Chapter 6
I make myself a sandwich for lunch, feeling discouraged. I mean, sure, I thought maybe the one-eyed chicken would stump me or that the faded rainbow would throw me off, but I never imagined I wouldn’t even make it to the mimosa. What am I missing?
After eating, I grab up the same Grisham novel I pulled off Mabel’s shelves the other night, park myself in a rocking chair on the back porch, and read all afternoon, grateful the story pulls me in.
I occasionally suffer internet withdrawal: the repeated urge to check social media, or the weather forecast, or the Lost Valley Vineyards site.
It’s hard to remember I can’t do any of those things after years of having the world at my fingertips.
I take a picture of the winery across the lake, thinking that when I next make it to the Piggly Wiggly I’ll post about it and try to drum up a little business for Jo and Conrad—but I also feel annoyed that I can’t just do it now.
Of course I could . I could drive to the abandoned grocery store and stand around the pockmarked parking lot like a junkie getting my fix.
Frankly, that sounds more satisfying than the empty, pointless evening stretching before me.
But again, I told my followers I was going off the grid, so it’s going to seem silly if I post every day or two.
Thus I’ll hold on to the winery picture for the next time I sincerely need to go into town.
And I tell myself that if Jo can adjust to the nothingness here, so can I. Somehow.
I try to think of things to do. Kevin and Syd are both still working at this hour—it’s not quite five.
I could clean something, but the place really is pretty clean.
I could pull out one of Mabel’s cookbooks, which I discovered in a kitchen drawer, and throw myself into making something creative for dinner—but I’m still gravitating toward the simple-meal lifestyle and don’t feel like devoting an hour to something it’ll only take me ten minutes to eat, no matter how bored I am.
I could water my petunias, but it’s still too hot out.
Out of the sheer need to do something , I shove Mabel’s folded directions into my back pocket and recommence looking for any mimosa trees I possibly could have missed. It’s surely a fool’s errand, but I already feel fairly foolish the last couple of days, so what does it matter?
It’s clear that this simple life doesn’t suit me—I’m not enjoying the peace and quiet, I don’t like being unplugged and disconnected, and nothing about this forced vacation is working for me.
It’s turning me from someone I’ve always pretty much liked into someone I’m not sure I even recognize.
I managed to keep my spirits up through cancer, but living in Lost and Found is seriously depressing me.
Despite all this, or because of it, I retrace my steps, going from mimosa to mimosa. I make sure there aren’t any I somehow overlooked in the front yard. I even search Police Chief Cordray’s lawn, but nary a mimosa in sight.
After which I find myself standing in the side yard, between the two houses, looking this way and that, so frustrated I think I would pull my hair out if I had any long enough to pull—and I consider just ripping Mabel’s treasure map to shreds and pretending the damn thing never existed.
“You look confused.”
As usual, I nearly leap out of my skin—then spin to see my neighbor heading my way, today wearing a dark-gray policeman’s uniform.
It changes everything about his appearance, transforming him from random country guy to respectable officer of the law. The dumb, worn-out hat is gone, revealing thick, dark hair that doesn’t look as unkempt as usual. The only thing the same about him is the Yorkie frolicking around his feet.
“You have a way of sneaking up on me,” I say, not trying to hide my annoyance. “Did they teach you that in cop school?”
“Yep.” He nods, grins. “Sneakin’ 101, and I got an A.”
I refuse to acknowledge the clever comeback and instead tell him, “You actually look like a cop for a change.”
“Did you think I was pullin’ your leg?” He arches one brow.
“You just haven’t seemed much like a cop to me. You don’t even have a cop car.”
He shrugs, looking amused. “Not sure what we’re supposed to seem like. And the cruiser stays at the city buildin’ when I’m not on duty.”
“Are you going to introduce me to your dog?” I have no idea why I ask.
“Sure. This is Goldie. Official name: Little Miss Golden Paws, but Goldie for short. And her’s a good girl, isn’t her? ” He’s bending over, nuzzling her, using baby talk. I’m thrown, as much by that as the Golden Paws thing.
It’s adorably cute, but I refuse to say so. Instead I tell him, “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a Yorkie man.”
“Neither would I,” he replies, “but sometimes life throws you curveballs.”
Our eyes meet. Is he wanting me to ask about his curveballs? Or is he acknowledging mine? That I’ve obviously been thrown one or two. He can’t even imagine how many. I choose not to respond.
Which leads him to, “Was I right? You confused about somethin’?”
“I’m ... looking for a mimosa tree,” I confess, deciding to come clean.
At which he laughs, motioning with his arm, Vanna White–style. “Got a whole yard full of ’em, darlin’.”
“No, not those,” I say, then try to explain.
“I found something Mabel wrote, where she referred to ‘the big mimosa.’” I don’t tell him more, though, because I still feel secretive about the instructions.
It would be just like him to want to help me and take over the hunt.
“And I don’t think any of those are the right one. ”
“Oh, I know what she’s talkin’ about,” he immediately replies. “The one ya can’t see.”
Okay, now he’s starting to sound as cryptic as Mabel. “That’s as clear as mud.”
“It’s right over here,” he claims, taking just a few steps from where we stand and then studying the ground.
He stamps his foot on something that sounds harder than grass, and I come closer to see what looks like the remains of a tree trunk sawed off at ground level.
“Had to take it out last year when half of it came down in a storm and just missed the house. But it was definitely the biggest one. Only one she ever actually planted—thank God.”
“Thank God?”
“Mimosa trees are a menace.”
I raise my eyebrows. “They are?”
“Oh sure—they look all pretty and nice with their pink, puffy blooms, but see all the other mimosas in this yard?” He motions again. “Know where they came from?”
I shake my head.
“From the ugly seed pods that grew on this one every damn fall.” He stamps his shoe on the sawed-off trunk again. “They blow everywhere and multiply like rabbits. I have to pull up a dozen that get started in my own yard every summer. If ya ask me, the only good mimosa is a dead mimosa.”
“You seem to feel strongly about this.”
“You would, too, if you had to constantly police your yard for runaway mimosa trees lest they take over the place.” Then he gets back to the topic at hand. “Why’d you wanna find the tree anyway?”
Good question. But you’re still not getting in on my treasure hunt, Chief Cordray. “Just ... something to do.” It’s a terrible answer, but it’s all I come up with.
“Might wanna get ya some better hobbies, Jessie,” he tells me.
“I used to have some,” I reply. “They were called ‘the internet.’ And it’s Jessica.”
He nods. “My bad. Jessica.” Then he points toward his house. “Well, Goldie and me are gonna go make us some dinner. Just holler if you need help findin’ any more missin’ trees.” And with that, he’s gone.
And I’m back on the case, more quietly excited about this mimosa revelation than I can easily contain. As he walks away, I peer down at what remains of the tree. This is it! This is the big mimosa! Sweet success is mine!
Once I’m sure he’s really gone, tucked safely inside his big farmhouse for a while, I start at the site of the chopped-down tree and take twenty careful and calculated steps away from the direction of the lake, which leads me into the front yard.
At which point I turn to the left, a little terrified. Because I’m pretty sure there’s not going to magically be a one-eyed chicken and all my joy will be short-lived.
Only ... there it is! Much to my surprise, an old white iron decoration of some kind, in the shape of a chicken’s head, protrudes from the front of Matt Cordray’s front porch post!
Needless to say, I start toward it. But then I stop.
He’s right inside. This man I want to avoid.
What if he glances out and sees me? The jig will be up.
So I just resolve to be casual about it—and hopefully quick.
With any luck, he’s already busy whipping up dinner and I can come and go undetected. Who’s the sneaking expert now?
Approaching the chicken, I see it’s an old-fashioned thermometer, which I’m guessing has been screwed into this post for decades. It possesses a certain country charm, and indeed one eye if you only look at it from the side.
Pulling out my instructions, I stand in front of the thermometer and stare in a southeasterly direction, hoping like hell for a rainbow.
But none appears. Instead, I’m studying a sizable old outbuilding in the yard across the street from Mabel’s, the one with the peach-and-lavender house.
The building is a shed or a garage, way less colorful than the home, with an old tin roof and aging advertising signs covering the entire broad side of it.
It’s like Matt’s one-eyed chicken—full of yesteryear character—and I’m wondering how I’ve been here for over two days without having noticed it.
I stand there a minute longer, scrutinizing the shed—searching above it, below it, to both sides—hoping to find something shaped like a rainbow, or a series of rainbow colors. But I come up empty.