Chapter 4
MOLLY
Farmers Market Fridays are my one day to be around people—my job doesn’t count as social time seeing as how my patients don’t speak. And don’t get me wrong, I find animals far more superior to humans, but living alone can definitely take its toll at times.
On spring Friday afternoons, the town’s small business owners set up tents in the library parking lot.
Once in a blue moon, whenever Dr. Voss feels like running a vaccine clinic, I’m required to host one of them.
Lucky for me, he also keeps short hours on Fridays so I can come out here and stock up on low-priced items most of the vendors put on special.
In particular, George’s Gourmet meats and Jeanine’s bakery.
George has the best cuts of wild game, and Jeanine makes the most heavenly breads that I store in my freezer and use for toast and sandwiches.
Sometimes she’ll give me a discount if I bring her muffins or cookies to sell.
My run-in with the friendly neighborhood game warden had me stress baking the next day, and I have to get rid of the finished product as I’m also a stress eater.
Just ask the three chocolate oat cookies already sitting at the bottom of my belly.
I’m still wound up about the run-in and annoyed with myself for thinking he was good looking at first glance, especially when he turned out to be a hard ass.
Getting a ticket is never fun, but getting issued one from someone I found attractive stung in a new way.
Not in a big or deep way, but like he’d hit a nerve in a part of me I didn’t know existed until then.
And maybe my ego is a little bruised knowing the physical attraction clearly wasn’t mutual.
After lingering at Helen’s sewing creations, I arrive at George’s tent.
“Molly girl!” He offers his loving smile to me. His face wears the signs of aging in the sun, but man, do his blue eyes still twinkle, especially with his friendly wink.
“Hey, George.” I smile back, tug the insulated pouch from my large tote, and set it down on his table.
“How’s my favorite smartass? You staying out of trouble?” he asks, having no idea that his words ping off that aforementioned nerve.
“Well, I’m sure trying, George, but no. I actually got a ticket the other day.”
“Let me guess,” he straightens his station of parchment papers and takeaway bags, “they finally figured out what you’ve been growing in that suspicious vegetable garden of yours.”
My face crinkles and my belly bubbles out a laugh at the straight face George manages to keep whenever he teases people. “No, some game warden with a stick up his ass got me for overfishing. I didn’t know what the limit was.” I hold my hands out, demonstrating my innocence.
“That’s because your grampa always took care of the permits, and your pampered little ass didn’t have to worry about them.” “What can I get you, kiddo?”
I offer him my best deadpan glare but let the comment slide because he’s not wrong.
Despite being an orphan of sorts, I was pampered.
And even though I’m twenty-four, I welcome the endearment.
Just because I don’t have much of a social life doesn’t mean it’s all by choice.
I like feeling like someone’s fond of me, even if it’s because he knew my grandparents.
I ask George for a couple of elk steaks and venison burgers and get them stowed away in my cooler bag before moving along to Jeanine’s tent, where a blonde woman is perusing the racks of loaves.
“Oh my god, blueberry lemon?” She gasps at the many selections.
“You should try the cinnamon swirl,” I holler to her from Jeanine’s register as I fish the container of cookies out of my tote.
More frantic exclamations erupt out of this new face as she peruses all the flavors, grabbing at several loaves.
“Damn, Molly.” Jeanine gives an amused snicker, blowing a grey strand of hair that’s come loose from her bun out of her face. “You should come work for me in the shop. Sales would skyrocket.”
“If I didn’t already have a job and a house with land to maintain, I’d consider it,” I assure her. That would be one way for me to meet more than the handful of people my grandparents introduced into my orbit. “But I do have these for you.”
I hand over the clear, square Tupperware container carefully packed with cookies I baked between layers of parchment paper.
“Oh!” She takes the container from me. “Your Mima’s famous chocolate oat cookies! These always go flying off the table. Help yourself to a free loaf, dear.”
“Deal.” I grin, turning to make my selection.
“Careful,” George warns, his voice carrying from his side of the tent divider. “Word on the street is she puts hash in them.”
The blonde customer turns, her mouth open, to look at me, and I widen my eyes and vigorously shake my head.
Jeanine gives an eyeroll and then assures the new customer. “Don’t listen to him,” she advises before turning back to me. “So how did these come about?” She raises a smart eyebrow.
My shoulders drop, and my mouth flattens into a line. Jeanine knows what gets me in the baking mood. “Those are courtesy of an annoyingly handsome dick of a game warden that decided to cite me for overfishing on the Garnet the other day,” I regale without turning around.
Suddenly, I’m in the shadow of the blonde customer’s peppy presence, her very sophisticated perfume wafting over me. “Did you say handsome? I didn’t even think to ask what the guy climate is like here.”
“Sadly, I wouldn’t really know,” I tell her.
This makes her brows pinch together in confusion, but before she can ask for more details, Jeanine pipes up. “There’s about a handful of eligible bachelors.” She shrugs and squishes her lips indifferently. “New in town?”
Her head bobs daintily in the affirmative. “Yeah. Name’s Lauren.” She gives us both a casual wave.
“What brings you to Ironvale Ridge?” I pluck a regular sourdough loaf as well as one almond poppyseed, a favorite of mine.
“I’m the new assistant chair of the community center.”
“That’s impressive,” I note, letting Jeanine ring me up. Lauren doesn’t look much older than I am. “Well, welcome.”
“Thanks,” she says sweetly. “I’d really like to make some friends. Can I give you my number? No pressure!” She’s quick to hold a hand up. “I’ll leave it to you if you decide you want to hang out?—”
“Yeah, sure.” I smile, not actually hating the sound of hanging out. I fold the paper she writes her number on and stuff it into my back pocket.
After she journeys on to the next tent, George ambles around the tent partition. “Jeanine, are you and Cliff around tonight?” He plants his hands on his lanky hips and cocks an inquiring eyebrow at her.
“No, actually,” she sighs tipping her head and looking sorry, “we’re headed up north after I wrap up here today. Everything all right?”
He waves a hand. “Oh yeah. The cable is out at my house again, and the Crushers are playing the Whitecaps tonight. Was going to see if I could bribe your husband with beer to let me watch with you guys, but no worries.”
A memory from the far back of my mind slides to the front and cycles through my thoughts.
One of George and my granddad yelling at a baseball game on the TV, beers in hand while steaks sizzled on the grill.
Even as a little girl that element of normalcy brought comfort, and I realize how long it’s been since George has been over.
What does he do for company without my grandparents around?
“George?” I call after him and hurriedly stuff the bread into my bag . “Do you want to come over? I can put the game on at my place,” I offer.
He looks down, his bright blue eyes a shade darker now, like he’s trying to believe what I’m suggesting. He seems to sober and pastes his smile back in place. “Aww, Molly girl, you don’t have to do that.”
“It’s no trouble.” I shake my head. “I haven’t had anyone over in ages.” I’ve had no one over, in fact—ever. I almost feel like if someone were to visit me and see I’m still existing at Clover Hill, I might stop feeling like I’m a ghost.
George stares at me as if he’s taking my words and putting them together like a puzzle until the message is clear, though the press of his lips tells me he’s not totally convinced he wouldn’t be imposing.
“I can make you fix one of the creaky boards of the back deck if you’re going to be that much of a stubborn ass about it.” I lift a casual shoulder, and his features immediately relax, like he’s been on board the whole time.
“Fine.” He gives a decisive nod before turning and ambling back to his tent. “I’ll see you at six, you little pain in the ass.”
Four hours later, my deck is in ship shape, and George has polished off one of his own venison burgers. He now sits in Granddad’s old recliner with a cold lager in his hand, happily screaming at my living room TV.
“No, dive! Dive, you pussy!” He barks at the screen like the players can hear him.
I leave our dishes to soak in the sink, and I chuckle. I don’t know the first thing about baseball, but the white noise is comforting, and having someone else in the house is an added bonus.
“Guuuggghhhh,” George grumbles comically as the game wraps, letting his head drop and wobble against his chest in despair.
“Just couldn’t help blowing it, could ya?
Sons of bitches.” He clicks off the TV and gets to his feet.
“I should hit the road,” he announces, coming to meet me in the kitchen and setting his half-full beer bottle on the counter. “Be a good kid and finish that for me.”
“No sweat.” I dry my hands off on a towel. “Are you okay to drive?”
“You bet, kiddo. It’s a straight shot across the overpass.” He cruises his finger ahead of him to demonstrate. “Thanks for having me. If you’ve got anything else around here that needs fixing, let me know before the next game,” he quips.
“Might take you up on that,” I murmur, walking him to the door. “And thanks for coming over.”
He slows his gait to face me. “Is it hard? Living out here on your own?”
I take a moment, not because I don’t know the answer but because it’s hard to admit. “Yeah, it can be hard, but I get by okay,” I assure him.
“Well obviously. You catch and clean your own fish, you bake…”
I smile contentedly at the compliment but don’t feel ready to tell him that just because I know how to survive doesn’t mean I’m perfectly okay on my own.
I don’t want to be needy at a time when I have to learn to care for myself.
Besides, my grandparents were determined to raise me to feel happy and safe, and I won’t let them down just because they’re gone.
“Even though I’m a pretty good handyman, I won’t be around forever,” he continues. “Better hook yourself a man to help you with this place if you can find one that won’t write you a ticket.”
The joke lands, but it also makes me reflect a moment. The one man who caught my attention had an attitude a mile wide and a lust for writing people up. I don’t respond, and George doesn’t ask me to.
“If nothing else, invite that nice new gal from the market over sometime. A young gal like you isn’t meant to be holed up here alone.” He stops at the small entry table and picks up a framed photo that has lived in that spot for as long as I can remember.
I don’t join him in looking, as I’ve already got the picture memorized.
A teenage girl sits on the edge of a picnic table, her head tilted to the side so her brown ponytail dangles in the background.
Her smile is coy and a little unsure, as if she’s trying to show the photographer she can act happy.
It’s the only photo of my mother my grandparents kept on display, though I’m sure others are hiding somewhere.
It’s like they wanted to hold onto this photo with the hope it could occasionally shine a tiny flash of light, one indicative of a life they created that didn’t completely go to waste.
“You look a lot like her,” is all George offers before setting the frame back down and pulling open the door. “Don’t be a stranger, kiddo.” He pulls me in for a gentle side hug and drops a kiss to the top of my head.
After closing the door behind him, I realize I haven’t been hugged in ages, and I’ve unknowingly been going through withdrawals all this time.