I sigh and follow Jim into the museum, where I settle in at the front desk and Jim heads off to the back. I take out a stack of bright yellow Barrel Into Summer flyers, which I printed at the library last night. I’ve already put up about fifty around town, at places like the community center and grocery store and pharmacy and bakery. I tape a few to the wall behind the front desk, then, for good measure, I tape one across from the toilet in the bathroom. I’m determined that everyone who comes in here to pee is going to leave knowing about this event.
I’m deciding whether or not I should put flyers near some of the exhibits when my phone buzzes in my bag.
[11:24]John:heading your way
[11:24]John:you want a coffee?
I bite the inside of my lip. Yesterday, I’ll admit, this text might’ve given me a fizzy little burst of excitement, but now I’m not so sure. This is probably how Mrs. Finnamore got into trouble. She probably thought Bill was a bit of a looker, and then he asked her out and she thought, sure, no harm in having one date with a good-looking chap, even if he’s clearly not husband material. But then, boom! Eighty years pass by and her life is nearly over and she’s wishing she could go back and get a do-over.
On the other hand, Jim would tell me to stop overthinking and just focus on being happy in the moment. Plus, the situation withJohn is totally different, since I already know he isn’t interested, which means I don’t have to worry about getting trapped in a second-rate marriage. This is just a silly little one-sided attraction. There’s absolutely no harm in enjoying it for what it is.
Yes. That makes sense. I’m going to go with that.
I turn back to my phone.
[11:25]: Would love one.?
Five hours later, John still hasn’t left the museum.
He and I did Wordle together over coffee (PLEAT, on the fifth guess), then I took him to the back room to introduce him to Trey. They’ve been back there ever since, hammering and drilling and having enthusiastic arguments about—I don’t know, how to hammer and drill things properly, I guess. It sounds like they’re having fun, so I mostly leave them to it, popping back every once in a while to make sure they haven’t lost sight of my (slightly whimsical) artistic vision.
Shelley is eventually drawn out of her office to complain about the noise, but she stops short when she sees that it’s Trey’s doing. I think she might be a little intimidated by him, actually. She limits her complaints to a sour frown and then retreats back into her office without even asking what they’re up to.
About ten minutes after she leaves for the day, a pretty, heavyset woman with short brown hair pokes her head in the front door. She’s carrying two pizza boxes in one hand.
“Shelley gone yet?” she asks me.
“Er—yes,” I say uncertainly. “Were you hoping to speak with her? Or did you want to buy a ticket to the museum?”
She grins. “I’m hoping you’ll let me in for free. I’m Rose. Trey’s wife.”
“Oh!” I smile and offer my hand. “I’m Emily.”
“Figured I’d bring you all some dinner,” Rose says. “But not Shelley,” she adds conspiratorially.
I stifle a giggle. “The boys are out back.”
I lock the front door and turn the Open sign to Closed, then we head to the back room, where Jim is watching Trey and John work. They’re only halfway done with the exhibit, but I can already tell it’s going to look amazing.
Rose balances the pizza boxes on a nearby barrel and we all gather around to eat. I’m a bit worried it will be awkward, but Rose is one of those rare people who can make everyone feel instantly at ease. She chastises Trey for working with his injured hand and gets a laugh out of Jim by calling his son a “total looker.” (Apparently Jim’s son was her teacher in high school.) When I tell her about the Barrel Into Summer event, she offers to take flyers around her neighborhood to drum up interest.
“It’s about time someone did something with this place,” she says. “It’s such a beautiful building. And totally wasted under Shelley’s management.”
“Rose and Shelley went to high school together,” Trey adds.
“And we used to work together at the grocery store,” Rose says. “She used to bounce around from job to job, putting in a million complaints about her coworkers and managers and trying to get put off on stress leave... When Josephine died, everyone hoped the historical society wouldn’t hire her, but I guess they wanted to keep things in the family, for Jo’s sake. But Jo would be rolling in her grave to see her running this place. They never got along whenshe was alive.” She shakes her head. “Maybe you can take over her job someday.”
I point at myself. “Me?”
“Why not?” Rose says. “You’d do a way better job than Shelley. And tourism is really skyrocketing these days. Mark my words, this place will outstrip Summerside in a few years.”
I smile a little guiltily and say nothing, because it would be way too rude to say how I really feel. I love this place, but being the manager of a tiny museum in small-town PEI is pretty much the opposite of my dream job. And even if it was my dream job, there’s no way Shelley will ever give it up. She gets paid to sit in her office scrolling through Facebook while volunteers do the actual work. Why on earth would she ever leave?
Rose changes the subject to ask how Jim’s daughter is doing since getting out of the hospital, and then she tells a story about a customer at the grocery store who tried to smuggle a thirty-pound bag of dog food out under his T-shirt, which leaves us all laughing over our last bites of pizza. A little after six, we all head out to our cars.
“Want me to drive you home, Jim?” Rose asks. “We live just up the road from him,” she adds to me.
Jim agrees, and the three of them head off in Rose’s car. John has parked a little farther up the street, near me. We walk along the sidewalk together in silence. The air is cool and sweet-smelling, and the trees that line the road rustle gently in the breeze. I glance sideways at John, who’s walking with his hands shoved in his pockets. I wonder if he thinks it’s strange to be hanging out with me like this outside of work.
