Chapter 10 #2
“Ah.” She’s a little scary. Thoughts flit through my mind.
Like I hope they don’t have sleepovers at his house—I don’t need her scaring me at my own place, too.
And that he can do better. I mean, yes, stupid hat, but this one’s a piece of work.
And she dresses badly. And has scraggly hair that doesn’t seem well cared for.
And maybe I shouldn’t judge anyone’s hairstyle right now, but Joy Lynn just really rubs me the wrong way.
A minute later she delivers my cone. I’m slightly afraid to eat it—in case she spit on it or sprinkled arsenic on top or something. “Tell Saint Matthew I said hello,” she snidely demands.
I pull back slightly from the sheer venom in her voice. I didn’t see this coming. “Saint Matthew?”
“Thinks he’s the savior of Lost and Found,” she informs me.
I don’t reply, utterly thrown. Matthew Cordray thinks he’s the town savior? I mean, I know I’m very critical of his hat—and have been annoyed by the way he just pops up when I least expect him—but laid-back Matt is the last man I would expect to have a savior complex.
Nonetheless, it doesn’t sound like she likes him as much as he thinks. Maybe they had a thing and it ended.
Lot to take in here, but the main thing I experience is .
.. a little relief. That they’re not a couple.
I’m not sure why. But I chalk it up to the fact that she’s not a very nice person and, despite my criticisms, Matt seems like an okay guy.
Maybe even a nice one. And I also feel less apt to get beat up by her for talking to him. Maybe.
I cautiously eat my cone after she walks away, relieved when I don’t suddenly keel over.
The Last Chance Café seems like a horrible—and ironic—place to bite the dust. Soon enough, the two men at the counter finish their coffee, pay their bill, and leave—and then I hear Joy Lynn on the phone, saying quietly, but not quietly enough, “I know it’s past due, Charlie.
Toby’s tryin’ to get a summer job and help out, but he ain’t found one so far .
.. Yeah, I know a boy his age shouldn’t have to help pay the bills, but what am I supposed to do?
... You know Bobby left us with nothin’. ”
Hearing even just one side of the conversation steals my breath.
I have no idea what her life is like, but if I were her, maybe I’d be mean, too.
Five minutes after being angry at her, it dissolves into feeling sorry for her.
I find myself leaving her a big tip, nearly as big as the bill itself. Just call me Saint Jessica.
Before leaving, I walk to the jukebox and peek at some of the songs.
They’re all from the fifties—which explains a lot.
And then I realize this jukebox might indeed be that old itself, crazy as it seems, and that maybe no one has changed out the songs since they were new.
Maybe they’re afraid if they bother it too much, it won’t work anymore.
I’ve pulled a coin from my purse and had thought I might play a song I like, but I don’t know fifties music well and don’t care to scour the whole song list. So, on a lark, I call, “Hey, Joy Lynn—do you have a favorite song on this thing?”
As soon as the words leave me, I fear I’m about to be verbally attacked, so I brace myself—until she tilts her head from behind the counter, looking surprised to be asked what she likes, and quietly says, “L7.”
I drop in my coin, press in L7. Elvis Presley begins singing “Loving You” as I walk out the door.
At the Piggly Wiggly lot, I sit in my car preparing a social media post with several pictures—of my thriving petunias, of Mr. Freeman holding up a tomato, of Grace’s signs, of a beautiful pink sunset over the winery.
The caption: Having a quiet summer in a place where life moves a little slower.
By the way, if you ever stumble across a little town called Lost and Found, Kentucky, find your way to the Lost Valley Vineyards for some fabulous vino.
Getting out of the car, I hold up my phone, locate the signal, and hit the button to post it. Once you know where the signal is, connecting isn’t hard.
As I start to get back in and head home, something stops me.
It’s warm but not hot today—the air feels more fresh than summer humid.
I don’t know how long ago the Piggly Wiggly closed, but a look around reveals signs of nature trying to reclaim the land: low trees billowing around each end of the building with boughs easing their way up under the store’s awning, bigger trees in parking lot islands looking too large for their space, bits of grass and weeds poking up through the many cracks in the asphalt.
But then a monarch butterfly flutters past, making its way across the lot, and I hear the sounds of nature all around me—noises I can’t identify, maybe insects in trees?
Whatever it is, it’s loud and sort of jungly.
On all sides of the store rest steep, mountainous slopes covered with thick foliage and, up above, blue sky dotted with white clouds reminiscent of Mabel’s bedroom.
Much to my surprise, suddenly even the abandoned Piggly Wiggly doesn’t seem like such a bad place.
I must be losing my mind.
A little while later at home, after putting my few groceries away, I change out my fedora for my sun hat and use the pleasant temps to work on Mabel’s daylilies.
Turns out that looking for the old blooms and quietly snapping them off is weirdly relaxing.
After that, I try to clean up around them in general, pulling away dead undergrowth and weeds.
Maybe I’ll get a couple of bags of mulch the next time I’m in Hazard to tidy it up completely.
When I’m done, standing back to look at my handiwork, I suddenly flinch, blink. What is happening here? Am I becoming ... a gardener?
My mother enjoyed flower gardening, but I never developed an interest, and frankly, it always seemed fairly boring to me.
I mean, I like pretty flowers, but not the work it takes to make them happen.
Hence my appreciation of neighbor Nancy.
Now, standing here in a flowy garment and a sun hat, holding a gardening trowel, I realize I’ve become neighbor Nancy.
It’s a strange observation, considering I’ve already spent part of the day not knowing who I am anymore.
And—oh my God. I didn’t even look at my social media earlier when I had the chance!
I just posted, then turned off the phone and started staring at trees!
I’d actually been looking forward to taking the time to catch up on comments on my last post, but it totally slipped my mind.
This thing that used to be an integral part of my day, something I valued, totally disappeared from my thoughts.
“Who are you?” I whisper to myself.
“Talkin’ to yourself, darlin’?”
I gasp, jump a little. Then turn to see my usual source of alarm. He’s in his police uniform and I’m guessing he just got off work.
He doesn’t wait for me to answer, instead asking, “You doin’ anything later?”
My first instinct is to say yes, but what on earth could I possibly be doing? “Um, not really.” Crap. I could have said I was going to have wine with Jo and Conrad—the one actual evening activity I have enjoyed since arriving here—but too late now.
“I was thinkin’ you could show me some of the lost stuff. If ya want.”
I’ve been wondering when that would come back up, but since it hadn’t, I’d decided maybe it wouldn’t.
I guess it’s no big deal to show him some of it, though.
Mabel would like that, I’m sure. I feel like every person who sees any of it would go a little further to fulfilling Mabel’s wishes.
“All right,” I say. “After dinner? Seven? Eight?”
“Or I could cook us both up some dinner on Mabel’s grill.”
I’ve been vaguely aware that a gas grill sits tucked away beneath an old plastic cover near the back porch. And again, I can’t think of a good reason to say no. “What would you grill?” I ask instead.
He pulls back slightly, clearly surprised I’m even considering the offer. “Burgers? Corn on the cob? I just picked up a few ears from Mert Dwyer’s stand the other day.”
“Corn on the cob can be grilled?” I ask, surprised.
He shakes his head in mock derision. “City girl.”
“Still guilty as charged,” I confess.
“Grill ’em right in the shucks. Best you’ve ever tasted.”
“We’ll see,” I challenge him. But then I add, “I got some fresh tomatoes from Mr. Freeman today. I’ll slice one for the burgers, and maybe make a small salad.”
“Sounds good,” he says. “I’ll be back over in an hour to get the grill goin’.” Then he turns to walk away.
I have no idea why I stop him with, “I got soft serve today at the Last Chance.”
He stops, looks back. “Chocolate dipped?”
I shake my head. “I was afraid that would be one request too many. Speaking of which, I don’t think Joy Lynn likes you as much as you think she does.”
He shrugs easily. “It comes and goes with her moods,” he tells me, then saunters away, leaving me to think: Typical man. Doesn’t even care about Joy Lynn’s reactions or feelings.
Maybe whatever the two of them have is something that, like he just said, comes and goes.
Maybe that’s what he likes: a convenient, casual sex partner.
I’m not personally opposed to that, yet the thought instantly makes me feel kind of yucky for reasons I don’t understand, so I don’t examine it too closely.
I don’t want to dislike him anymore. And I don’t want to feel any sorrier for her .
And I certainly don’t want to become embroiled in either of their sex lives.
It’s none of my business—he’s just my neighbor, and maybe getting a little closer to being something like a friend.
Who’s suddenly coming over for dinner. How did that happen?