by Lola Karns
“Claire, I heard you were back. Please tell me you’re reopening.” She raised her head to see resident fashionista and resale shop owner, Beverly Westman. She shut the car’s open side door.
“Through the end of the year at least. Can’t afford to miss out on holiday sales. You look great. Love the jacket.”
Not everyone could pull off a wide lapel hot-pink pinstripe suit, but Beverly pulled it off like the former model she was. She brushed invisible dirt off the lapel before looking Claire up and down.
“Someone should paint my portrait in this fine ensemble, if only they had the right paint.” She winked, a nod to past conversations about undertones, hues, and colors. “You are a disaster.”
“I’m cleaning today.”
“Please tell me you have a handkerchief for your hair and let me hug you before you get started. I’m so glad you’re back.” Her lips pressed together, and a shadow diminished the bronze base in her skin as she opened her arms. Claire stepped into the unexpected embrace. Beverly wasn’t one for casual contact. They stepped away after a few awkward seconds.
Beverly shook her head. “My walk-in business has dropped off over the last year. I have cashmere pashminas I can’t move because people around here are afraid to buy something they might not be able to afford and I don’t have the out-of-town wives coming in to treat themselves while their husbands are ‘toy shopping’ at your place. I passed on a purchase of Pucci—Pucci!—because I don’t have the right clients. Sure I can put them on the digital store front, but the colors are never as vibrant on screen as they are in real life.”
No one would ever accuse Claire of being fashionable, but she’d learned enough about Beverly’s taste and love of beautiful, bold color to understand what this meant. Main Street was in danger of losing another business. The pharmacy was long gone, as was the department store. Two years ago, the barber shop and hair salon merged into the larger space. The bakery’s glass cases displayed dust bunnies that grew larger by the day. The Dollar General, the yarn store, and O’Meara’s tavern didn’t generate much foot traffic. Well, O’Meara’s did, but it was too late at night and too drunk to keep the other businesses afloat. The sprawling antique shop with limited hours drew in people only on the first and third weekends each month. She didn’t need this guilt trip. Not with all the baggage she already had to handle.
“I’m reopening tomorrow, but don’t hold your breath. I’m doing limited hours Wednesday through Sunday only, and it will take a while for people to return to the store.”
“Oh, they’ll come, Sugar.”
“I hope so.”
“They will. I’ve seen people drive through town and try your doors. A few have even popped over here wondering how long you’ll be closed for the death in the family. Surely Walter forwarded the condolence cards that piled up.”
“He did. He also mentioned that Sandy took the flowers to the nursing home, which is better than letting them die on the street.” The sun inched upwards and chased the alley’s shadows into hiding. Keeping promises required a lot of work, but the worry in Beverly’s eyes made her want to promise that she’d keep the store going forever. “If the opening is going to happen, I better clean up whatever mess the gentlemen left.”
“When you finish with that and get cleaned up, stop by. I have a vintage Clash t-shirt you’ll love.” She waved and then retrieved something from her car. Claire rattled her wagon farther down the alley.
The hobby store rear door opened on the first try. The Grumpy Old Men did their part to keep the shop running in her absence but opening twice a month for Saturday hours didn’t cover property taxes and utilities. The storefront was a one-hundred-year Evans family tradition. Whether it would stay that way was yet another decision she needed to make.
“Achoo.” Her nose tickled. The open door disturbed so much dust the air seemed chunky. She hitched up her scarf to cover her nose and mouth and proceeded into the building.
“Those idiots better not send the website purchases out covered in a layer of dust.” No one responded. “Oh, Grandpa. Why couldn’t you have come back as a chatty ghost?”
The stockroom gaps that existed wouldn’t be full until her restock orders arrived from Germany in two weeks. The guys must have done an okay job keeping up with the computer inventory system her high school intern installed over a year ago summer, or they brought in their grandkids to figure it out. She’d worried the numbers she’d seen over the summer and had consulted at a distance would be way off base. They weren’t.
Maybe one of the old men or their families would want... Nah. Thoughts of the future would have to wait. She had a tight schedule to keep if she wanted to be ready for the seasonal rush. December was right around the corner, and by then, she wouldn’t be the only one with trains on the brain.
AS CLAIRE RETURNED home with a wagon full of rags and mops to launder and a perfectly faded Clash t-shirt, the sky above softened into an ombre of lavender and pink. The houses glowed from within, the dim light outside dulled the aging exteriors except those most in need of repair. She slowed her pace, straining to see movement inside the old Russell place.
The closed blinds must have been the cheapest ones available because she saw a masculine silhouette illuminated by the glow of what had to be a large television. A glance at the curb confirmed the presence of the garbage can newly adorned with an orange warning sticker from the village. So often, when she moved to a new place, no one told her anything, especially not the unwritten rules. She found those out the hard way—through expensive fines and passive aggressive notes in her mailbox. Not here. She’d do her civic duty and warn the poor resident. Residents? Only one car sat in the driveway. Resident.
After parking her wagon by the overgrown hedges, she walked to the front door. When she pressed the doorbell, nothing happened. She knocked. The recently painted blue door looked nice. Too bad no one had bothered to paint the rest of the porch, or the trim for that matter. She had ample time to look while waiting. No toys graced the porch. Maybe it was someone single, a contractor at Adena, or a much older couple where someone failed the driver’s test. Blind? Or someone deaf. She knocked again, louder this time, wondering how loud the mystery man had the TV since she could see flickering images glowing through the light curtains in the front room. As she decided to leave, she caught a shadow moving across the plain white paper covering up the sidelights.
Chapter 4
First, he didn’t trust his ears, now he didn’t trust his eyes. Not only was the knocking legitimate, but the intriguing blonde from the diner stood on his threshold. “Hello?”
“Hi. You’re new in town.” She must have been expecting to find someone else, the way her words stretched out.
“Yes.” He extended his hand toward her as he rocked onto his toes and replanted his feet. Fate had brought him a chance to meet the only remotely urbane person in town, not to mention she was really, really attractive. Green eyes got him every time, and hers looked real, not some unnatural shade of contacts. “I’m James.”
“Claire. You were at Jo’s the other day, right?”
“Jo—? Oh. The diner.”
“That’s the one.”
Her slender hand was surprisingly calloused, her fingers strong. She looked ethereal, but her touch was grounded in reality. He couldn’t stop looking at her as he held her hand. Her mouth twitched into the bewitching smile of a woman who knows when a man is smitten, but fortunately her eyes lacked the cold calculation of assessing his income.
“Best breakfast in town.” He hardly recognized the breathiness in his voice.
“The only breakfast that doesn’t come in a take-out sack. I hope I didn’t interrupt your peaceful meal too much.”
She interrupted his dreams and random moments when he wasn’t devoted to work, but she didn’t need to know that. Not until he had scoped out her motives. “Not a problem. Were you randomly knocking on doors or looking for someone in particular?”
“Particular, yes
. Are you the new owner?”
“Not exactly. I’m renting this place.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. Why, he had no idea. He was disappointed, but only because she’d let go of his hand.
“Well, I guess I’m looking for you, James.” She flashed a smile so warm it could melt the contents of his freezer. He’d been looking for her too, although not so hard that he had to interact with the locals outside of the office.
“Do you want to come in for a cup of coffee or something?” A mystifying look flashed across her face. He backpedaled. “Or we could sit on the steps?”
“I’d like that, although I’d prefer water to coffee.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He should have offered beer. Or wine. Was wine too intimate? She wanted water. This house had come “furnished,” but when he moved in, most everything had been scratched-up old junk with a patina of age and use. Disgusted by the chalky layer of minerals on the provided glassware, he’d bought new. He filled two recently purchased glasses with water filtered at the faucet system he’d bought. The fridge was so cheap and old, it didn’t have a built-in water and ice dispenser. “I hate this place.” Claire might be the antidote to the miserable months that lay ahead.
He slipped on a pair of moccasins before returning with their drinks. She waited on the uppermost step, seemingly unaware of the large dust streak on her back and cobweb in her hair. They couldn’t have come from his deck because he spent last weekend cleaning the debris away. He handed her the glass and sat beside her.
“Thanks.” Her smile was shy without being coy.
He glanced out to the street, and caught sight of something red. Not again. “Those kids. They’re always leaving stuff in my yard.”
She began to laugh and nearly choked. In spite of the sputtering, he enjoyed her hearty laugh. In a surprisingly familiar gesture, she placed her free hand on his knee, but removed it almost as quickly.
“I’m sorry. That’s my little red wagon. Very handy for hauling stuff on beautiful days like today. I didn’t want to risk anyone tripping over it on the sidewalk. I take it the neighborhood kids still come over here to play?”
“Yes, they do.”
“You sound annoyed, City Boy.”
His brows pulled together enough to obstruct his view. Mom was always after him to get Botox so his brows couldn’t give away his thoughts, but it was too late. Claire chuckled a low noise that made his stomach quiver in an abnormally pleasant way, the kind that kept the antacids at bay.
“How did you know?”
“Lucky guess, James, but the attitude and accent helped. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the kids are here to stay. We’ve long considered Mrs. Russell’s house the neighborhood playground.”
“There’s no swings, no kids, or friendly—or even unfriendly—dogs to draw a crowd.”
“No, but there is a terrific hill.” Waving her arm toward the left of the house, she continued, her voice bright. “It’s not big enough to build up serious speed, obviously, but it’s perfect for turning cartwheels, running down and leaping over the sidewalk and, thanks to the bump at the end, the occasional bike stunt.”
He groaned. “Sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen.” Maybe the owners kept insurance on the property. His renter’s insurance covered his personal property only.
“Probably.” She shrugged before turning to him. She opened her mouth wide and pointed to an upper front tooth that jutted out slightly. “See this? I chipped my tooth here one winter trying to jump a sled over two of my friends. That was before Mrs. Russell installed the French drain. She used to get a river of water on the side of the house that turned icy in the winter and was a favorite place—for the boys especially—to have mud fights when it rained. Be glad you don’t have to deal with that. By the way, I never heard of anyone suing over kids being kids around here. That could have changed though.”
“I suppose that’s something to be grateful for. Did you grow up here?”
“I officially moved to town when I was eight so I’m not exactly from here, but I spent a lot of time visiting my grandparents before then. Where are you from?”
“We moved a lot. I lived in Phoenix, Seattle, Miami, and finally New York.”
“I thought I caught a little “New York” in your accent. Do you miss it?”
“Every day.”
“I don’t. It’s a fine place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there on a permanent basis again.”
“You lived there?”
“Twice. The first for eighteen months after college, and the second for five months two years ago.”
New York was a big city, but their paths hadn’t overlapped once during that time. He’d remember her, blue-streaked hair or not.
“I know we just met, but you seem like the artsy type who would enjoy the city. New York’s got great museums and galleries.”
“I’ve worked at some of those museums. They are great and worthy of many visits, but New York City doesn’t have this.” She gestured toward the street. “Look at that sunset, and these gorgeous houses, with their front porches, and the sheer fact that we are sitting outside talking about something of substance rather than the latest restaurant or club opening. Even the fact we’re talking at all. In New York, the only strangers who wanted to talk generally wore all their possessions and smelled of urine or were tourists. I shouldn’t generalize, but there, everyone seemed in such a rush to get to the next thing, that they neglected the here and now and the sunsets.”
As much as he hated to admit it, he could see her point. The sky was a layered cocktail of oranges and purples. Besides, he would have never sat outside like this talking unless dining at an outdoor café. When he chatted with an attractive woman, he met at a bar, the conversations were always the same. ‘What do you do? Where do you live?’ If they clicked, they’d swap texts or go back to one place or the other. Instead of superficial banter, he got a glimpse of the inner Claire, and he liked what he saw. Maybe the rest of his tenure here wouldn’t be so dull after all. “Maybe we overlook stuff in the city because we’re busy living.”
“Maybe. But is racing to catch one subway when another will be by in ten minutes really living?”
“It gets the heart racing, so it feels like living. I’ve been in Belkin only a few weeks, but I miss the excitement, the constant distractions, and most of all, I miss the noise. It’s too quiet, except for when the kids run all over the yard, and then it’s too loud.”
She put her hand to her chest as she laughed, as if trying and failing to keep her mirth to herself. It was undignified and glorious at the same time. “You need a sound machine that plays traffic noises. I have one that plays crickets. And when the kids are having fun, grab your headphones and remind yourself you only have to put up with it for a year. Unless you decide to stay. That’s happened to a couple of other engineers at Adena.”
“How did you know I worked there?” Had she heard of him? Did she work there too? No. She mentioned museums. He would have remembered meeting her. Besides, Jo welcomed her back from somewhere, so she must have been away.
“Because you didn’t grow up here. If you’re a twenty-something—”
“I’m thirty-one.”
“Fine, thirty-something in Belkin and you didn’t grow up here, or marry someone who grew up here, and I see no wife or girlfriend peeking out to spy on you, then only other explanation is that you signed a one- or two-year contract with the power company so you can get experience and demand a higher paycheck somewhere else.”
“So turnover is common, huh? I don’t need to feel guilty about it?” The higher than average numbers for recruitment and contract positions he’d seen on corporate reports collaborated her claims.
“Not at all. Belkin’s a low rent waystation. As you said, it’s not New York. But we have our charms.”
She turned toward the sunset and her bare lips unfurled in mysterious smile. She raised her glass. Her mouth curled against
the rim of the glass as she took another sip. She closed her eyes and he could picture his mouth replacing the glass. His time in Belkin would be more interesting if she came around more often. He wondered if that blue streak felt as soft as the rest of her hair looked. When he kissed her mouth and ran his fingers through her hair, would he be able to identify it by touch alone? Would he even have the chance? She leaned toward him as if she were flirting, but his brain was too scrambled to be trustworthy. His forehead crinkled as he remembered Jo’s words from that morning in the diner.
“Jo called you a stranger, but you two know each other. Do you live in town?”
She stared at something invisible in the distance, eyes narrowing slightly. She held her pose in silence as the seconds stretched on. Her lips pursed, forming soundless words. Was she forming a lie? The question didn’t seem complicated to him.
Before she spoke, she turned her head, once again looking into his eyes. “I own a house a few streets over and have commitment to stay here through the end of the year. But I travel a lot for work so I’m here, but not here.”
“What keeps you on the road?”
“Museum work. I repair older exhibits and give them a fresh coat of paint. More restoration than art. I’ve been in Chicago since February. I am so glad to get out of there before another winter. The wind downtown cuts right to the bone. The weather got better, and the food was sooooo good, but I missed firefly season here.”
His expression must have given away his inner confusion because she smiled, a broad smile that reached to her eyes. “Summer. You ever collect lightning bugs in a jar, City Boy?”
“Is that an insult?”
“Only if you want it to be. Now answer the question, City Boy.”
“No.” Once he and Danny stayed at a friend’s house or maybe it was a camp when they were maybe six or seven. He couldn’t remember the details, but that was the first time he’d seen lightning bugs. They competed to see who could hit the most glowing home runs with a baseball bat.