Page 32 of In The Weeds
Gus and Monty corner me after that, asking if I can swing by the firehouse and help them with a video. Intrigued and amused, I can’t help but trail after them to the open bay doors, music spilling out from the back office. I proceed to watch them choreograph a surprisingly involved dance to Jennifer Lopez. Monty explains after with panting breaths that they’re trying to raise money for a new ambulance.
“And you’re doing that through … dance?” Kirstyn would be delighted.
Monty winks at me, forehead dewy with sweat. “Gotta give the people what they want.”
I spot Mabel at the door to the fire-station, arms crossed over her chest and a smile ticking up the corner of her mouth. She’s busy looking at Gus like he’s one of Ms. Beatrice’s lattes.
“Evelyn,” she calls. She drags her attention away from Gus wiping the sweat from his brow with the hem of his t-shirt and blinks at me, a little bit dazed. “I need some help with my website. Do you mind stopping by the greenhouse for a sec?”
The day continues like that. As soon as I finish up with one person, another appears with a question or a task or—a banner for the farmer’s market that needs hanging across the fountain in the center of town. I don’t know if it’s small town life or just Inglewild’s own brand of welcome but I’m pulled wonderfully and perfectly out of my head for the entire day. No anxiety clawing at my throat, no pit in my belly. I don’t wonder once if this is where I’m supposed to be, if I could be doing something better or different.
I’m just here, leaning over a stone fountain with a bit of twine held between my teeth.
“How’s it look?” I ask Alex, who is apparently in charge of banner hanging in addition to owning the bookshop. He gives me a thumbs up from the edge of the fountain, glasses slipping down his nose.
I step off the ladder and tilt my head back to read the bold looping letters hand stenciled across the canvas.
WELCOME SPRING
Right below it, in a smaller font:
SEASONS CHANGE AND SO DO WE
I stretch my arms wide to the side and wiggle my fingers back and forth.
So do we.
I pullinto Beckett’s driveway and sit in my car for a moment, staring at his house. It suits him, this big cabin at the edge of the field. Faded wood shingles warped by weather and time. An ancient looking tree to the left, its branches reaching out over the roof. A wide porch that wraps around, a couple of rocking chairs next to the front door. A single, wide window. A light on in the corner of the living room.
I laugh a little as I let myself through the front door, a bottle of wine wedged under my arm and a family of cats appearing at my feet. They weave through my legs as I drop my bag next to a worn wooden table flaked with red paint, an old baseball cap on top. I rub my thumb over the edge of the brim and let my eyes trail over the walls, taking in everything I didn’t see last night.
I study the collection of family photos, all different sizes in mismatched frames. My gaze snags on one in particular. Beckett with three stunning women who can only be his sisters, two sharing a laugh while Beckett and a woman with honey blonde hair give the camera a long-suffering look. I grin as I stare at it and imagine the sound he makes when he’s frustrated. The sigh caught in the back of his throat.
My eyes drift to the canvas painting hanging in the middle of all the pictures, the same colors and broad paint strokes as the one above the mantle. A big golden sun, hanging lazy and full in the sky.
The cats follow me to the spare room and make a nest out of my t-shirts as I change into an oversized sweater and worn leggings, thick socks that I pull up to just below my knees. If Beckett is home, he’s being quiet about it. I can’t hear anything besides the soft patter of tiny paws, the rustle of cotton and flannel.
One of the cats nudges her head against my thigh and I scratch under her chin.
“Where’s your dad, hm?”
His kitchen is as neat as the rest of his house. I resist the urge to go snooping, instead taking in everything I can see from the counter that stretches out into the center of the space. An open bill, a scattering of loose change right next to it. Books stacked on the shelf, pages dogeared. A couple of coasters out of place on the coffee table.
I collect a glass from one of the cabinets, an old jam jar with bits of the label still clinging to the edges in pieces. I rub my thumb over the faded grapes and shoulder open the back door, shuffling onto the back porch where there’s a couple wide, comfortable looking chairs.
The crickets begin their evening song as I shut the door quietly behind me, a call and response of chirps across the wide yard. I didn’t notice last night, but Beckett has a small greenhouse at the very edge, right before the trees begin to cluster into woodland. I can see the shape of leaves through the fogged windows, stacked boxes and a long bench down the center. A table in the back with terracotta balanced in stacks. I wonder what he grows in there, if he likes to spend his evenings with the flowers after spending all day with the trees.
The dwindling light moves across the porch and I pour myself a glass. I sip carefully and hold myself too still, waiting for the creak of the front door, boots against hardwood. But after an hour of watching the sun sink in the sky, it becomes apparent that Beckett isn’t coming home anytime soon. I fall back in the chair with a sigh, the thought oddly disappointing. Is he avoiding his house? Or is he somewhere else? With someone else?
I frown and curl my legs beneath me in the chair and watch the colors change across the sky. Cotton candy pink. Vibrant red. A deep, indulgent violet. I sit on the porch and I wait.
But as night begins to edge across the yard and a yawn works my jaw open wide, I decide to call it. I collect my jam jar and the bottle by my feet and retreat back inside, tidying up some of the things on the counter before shuffling down the hall to the spare room.
I close the door behind me. I’ll talk with Beckett tomorrow.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EVELYN
