Chapter 2 #3
Sporting faded yellow clapboard trimmed in chipped cottage green, it possesses a cracked concrete porch edged with 1970s twisted iron railing and a detached garage. A flower bed in front is overrun with weeds. It’s ... not charming.
It’s so not charming that I’m confused and find myself questioning if I’m even in the right place.
I look at Kev’s directions again, but they still say “Lost Valley Lane,” same as the street sign.
I sit in my parked car blinking at the house, as if that’s somehow going to change the view.
As if I’m going to open my eyes and suddenly see the fresh coat of paint it needs, or the updated porch, or something that’s not just .
.. a little depressing. This isn’t what I hoped for.
Nor is it the bill of goods my dear friend sold me to get me here.
I was promised charm, and instead I’m three and a half hours away from home, stuck in Drabsville.
I don’t really want to get out of my car. I actually want to drive right back to where I came from, kitchen remodel be damned.
But I do what I always do—I take a minute and regroup. Then I get out, walk around the car, lean against the fender, and just look at the place.
I’m still standing there, trying to wrap my head around this, when a deep country drawl comes from my right. “You must be my new neighbor.”
I nearly leap out of my skin I’m so surprised, and I look over to see a guy in his early forties, average build, T-shirt and jeans, with dark hair peeking from beneath a beat-up straw cowboy hat. He’s wearing dirt-covered work boots.
Stopping about five yards away, he offers up a slight grin. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle ya.” He has such an easy way about him that I can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or with me. Especially since I’m not doing any laughing.
“No worries,” I reply. “Just wasn’t sure I was in the right place.”
“Lotta people say that when they reach Lost Valley,” he tells me. “And most of ’em really are lost.” His expression makes him appear generally amused, though I’m not sure about what. “But if you’re lookin’ for Mabel Callahan’s house, you’ve found it.”
Kevin’s last name is indeed Callahan, so this seals it. “In fact I am. Thank you for letting me know I’m in the right place,” I say. Dismissing him. Sending him on his way. Since I have no idea who he is and I’m a woman alone here and all that.
But he doesn’t go. “I live right there.” He points to the white farmhouse in the adjoining yard. “And I take care of Mabel’s place for the family.”
“I see.” I’m still trying to dismiss him. And feeling glad the yards are at least expansive, far more than most in the city or suburbs, since I’m just wanting to do my time here and hadn’t given a thought to the possibility of neighbors.
“Kevin asked me to get in some groceries for ya—just a few staples. I picked up milk, bread, eggs, and some chocolate chip break-and-bake cookies.”
Although I should perhaps focus on the fact that his mention of Kevin does something to confirm he’s on the level, I feel my eyebrows—what’s left of them after chemo—shoot up in doubt for an entirely different reason. “Cookies are a staple?”
“They are for me.” He winks.
What is he doing? Flirting? Or feeling sorry for the lady with no hair? Since it seems likely big-mouth Kevin explained why I’m here. Or ... is this guy just Mr. Neighborly? I really can’t get a bead on him.
“Of course, my belly might argue that.” Still smiling, he pats it through a maroon T-shirt advertising Ruby Falls, though it looks fine to me. He has a slow, relaxed, country way of talking. “But we all got our weaknesses, right?”
I have no intention of discussing weaknesses with this guy, so I say, “Well, thanks for the food.”
But he still shows no signs of leaving. “There’s a market in town where ya can pick up the basics,” he informs me. “Or there’s a Walmart about an hour away in Hazard.”
Aha. I knew it.
“Can I help ya get your stuff inside?”
So now he’s a bellhop, too. I mean, I know he’s just being polite, but ... “No thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I’m good.”
He eyes my packed-to-the-gills car dubiously. “You sure?”
I nod succinctly and decide that changing the subject might be the most useful tactic I can employ. “Mostly what I’ll need is the Wi-Fi password.” I glance at my phone to see that I still have no signal, phone or internet, so I’ll need that password even worse than I expected.
“Oh,” he says, losing the welcoming look for the first time. “No Wi-Fi out here.”
My eyes open wider, and I begin to blink. “I’m sorry—what?”
“No Wi-Fi,” he repeats, loudly, like maybe I’m just hard of hearing.
I narrow my gaze. “How can that be?” Since this makes no sense to me. Isn’t there Wi-Fi ... everywhere now? This isn’t the dark ages of 1999, after all.
“Well,” he says, looking confused now, too, but perhaps more by my reaction than the question, “there just isn’t.”
Though surely he’s mistaken. Because Kevin would not have sent me to a place with no internet connection. Then again, he promised me a charming cottage and I’m not getting that, either. But I still refuse to believe this. “Are you sure?”
At this point the neighbor’s eyes have gone wide, and he gives an exaggerated nod, like I might not be the sharpest tool in the shed.
I’m still trying to puzzle this through, though, certain we’re simply not communicating well.
“Okay, I understand it’s a dead zone—I lost my GPS a while back—but if Kevin’s grandma never had Wi-Fi installed in the house, I gladly will.
I need it.” For my TV and movie streaming.
For my social media. For my texting and phone calls.
For ... pretty much everything I plan to do here to kill time.
“Just tell me who to contact—who’s the provider in this area? ”
“No provider,” he says, simple as that.
But I’m still perplexed, squinting at him now. “What does that mean? Every city has a provider. Or even a lot more than one.”
“Afraid you’re not in the city anymore, darlin’.” Oh boy, did this man just call me “darlin’”? Does he think it’s 1955? Of course, if he’s telling me there’s truly no way to connect to the internet, it might as well be 1955.
“Yes, except ...” I don’t even know what I’m planning to dispute here, so I trail off.
And he goes on. “A provider has to put the lines in the ground, or towers in the sky, and we don’t have that luxury here yet, and maybe never will. Don’t think we’re real high on Verizon’s list of places urgent to get connected to the rest of the world.”
I’m pretty sure I’m looking at him like he’s got horns growing out of his head. “But how ...? But what ...? I mean, how do I call out?”
His laughter irritates me. “Well, we do have telephones,” he assures me. “We might not have the latest technology, but we’re not that far behind.”
I find that debatable. “So there’s a working landline in there,” I ask to confirm, pointing to the yellow house.
“Yes ma’am.”
“And that’s ... it,” I say, to make sure I’m really understanding this correctly. “That’s the only way to communicate with the outside world here.”
“Unless you wanna send up some smoke signals,” he says, “yep, pretty much.” I’m fairly certain he’s making fun of me now.
But then he points in the general direction of Lost and Found.
“Mind you, some folks claim if you stand in just the right spot in the old Piggly Wiggly parking lot outside town you can get a decent signal. Apparently it sneaks through the gap between the mountains there.”
“Some folks?” I inquire.
He holds up his hands in a “search me?” kind of way. “Can’t confirm it myself—don’t have a cell phone.”
“Because you ... can’t get a signal anywhere around here,” I say, thinking out loud. Sadly, I’m starting to catch on to the reality of this situation.
“And you can always go to the library over in Brandywine if it’s that important to ya.”
“How far is that ? And they have internet? Why do they get so lucky?”
“About half an hour thataway.” He points in a northeasterly direction.
I think. Given the loss of my connection, I’m not sure of anything right now.
“Guess a public library rates high enough for that sorta thing—even here.” Another wink from him.
I’m getting pretty tired of his winking and making light of my personal nightmare.
Now he looks back toward my car. “Sure I can’t help with the bags? ”
Surer than ever. “Yes. Thanks,” I remember to add. Though I’m so disgruntled now that I don’t really mean it. His hospitality, and all that winking, is wearing on me.
He finally turns to go. Thank goodness. But not before casting yet one more grin over his shoulder to say, “It’s not so bad here. You’ll get used to it. Might even come to like it.”
As if he would have any notion what it’s like to be me, what it’s like to have people far away to stay connected with, what it’s like to have had your body ravaged by cancer treatments, what it’s like to have come here just wanting to watch some Netflix or Hulu, for God’s sake.
I can scarcely imagine anyone I could have less in common with than this fortysomething country bumpkin home in the middle of the day, whose only job is probably taking care of his deceased neighbor’s house.
When I don’t reply—I’ve got enough on my mind right now without having to keep summoning answers for this guy—he says, “Well, key’s under the mat. And if ya need anything, I’m right next door.”
“I won’t,” I assure him, “but I appreciate it.” I’m seething inside, for many reasons, but remind myself that most of it’s not actually his fault and manage at least that measure of politeness.
“You’re Jessica, right?” he asks. “I think that’s what Kevin told me.”
I nod. Leave it at that. Would you please go already?
At which point he tips his frayed hat and says, “Lost and Found Police Chief Matthew Cordray, at your service.” Then turns and walks away.