Chapter 4
Waking up the next morning to find myself surrounded by clouds is jarring for a second.
Have I died and gone to heaven? But whether or not I now like Mabel’s sky bedroom more than I’m willing to admit to myself, I quickly remember that my current situation feels a little closer to the opposite end of that spectrum.
I feel surprisingly well rested, and the morning sun is cheerful. Not that I’m actually cheered by it in my current state of mind, but it motivates me to get out of bed anyway.
I discover that in addition to chocolate chip cookies, the cowboy next door also considers Cheerios a staple, and a bowl of cereal and a slice of toast work fine as breakfast.
I dress in a summery top and capris, slapping on my fedora—which I also tossed in the car with my other key hats—and waste no time setting off for the Piggly Wiggly. Not that I know where it is exactly, but I would rather figure it out myself than go knocking on my neighbor’s door.
I feel pretty accomplished upon locating it by heading back to Lost and Found, then turning down a road that intersects with Main.
The sight of the abandoned grocery store a short distance later makes me both happy and sad—or at least I’ll be happy if I get my promised connection to the outside world.
It takes some time and a lot of walking around while I hope no one’s watching, and I’m wishing I’d asked more about where this special spot is—because it’s a pretty big parking lot for a town this small—when my phone suddenly connects!
Halfway to the end of the lot and directly in front of the unlit neon pig in the sign.
Both internet and two whole phone bars! I’m so excited that I want to call someone—only there’s no one to call.
Sydney has a standing Saturday-morning hair appointment, and if Kevin isn’t at the station, he and Patrick are at their favorite farmers market, which they take very seriously, and are not to be interrupted.
Though a text from Sydney comes in with the connection. You probably won’t see this, but I got your message. I’ll call tonight. I’m sorry the place is so disappointing.
I return the text just to explain why I can text now but not later, and tell her I’ll look forward to her call.
Upon realizing I forgot to take my picturesque shot to post on social media, I look around and realize the green mountain that hovers over the town across the road from the old store will do fine.
I consider making it a selfie but decide against it.
Though I’ve posted pictures of myself since hair loss, I don’t have the patience for taking the perfect, acceptable photo right now.
And if I’m being honest with myself, maybe I felt braver then.
That makes no sense, but I’m just tired and a little depleted at this point.
I do the post, happy to connect, sad to know I won’t be able to see the responses easily.
Then, while I’ve got this nifty connection, I pull up the remodeler’s number, call and talk to the receptionist, and put in my plea for fast work.
She tells me she’ll let the guys know, but that it will take as long as it takes, probably a month minimum.
I swallow back my disappointment and thank her.
It could be worse. If it’s a month, maybe I could be home by the Fourth of July. Maybe I can find a hat or a top with some stylishly patriotic design and tag along with Sydney and Jayden to some neighborhood fireworks. A little thing, certainly, but it feels like a goal to work toward.
Next up, the market. The truth is, it’s hard to get back in my car and leave my blessed signal behind.
It occurs to me that I could bring a camp chair and pretty much just hang out here all day if I really wanted to, but something about that seems sad and desperate, and too hot as there’s no shade.
Still, I’ll keep the idea in my back pocket for a sad and desperate day.
Before I go, though, I google “market near me,” and get only the Walmart in Hazard, an hour away. Now I wish I’d asked my neighbor more about the place in town he mentioned, too.
Making the short drive back to the main drag, I pull into one of the many vacant spots that line both sides of the street.
The town could be cute, in a way, but mostly it’s just sad.
It feels as forgotten as I do lately. Of the few open businesses, I decide to step into the Last Chance Café, a name I find too romantic and enigmatic for its location.
Other than an old man drinking coffee at the counter, the place is empty.
I had only planned to ask directions, but it’s close enough to lunchtime that I decide to slide into one of the old, cracked-vinyl booths and support the place.
As I grab a laminated menu from behind the metal napkin box, I realize 1950s music is echoing from a neon-lit jukebox and begin to wonder if I’ve stumbled into an episode of The Twilight Zone .
I study the menu until a too-skinny waitress in a denim mini-skirt and a pair of well-worn platform wedge sandals slowly approaches my table, eyeing me suspiciously.
Because I’m a stranger? Because I have very little hair?
Because this probably isn’t a fedora-wearing town?
The possibilities are endless. She finally gets close enough for me to take in her messy ponytail and a name tag that says Joy Lynn .
“Can I help you?”
I wish you could. Rather than make that confession, I place an order. “I’ll have the hot ham and cheese, with a Coke.”
“Chips okay?”
I nod. Then add as she starts to walk away, “Could you tell me where the nearest market is?”
“Freeman’s?” she asks as if I know the name of it when clearly I don’t. Then she points. “Turn right past the barbershop, then go a ways and you’ll see it.”
Not exactly Google Maps, but it steers me in the right direction. “Thanks,” I tell her.
As I’m waiting for my food, I see her whispering with an older, heavyset woman with silver hair behind the counter and suspect I’m the topic. It’s confirmed when my plate is delivered along with the question, “You’re not from around here, are ya?”
“No,” I say. “I’m visiting. For the summer.”
“The summer ?”
This seems like bad news to Joy Lynn, who I can tell has taken an instant dislike to me.
It’s probably the fedora. Or that she thinks my hairstyle is a choice, which makes me unrelatable to her.
I’ve recently discovered that some people fear women without hair and don’t have the simple skill of hiding their shock.
“Yes,” I confirm.
“Who ya visitin’?”
“I meant I was visiting Lost and Found, not someone who lives here,” I try to explain. “I’m staying in Mabel Callahan’s house.”
“Oh.” Her eyes change, and I can tell she knows where that is.
And I wonder why I’m giving her information about me she doesn’t need. I guess it’s partly my inclination to put people at ease, and partly because I dislike her dislike of me. It would be nice to feel more welcomed while I’m here.
“How come?” she asks.
Well, aren’t you a nosy one, Joy Lynn? I keep it simple. “My house is being remodeled, and her family offered me the place.”
She nods slowly, and I can still see her analyzing me. I kind of regret my decision to support the Last Chance Café.
The food is good, though—diner casual but just right for right now.
I used to be something of a foodie, always seeking out the latest trendy restaurant in the city, then recommending it—or not—to my online followers.
Since treatment, though, my taste has taken a turn toward the simpler.
Maybe because I’m not much of a cook, I’m not currently up for fancy restaurants, and I’m by myself a lot these days.
But whatever the case, the ham and cheese sammie hits the spot.
I say goodbye as I exit, and Joy Lynn lifts her hand in a wave, but I can tell she’s glad to see me go. Me and my highfalutin fedora.
Following her vague directions to the store, I realize that vague is actually all it takes in some places.
Freeman’s Market is the only building other than a few houses on the street just past the barber and resembles a small, weathered barn.
The remains of what was once clearly a larger selection of hanging potted petunias catches my eye as I walk in, highlighted by the weathered gray wood behind them.
Other flowerpots hang from the awning as decorations for the store, but the ones for sale down below look kind of sad.
A tall, stout older man with a caterpillar mustache and black hair turning to silver greets me from behind the counter. He appears less offended by me than Joy Lynn did, though the clear fact that I don’t belong here prods him to ask, “Anything particular I can help ya find?”
“Just getting a few groceries,” I say. “I’m staying here for the summer in a house outside town.”
The raise of his bushy eyebrows makes him look as surprised as Joy Lynn, but less suspicious. “Welcome to Lost and Found. We don’t get a lotta outsiders.”
“Thanks,” I answer. “And I kind of gathered that.” I add a smile, and he smiles back, and I like him already.
“Are you Freeman?” It’s an assumption I wouldn’t make in a more populated area, where business names don’t always mean much, but already I get the impression this is a personally owned establishment.
“One and the same,” he tells me. “My daddy started this place when I was knee-high to a grasshopper, and I carried it on when he passed.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Freeman. I’m Jessica.”