Chapter 9. Lenore
Lenore
I slap the journal shut.
I don’t have to finish reading that particular entry to know how the story ends. The baseball hit me in the face. I got a black eye, went crying to our grandmother, and Damien was grounded, except for school and practice.
It was the first time we ever argued in front of her, so it comes as little surprise that Gran wrote about it.
In a strange way, I suppose it was also the first sign that we had settled in and learned to belong.
We were no longer in survival mode. For so many years, our lives had orbited around each other as the only constant, that gravity that kept our feet planted firmly on the ground when everything else was topsy-turvy.
I still followed my brother around and looked up to him, but it no longer felt like speaking out against him was betraying some unspoken pact. It was no longer us against the world.
I sigh through my nose and lean my shoulder against the nearest porch column, the journal clutched in my lap.
It’s a brisk morning, fog blanketing the orchard.
The first day of autumn, if you believe the Gregorian calendar.
Birds warble high in the maples, where the leaves are tinged with the first gold of the season.
A low grumbling breaks through the quiet and then an old Chevy pickup ambles up the driveway.
I tuck the journal down inside my tote bag and climb to my feet, adjusting my chunky scarf.
Callan didn’t say where he’s taking me, so I could only guess at appropriate attire.
It’s chilly enough this morning that I’ve thrown on a thrifted fisherman sweater and a pair of sherpa-lined boots.
My hair could use a wash, so I twisted it away into a claw clip, leaving my bangs down.
I cross the dooryard and climb inside the truck, where the heater’s blasting, condensation gathering at the edges of the windshield.
“Morning,” I say breathlessly, buckling in.
His blackish hair is tucked beneath a forest-green beanie, but otherwise, he’s dressed in his usual: a durable canvas work jacket and work-worn jeans.
Clamped between his thighs are two thermoses.
Following my gaze, Cal explains, “No cup holders,” and raises a thermos in offering. “It’s not much, but it’s better than that instant sludge you’ve been drinking.”
“Thank you.” I accept as he swings around the end of the driveway, the whole vehicle bouncing over uneven terrain. “So, where are we headed?”
“You know,” he says, brow crinkling beneath his beanie as he tosses me a look. “Some people might accept that it’s supposed to be a surprise, and stop asking so many questions.”
“I wouldn’t trust those people. I don’t trust anyone who’s okay with not knowing things.”
“I’m getting the sense that you hate surprises,” he teases.
“Hate is a strong word.”
“So, the surprise birthday party I’ve been planning—”
I laugh. “Twenty bucks says you don’t even remember my birthday.”
“May twenty-third,” he says, without missing a beat.
My lips part. I ransack my memory for his birthday, but come up short. I think it was sometime in November, but the fact that he remembers mine down to the day makes me feel like I’ve lost some imaginary battle.
“Watch your coffee,” he says, right as we hit the dip at the end of the driveway, jostling the whole cab. Watery brown liquid splashes out of my thermos and onto my lap. How could I have forgotten about the driveway dip?
I pop open the glove box and use spare napkins to mop it up. Cal chuckles under his breath. “Shut up,” I say, wadding up a napkin and tossing it at him.
“Whoa, you’re not supposed to throw things at the driver!”
“There’s no one else on the road. There’s not even another house for at least a mile.”
“What if I drove into a culvert?” he says.
“I don’t know, maybe don’t drive into a culvert,” I cry out.
“I wouldn’t do it on purpose,” he says, holding back a grin.
“I would hope not,” I say. “I’m trusting you with my life here.”
“A big step, for someone who struggles with trust.”
I take a sip from my thermos—warm with a splash of milk, no sweetener, but it’s drip coffee, so it’s at least marginally better than the motor oil I’ve been drinking—and give him a bland smile. See? I trust him enough not to poison me.
It’s a five-minute drive to downtown Whitbury. The sole traffic light blinks red and a barricade blocks High Street, where the sidewalk is abloom with pop-up canopies.
“You’ve brought me to the farmer’s market,” I say, skeptical.
I’ve been here more times than I can count.
It was a popular hangout during the summer when school was out.
Parents would set their kids loose in the morning, secure in the knowledge that the entire town was keeping an eye on them.
In high school, I’d wander from booth to booth with Shelby, trying on polymer clay earrings and eating home-baked miniature pies.
“Not just any farmer’s market,” Cal says. “The best farmer’s market in the county.”
“It’s a county of six thousand people,” I point out. “I wouldn’t expect there to be fierce competition.”
“You’d be surprised.”
We park in the public lot behind the post office.
September is the last month before the market moves into the local Grange Hall for the colder months, so the town has come out in full force this morning.
A live band sets up their sound equipment in the shade beneath the gazebo on the town-square lawn.
We sip our coffees as we wander past stalls selling flavored honey sticks and vegetables pickled in mason jars, their lids tied with twine around gingham fabric.
“So,” he says, “what do you think?”
I look around at all the peck baskets, tiny pumpkins, and jewel-toned flint corn. “I think it’s been a long time since I’ve seen this many gourds gathered in one place.”
“It is atypical gourd behavior,” he agrees. “I’m conducting a study on it.”
I laugh. “Seriously, why are we here?”
“Would you say that you’ve always had trust issues?” He’s poking fun, but there’s a genuine question buried in there.
I bump him with my shoulder. “I don’t have trust issues.”
Maybe that’s not entirely true. On average, I trust people. I trust them to be at least somewhat honest, to tell their version of the truth, to mostly follow the law when other people are watching—but it’s hard to trust them not to leave. Or not to forget, which is its own form of leaving.
“I thought maybe you could sell your art someplace like this,” Cal says, gesturing around the market with his thermos in hand. “A small fee for the booth, but no galleries to gatekeep or charge you an overhead. You’d sell directly to the customers.”
My heart sinks. So, this is why he brought me here. “I’ve tried that before.”
“And?”
“And people don’t come to an open-air market to spend art money,” I say. “You’re talking about a completely different sort of clientele. I might sell a few prints, sure, but I can’t make a living.”
“So, maybe it’s not a living,” he says. “Maybe you do it because you love it.”
“Maybe I don’t love it anymore,” I counter.
We walk for a moment in fraught silence, taking in the sounds of the market: people shouting as they spot neighbors across the street, metal poles clanking as canopies are erected, vehicles humming as they unload their fresh-picked vegetables.
It’s so much calmer than the city, but a welcome change.
The weather is clear and cool, distant sunlight burning through early morning clouds to reveal a wide blue sky.
“Who was it?” Cal asks suddenly.
“Who?” I echo, like a disoriented owl.
“Your muse,” he says. “Your brother mentioned that you were engaged to someone back in New York.”
I snort. “Not anymore.” I swing a finger toward him. “And for the record, he wasn’t my muse.”
“Anything to do with the whole trust thing?”
A dry laugh escapes me. “What, you think I drove him away because I didn’t trust him or something?”
“No,” he says. “I was more wondering whether he did something to break your trust.”
My relationship with trust is a little more complicated than that. “Since we’re already prying,” I say, itching to change the subject, “why aren’t you seeing anyone? You’re not getting any younger.”
It occurs to me, as soon as the words leave my mouth, that it’s possible he is dating. I know next to nothing about his personal life. Abruptly, the curiosity is burning me alive.
“I’m twenty-nine,” he says, splaying a hand over his chest in feigned offense.
I click my tongue. “Dangerously close to thirty.”
“I’ve got a few months left in me.”
“So, let’s have it,” I say as we walk. “What’s your fatal flaw? No, let me guess.” I squint at him. “You don’t read.”
“I read,” he says.
“You only read nonfiction books with titles like Ten Steps to Manipulating Everyone Around You.”
“I’ll have you know that I’m on my twelfth reread of Fifty Shades.”
I gasp. “You own a sex dungeon.”
“Lenore,” he says grimly, “I don’t even own a house.”
“You use five-in-one shampoo.”
“I’m flattered,” he says.
“How,” I say.
“You can’t see any good reason why I’m single, so you’re trying to find something wrong with me.”
I’m grinning despite myself. “Technically, there’s something wrong with everyone.”
“That’s a weirdly cynical way of saying ‘nobody’s perfect.’”
Past his shoulder, my eyes clamp on a banner strung across a volunteer table: WHITBURY HISTORICAL SOCIETY. Patty Wilcox swings an arm overhead in greeting.
I lift my hand in a tentative wave. Callan tracks my line of vision.
“Shit,” he mutters, and shifts behind me like he might use me as a human shield.
Patty exchanges a few words with the other woman manning the booth, then rounds the table, pausing to let a family with a stroller pass in front of her.
“Shit,” Callan says again, and whips his gaze toward either end of the road, searching for an out.
A laugh jumps from my throat. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a sweet old lady.”