As I wipe the crumbs from my shirt, I spy a Tonka truck-looking SUV bumping up the path. I scrunch my nose when it comes to a stop in front of me. There’s no pretending I’m not here now.
A handsome woman hops out and makes her way up the steps.
“Ms. Nash! So lovely to meet you. I’m Orla McBride, mayor of Summit Springs.”
Annoyed by the unannounced pop-in, I grab my cane and attempt to stand. Turns out, that’s difficult to do from an Adirondack chair with an air cast and a misfiring brain. Mayor Orla McBride, seeing my difficulty, hurries forward and helps me out of the chair.
“Thanks,” I say, sounding a little brusque even to myself.
“Any time. I’m sorry for the circumstances, but I’m glad you’re in town. We’re nearing the tail end of the season, so you won’t find it too crowded. Of course we want to let you know that you are welcome and will be treated like one of us whenever you find your way into town.”
“Probably won’t have much reason to go into town, and I’d prefer not to be seen like this, you understand,” I say as the nice mayor pulls out her phone.
She reverses course, shoving the phone back into her pocket. “Oh. Of course. That does make sense. We’ll wait for you to feel better before getting our Instagram moment,” she says with a genuine smile.
Ugh.
“Yeah, I don’t really do social media,” I say, turning toward the door before the mayor can come up with an objection.
Flustered, I try to lean on my cane with my weak hand and open the door with my strong hand. I nearly fall, but manage to catch myself, then groan when the mayor’s hand comes into view.
“I’ve got it,” I grumble, pulling on the door so hard it hits both of us and I nearly lose my balance all over again.
The mayor’s eyes go wide, and I shake my head. “Sorry, Mayor McBride. That came out wrong. I can get myself inside. Thank you for your visit.”
“Okay then. I hope you recover quickly.” She then sends me a short wave before returning to her funny-looking SUV.
Letting myself in, I almost trip over my guitar case. I kick it out of the way, and not only does it barely move, but I also crack my big toenail.
Fucking ouch.
I don’t know why the fuck Mason thought I should have my guitar in here. It’s not like I have any dexterity left. I’m just a fucking loser in a pretty cabin.
* * *
Kinley isthe only one in this Godforsaken town respecting my space. I’ve met the mayor, the owner of the ski lodge, and Lupe and Liz, who are way cool but also super outdoorsy in a lifestyle kind of way, which…no. I like skiing and hiking because they are largely solo endeavors. No need to add group kayaking or anything remotely campfire-related to the mix.
I may have been rather forthright in that opinion when they stopped by, and I doubt I’ll be seeing them again. Ever.
Kinley, on the other hand, has never come in for a visit. In fact, the only reason I know she’s around is because, every few days, new supplies show up on the porch. Creamer for my coffee, additional towels, pantry items. She never knocks on the door, just drops off the items, picks up the dirty towels and linens I leave in the basket on the porch, and goes.
Sometimes I catch her retreating form through the windows, but…I made it clear that she was not a welcome person in my life. At least she’s honoring my request to be left the fuck alone.
Still, despite her careful attention to detail, I run out of the locally sourced granola that has become an all-consuming obsession. I call Mason to see if he can get me some from in town.
“Oh, sorry, Mac. I’m away with Freddy this weekend.”
I roll my eyes. He’s hot and heavy with that EMT, and now he’s having hisHallmark Movie in the Rocky Mountainsmoment.
Fine. I might not have a vehicle or even the ability to drive, but there’s always Uber.
Or not.
I pull up the app, and all of the Uber and Lyft drivers are out taking people to and from the airport. Fine. I pull up the Chamber of Commerce website, looking to see what kind of ancient taxi company they have in these parts, only to discover they don’t even have a taxi company. Not really. There’s only Ed, a “locals only” car service. I follow the links to his website and book a ride.
He shows up a little early, and I sigh. The website describes his truck as a blue and white F150. More like blue, white, and rust, and that damn thing is old enough to buy liquor. Worse, I wonder if Ed is somehow short for Methuselah.
He waves a grizzled hand in my direction. “Hello there, little lady!”
