Chapter 4
Miles
Monday
I should have taken my guitar with me, but in the middle of everything that the conversation stirred up, I didn’t grab it.
I felt like being loud, but not with words.
Playing the guitar was how I let everything out without speaking.
I never really vented to anyone, and honestly, I didn’t know who I’d call if I wanted to.
My friend group back in the city wasn’t the kind that talked deeply about anything.
When something upset me, I’d just meet up with them, and we’d go do something — have an illegal drink, shoot some hoops, or wander around the mall letting our eyes get distracted by girls.
Anything except actually talking about it.
I looked out the car window and recognized a pastry shop, it had been the first stop my mom and I made in this town on the day we arrived.
I hadn’t paid much attention to anything that day either.
My frustration with the news of the move had caused a cloud to grow around me that I hadn’t even tried to lift.
But I remembered the chicken pie.
So, I parked the car and walked to the wooden sign that read “Village Oven”, hanging right above the door of the little pastry shop.
It was a place that extended further than it seemed from the outside.
All the tables and chairs were made of wood.
Vases with flowers distinguished one table from another.
Many customers stood attentively, contemplating the display of sweets and savory snacks, and even so, the terrace outside was full.
While I was sitting at one of the small wooden tables, lost in thought over my chicken pie, I got the feeling I was being watched.
My gaze lifted to a woman standing by the counter near the door.
She looked to be in her 70s, wearing a long white dress, carrying a purse on her shoulder, two bags in one hand, and a box of something from the bakery in the other.
She looked at me serenely. Maybe judging my chicken pie choice. Maybe trying to place me.
A few seconds passed. I looked behind me, but my eyes met only the wall. I watched her as she slowly turned toward the door and disappeared.
Moments later, I stepped outside too. The sun was low, hiding behind the tall trees that lined the sidewalk of the village’s main street.
People were coming in and out of the café, smiling and greeting those sitting on the terrace.
I decided I would keep driving around.
When I turned left onto a narrow pedestrian road to get to my car, I ran into the lady from before, the one who had studied my face with the look of someone trying to crack a puzzle.
She was walking at a brisk pace, seeming either super busy or super late.
I walked behind her. Her hair was light gray, short, and arranged in perfect curls.
A roll of duct tape fell out of one of her bags and rolled toward my feet. I bent down to pick it up.
“Miss, I’m sorry, you dropped this,” I called out, hurrying to catch up with her.
She turned, glanced at my hands to see what I was holding, and a smile found her lips.
“Oh, honey, thank you so much! You wouldn’t believe how indispensable this is!” she said joyfully. There was so much energy in her voice.
Then she asked if I was heading in the same direction as her. And I was, indeed.
“Wonderful! Could you please do me the biggest favor and help me carry some of these to the bus stop right there?” She tilted her head toward the end of the street.
“If you’re not in a hurry!” she added. “You know, the elders never realize when they’re disturbing the younger ones’ plans,” she said in a playful tone.
“Well…” Some agony still took over me, born from the thought that I had absolutely no plans she would be disturbing me from. “Of course! Let me help you.”
I took the weight off the two bags she was balancing on each of her shoulders and followed her right away.
She thanked me twice more, asked for my name, told me hers, and noted that she had never seen me around before. She said that her eyes were like the town’s dictionary of people, and that I was not written in it.
I told her I had just moved. She told me she hoped I would love it here.
As soon as we got to the bus stop, she ordered me to put everything down on the bench.
I obeyed, and watched her approach an elderly couple to ask them something about bus schedules.
I did not intend to, but I heard their back-and-forth conversation.
She wouldn’t be catching any buses in the near future.
After a few moments, she came back to me and the bags. The words simply slipped.
“I can give you a ride, Miss Amara.” And why wouldn’t I?
Her face lit up, but she immediately focused her eyes on mine.
“I’m grateful, honey. But are you sure you don’t mind?”
“I have absolutely nowhere to be,” I unraveled.
And maybe it was my tone, maybe it was how straightforward and certain I sounded, maybe she saw right through me. She kept her eyes fixed on mine, and it was as if her mind had made a decision.
Later, I realized it had been the decision to open her arms to me. She decided to make me her companion.
“Well, then we’ll take a quick stop on the way!” she said, smiling and gesturing for me to lead us to the car.
“Now, honey,” Miss Amara ordered me around, but I was starting to like her company like that. “Please bring the bigger bags, because my arms have already done their workout of the day.”
I grabbed all the stuff crammed into the trunk of the car and quickened my pace to follow her. For such a small woman, she definitely had animated legs.
She tore off some branches of pink flowers that were leaning against the wall and opened the big gate next to them, which wasn’t locked, nor did it seem to have a functional lock.
“Is this your place, Miss Amara?” I asked her.
“Ah!” She giggled. “No, not mine, Miles.”
Suddenly, I asked myself if I should be entering this stranger’s farm with another stranger I’d just met.
As we walked in, I could smell freshly cut grass and the intense scent of cake baking, probably coming from an oven somewhere. Maybe this was a hotel, with a restaurant that would make you want to follow the smell, like in a cartoon.
We stepped inside the enormous house — or hotel? Who knew — through a wooden door at the right corner of the building’s facade. Not seeming to be the main door. Seeming more like a suspicious kind of walk-in to somewhere that wasn’t yours.
Okay.
I was starting to suspect the whole thing.
We pass through a corridor with a few closed doors. I peeked through one that was slightly open and saw a boy standing on one leg, stretching it as he seemed to struggle to maintain his balance. Next to him was a man in a white coat. Maybe a doctor?
Was this a hospital?
“So, whose place is this, Miss Amara?” I asked, still following her.
She never stopped walking, and as the wall ended and we turned left, we stepped out into the huge garden.
It had about 50 people scattered around, who seemed to be of all ages.
Some were in groups, others alone. I saw smiles, concentration over cards, and heard laughter and chatter.
Miss Amara stretched her arm toward the view and held her words for a few seconds.
“It’s all of ours,” she answered.
“Oh! Come with me!” Miss Amara ordered enthusiastically. “Ella, honey!” she shouted.
I looked in the direction her steps were taking her and followed very slowly behind, as if something told me to maybe slow down into this moment.
Toward a girl lying in the grass, leaning against the trunk of a tree, wearing the brightest smile, and with no shoes on.
She got up to give Miss Amara a hug, and the sun hugged her golden hair simultaneously.