Call It Serendipity
Chapter 1
Because the alternate route I took hasn’t been making me feel like an expert at all lately. If anything, I’ve watched the hours tick by into an abysmal lack of progress.
The headphone cord is tangled in the spiral of my blank sketchpad, and I unravel it before settling the orange cushions over my ears. Pushing play, I’m greeted by the Gin Blossoms serenading me as I tuck the Walkman back away and sling the leather tote over my shoulder.
Crossing the animal shelter’s threshold and locking the front door, I spot my mom hanging out her kitchen window and waving a checkered dishtowel my way. She’s shouting about something, but I can’t hear over my favorite CD.
She scowls when I don’t respond, pointing at her ears as if to say, take those headphones off.
I hit pause and lift one side up as requested. “Yes?” I ask innocently, careful to mask my impatience.
“Come over and eat dinner with us. You haven’t the last three times you closed.”
There is only a short path between my childhood home and the red barn converted into Pine + Paw, making it handy for my dad to do his nightly checks on the animals—as well as for my parents to track my coming and goings, even in my mid-twenties.
“Can’t tonight, Mom. I have to get in the studio.” I release the headset, letting it close over my ear once more. At least, I hope I finally step foot back in my studio.
“You said that last time.” Her voice is muffled, and nearly cut off by my hitting play on the Walkman once more.
“Soon,” I call back, waving over my shoulder and starting up the gravel drive.
With five acres, there is a coziness that comes from the densely wooded property on the edge of town. Growing up, it always felt like the best of both words to me. Secluded yet easily walkable to our sleepy mountain village.
And now, only an eleven-minute walk to my own home on the other side of Ellicottville’s quaint downtown.
I inhale the fresh pine and hint of chill in the September air before reaching the sidewalk at the end of the drive. Autumn is coming—crisp, cozy, and the golden hour of the year. The best time of the year.
Turning left to follow the creek, I start towards the square of brick businesses situated beneath the mountain backdrop. Through the trees, they add depth rather than being a commanding sight. And for at least a while longer, they’re as green as the rest of the village landscape.
The next song starts up as I make another left, this time on to Monroe Street.
It’s not my typical route, but I’ve been curious about the vacant brewery at the corner of Monroe and Martha Streets lately.
Mainly because it hasn’t appeared as vacant—the other day, I caught a single light glowing through the Kraft paper over the windows.
It has been a bit of a sore spot for our town these last few years—the owner managed to start the necessary renovations to make it a brewery, and then promptly drained his budget when a problem arose. The bank seized the property, leaving it a shell of a dream on our otherwise quaint streets.
But now… I turn towards the structure, swearing I’d just seen movement inside, and take a step across the street. My house is just up Martha, but as a single, blinding headlight stops me in my tracks, I wonder if I’ll ever make it there.
When people talk about fight, flight, or freeze, I always imagined I was a flight kind of gal. It turns out, I freeze.
My eyes squeeze shut as Gin Blossoms continue to regale me in these final moments. It’s a fitting music choice, really.
But the impact is significantly softer than I expect when one prepares to be struck by a motorcycle. Instead of a painful collision, strong arms envelop me in wool and the smell of woodsy warmth with a hint of cinnamon.
I peel one eye open and peek through my dark, curtain bangs. It would seem I am very much alive, if my pounding heart rate is any indication, and wrapped in the protective embrace of an achingly handsome man.
I’m also no longer frozen in the middle of the street, pulled from harm’s way as the motorcycle continues on past us.
My eyes dart from it and back to my savior.
His dark gaze is soft and his brow is furrowed by concern.
And his honey brown hair is mussed, as if caught in a breeze from running to my rescue.
His lips are moving, but all I hear is Robin Wilson belting out his third song now. Realizing that I can’t hear him, the stranger reaches up with his hand and slowly points at his ear.
This time, I don’t pull my headphones off. Instead, with my face aflame in embarrassment, I finally take flight. I run all the way up Martha Street to the safety of my home.