, and I love her for giving me that much time when I’m sure she’s tired and has stuff to do.
“It’ll get better,” she tells me. Because of course it’s the right thing to say, and Sydney is good at that.
“And if it doesn’t?” I ask.
“Then we’ll get good and drunk together on the Fourth of July.”
I hang up feeling ... loved again. Which is nice. Helpful in my current position. The sun has set, darkness falling around the little house in the mountains, and just like last night, I don’t see that I have anything better to do than go to bed early.
After a quick shower in a pink-glazed tub with a matching shower curtain, I put on pj’s and load my toiletries into Mabel’s old-fashioned medicine cabinet above the pink sink.
Moving out into the clouds, I unpack a little more, unzipping a tiny fabric bag containing one simple pendant necklace and a few pairs of earrings.
Usually, in my real life, I’m a jewelry aficionado, a queen of attention-grabbing statement necklaces and bold earrings, but in Lost and Found, I’ll be surprised if I even bother with the simplest pair of earrings.
Still, I spill out the bag’s contents and open the lid of a white jewelry box on the dresser, hoping it will be empty so I can use it.
It’s not empty, though. Sadly, no one thought to clear out Mabel’s jewelry, and I instantly find myself thinking she might have a few interesting treasures—but the main thing that catches my eye is the folded sheet of paper lying flat across the top of the little jewelry dividers.
It says, in blue ink: To my son, my grandchildren, or whoever may find this and care to act on it when I’m dead and gone.