Chapter 5 The Groove
FIVE
The Groove
Mabel
I walked into my store, which I had, for reasons unknown (as a constant reminder? self-flagellation?), named The Groove.
And if I didn’t know how tweaked I was, the fact that it didn’t do what it normally did: make me feel all warm and gooey inside (and I was far from a warm-and-gooey-feeling girl), I knew then.
I instantly smelled apples.
This was one of the varied scents of candles we sold from a local candlemaker, Gemma. We could barely keep them in stock because even tourists who’d come into the store to buy one came back to our online store to buy more.
The shop was not wide, but it was long, and I gave Abigail all the credit for how beautifully our wares were displayed.
We sold from local craftspeople and artisans, and this was mingled with my found and refurbished pieces. Everything from rewired lamps to refurbished designer bags to full sets of china to big pieces of furniture.
We had a homewares section, with beautiful kitchen towels embroidered by a woman named Carol, who lived on a ranch with her husband south of town.
Then there was the natural dish soap and hand lotion, created by the aforementioned Ida, who lived north.
This intermingled with stuff I picked up at garage, yard and estate sales; no chips, cracks or dings, just vintage goodness.
This segued pleasingly into a personal care section, with natural body soaps, lotions, moisturizers, masks (etc.) also created by Ida (who sold great online too).
Along with this, we had fabulous sweaters and scarves (the one I was wearing included) knitted by a lady named Melissa.
Fantastic handbags and wallets, created by a leatherworker named Maude.
And lots of gorgeous jewelry, all of it crafted by three different local artists.
We had fantastic pottery (created locally), art (yup, by local artists) and sculptures (you guessed it, local).
And behind the old-fashioned, wood paneled counter stood Abigail, my second-in-command who was more like my first, so I didn’t have to bother with much but constantly repeating she was so on the ball, it was a miracle I found her.
She had a head of short, blonde, spikey hair that she usually adorned with clips, a funky Alice band or a scarf, a rockin’ mom bod that was slender (ish) but had serious curves, a flair for making denim and gingham seem the height of fashion, a husband named Brett, who didn’t mind lugging furniture or making deliveries on the weekends, even if he had a full-time job, and two absurdly adorable kids, five and three, named Liam and Emma.
“How’s shakes, sister?” she called.
I smiled at her.
On my walk there, I’d made the decision not to alarm her with my run-in (allegedly) with The Lion and The Lamb. I didn’t need big, burly mountain man Brett rounding up his equally burly buds and storming the compound either.
I thought more on it during my walk, and I also decided not to tell her about my Post-it Lover.
So far, the only bummer of living in Misted Pines was that I’d left all my good girlfriends behind.
Abigail had made it clear she was down to be that for me, but I hadn’t made my final decision as to if I was going to stay here.
Yes, it seemed the store was going to be a go.
Yes, it was beautiful here.
Yes, Abigail was the bomb.
But, although I moved here during winter, I hadn’t lived a full winter here.
And for an LA/Orlando girl, the period of winter I endured had been zero fun.
Snow was beautiful, but it sucked driving in it. Cold was cold, and although I had a furnace, it was probably installed in the 1970s, so the cabin was constantly chilly. The only time I got really warm was about two hours before I woke up under my multitude of covers every morning.
Now there was this sitch with my not-so-friendly neighbors.
I didn’t want to leave another friend behind.
I couldn’t say I missed Orlando.
I could say it killed how bad I missed Kacey and Mona.
“Shakes are shakin’,” I replied, stopping in front of the counter, opposite her behind it. “Came down for provisions. I’m in an iced brownie mood.”
She rolled her eyes in delight like she’d just bitten into one of those particular treats, as she would. She knew my brownies.
I cooked. I baked.
I lived alone.
As much as I enjoyed the challenge of eating an entire pudding cake, it always bested me.
So, considering I spent so much time in my workshop or on the road hitting sales and thrift shops, since the only people I knew in MP were Abigail, her family, and to a lesser extent, Clarissa and Julie, I always rounded them up to help me save the planet by not adding more waste.
“Since I was in town, though I’d stop by,” I told her.
“Glad you did,” she replied. “How’s the bureau coming?”
“It should be done by the weekend,” I told her.
“Awesome. I have just the space for it. I’ll give Brett a heads up he needs to phone a friend and come get it from you,” she said. “And I sent you an email. We need to reorder from Jo and Ida.”
Jo made some of our jewelry.
I leaned into the counter and said quietly, “You know you have my go ahead with that.”
“I quit my job and spent four years managing nothing but laundry and burping,” she retorted. “I get you trust me, Mabel, but if you don’t mind spotting me. Just for a little while longer.” She smiled. “I like to spend money, but spending yours still makes me hesitate.”
“Make the orders,” I said.
“Great,” she replied. “And the paper mill is reopening next weekend. I think we should go.”
I felt my brows draw together. “What?”
“The old paper mill?” she asked.
“I’m new here, remember.”
She gave me a stern Mom Look. “Babe, that excuse is beginning to wear thin. You’ve been here a while. Misted Pines is awesome. You need to spend more time in the town.”
She probably wasn’t wrong.
I’d been licking my wounds.
It was time to snap out of it.
“What’s this paper mill gig you’re talking about?” I asked.
“The old paper mill. Closed down in the eighties. I wasn’t alive then, but Mom tells stories, and seriously, there was a good long while everyone thought Misted Pines was going to become a ghost town. A lot of people lost jobs, and nothing was coming our way again.”
“Yikes.”
She bobbed her head. “Yeah. It was rough. Then, in the nineties, the Bonners got hold of the Pinetop, and first, employed a ton of people to gut the joint and build it into a world-class hotel. After they opened, they still employed a ton of people running it. When that went down, the town didn’t rest on its laurels.
The Misted Lake Cinema started to show cool stuff, double bills of vintage films, doing festivals, stuff like that.
The Farmer’s Market got going. The town razed the old department store and made the town park.
Josie and Todd Newman started their wildlife tours.
Bob Wagoner started doing his horse trail rides.
Jill Stanislov began her history tours during the day, ghost tours in the evenings.
You should take both. They’re fantastic. ”
I made a mental note to do so, because I loved history, and a good spooky story, as long as it didn’t land on my welcome mat.
“Brett, of course, took me on the ghost tour on our third date,” she shared. “Obviously, I couldn’t stop clinging to him, so he also got laid.”
I burst out laughing and then drawled, “Nice play.”
“He promised, even crossing his heart, he’d never done that before with another girl.”
“Mm-hmm,” I hummed skeptically.
She wagged her brows. “One thing I do know for sure, even if I wasn’t the first, I was the last.”
As far as I could tell, Brett Buckner was in that less than one percent of decent dudes too.
“Anyway, then, of course, came Ray Andrews,” she carried on. “And all the stuff that happened after, so now we’ve got the true crime buffs and sociopath stalkers,” she said.
I smiled at her.
“It dies down in between one whackjob running amuck, and another one acting up,” she told me. “But not by much, God love Elsa Cohen, perpetual streaming and nothing on the Internet ever dying.”
That made me laugh again.
She shrugged. “So now, the president of our town council, Meg Nichols, in her last act and to build an enduring legacy, got hold of the old paper mill. You can’t miss it. It’s the big building about two blocks east of here, four blocks north.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I’ve seen it. Noticed there was some construction out there.”
She returned my nod. “Yup. So the town owns it now. They’ve cleaned it up, sectioned it off, and they’re renting studio space to artists.”
That got my attention.
“They’re going to have their own governing board, their own shop,” she continued.
“And some of the artists are going to do classes. Painting. Pottery. Stuff like that. They’re also going to have yoga, tai chi and meditation classes.
Even the local gym doesn’t do yoga classes, and we don’t have a studio.
In this day and age, that’s something seriously lacking for MP.
But the whole idea, I hope, is going to bring more people to town, even day-trippers who live closer. ”
“Whoa, that sounds freaking amazing.” And I told no lie.
“Opening is next weekend. Saturday. Big deal. Tents in the parking lot. Booths for local businesses.”
Ah, hell.
“Oh shit, I remember you mentioning to me we should think of getting a booth there.”
She shook her head. “I had a better look at it and that’s the reason I didn’t pursue it with you. Kimmy isn’t going to have a booth, nor is Tim.”
“Kimmy and Tim?”
She looked stunned. “You haven’t met Kimmy yet?”
I shook my head.
She shot me a sly smile. “That’s something fun to look forward to. But she owns the holiday store.”
“I have noticed that, at least.”
“Yeah. And Tim manages the tack shop. But Aromacobana is going to do coffee and treats. And the candy store will have a booth, the ice cream shop, stuff like that. Along with the artists who are going to be working in the studios. People like the high school boosters, or the cheerleading squad, the junior hockey league, folks raising money for stuff. We weren’t a fit. ”
“Okay.”
“We might find some things we’ll want here, though.”
“Agreed.”
“So, you wanna meet Brett, me and the kids? Saturday after this one. Say, at eleven?”
I did need to give up my hermit thing.
I probably needed to do that months ago, so now the time was over-ripe.
“That sounds fab.”
She grinned ear to ear.
I took in that friendly grin.
I was giving myself the full year’s rent on my cabin, which was, not incidentally, close to the full year’s rent on The Groove, to make a final decision to stay or to go.
But how could I know if I wanted to stay or go if I didn’t put the effort into knowing what I might be leaving?
“I also would love to go to a yoga class,” I informed her. “I used to go to one once a week. And I’ve never tried tai chi but always wanted to. And I’ve heard meditation is super good for you.”
The grin that got me was blinding. “Me too!”
“So let’s check it all out,” I suggested.
Her brown eyes warmed, and she said, “I’d really love that, Mabel.”
Oh yes.
She wanted to be my friend.
I needed a friend.
It was time to stop healing.
And time to start living.
I hoped my hazel eyes warmed when I replied, “I would too, Abigail. I would too.”