Without waiting for an answer, he takes off up the sidewalk at a sprightly pace, his leather shoes squeaking. I’ve already got Doris zipped into her hot-pink bird backpack, so I grab the handle and jog to keep up. She flaps her wings and mutters, “Lordy. Oh, lordy,” which is really the only part of her vocabulary she’s gotten from her time with me.
“You haven’t been to town before, I presume?” Colonel asks when I catch up.
“Never.”
“Well, welcome to Arcadia Falls. Your family used to all but run this town, and then, with the storm…” He sighs. “Doesn’t really matter, does it? You’ve got a place here. Not much blood these days, but plenty of bones left in these cemeteries.” He gestures to a small, fenced-in graveyard by an old gray church, all the tombstones leaning drunkenly and carved away by the elements. “See it there? Always plenty of Kirkwoods. Used to be, at least.”
He’s right. I count three Kirkwood stones nestled in the verdant clover. I’m surprised to see a stone-built church with spires and stained glass—most Southern churches are plain brick things like squatting toads, but this building looks like it was transplanted straight out of Ireland.
The sidewalk cants up toward a cluster of buildings, and Colonel isn’t even huffing and puffing, although I am. Everything was a lot flatter back home.
“So this is downtown,” he says as the sidewalk spits us out on the square I saw online.
It’s even prettier in person. Birds sing in the trees and peck on the sidewalks, butterflies and bees buzz amid blooming bushes, and the canopy overhead glows a uniform shade of brilliant green. All four sides of the square are lined with colorful buildings, some regular brick, some whitewashed, some wood, some mostly windows. There are flower baskets planted with late-summer marigolds and those tufty magenta plants that look like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. Some buildings have balconies, and people laugh as they sit at bistro tables or sip wine at open bars. In the center of the cobblestone square stands the Platonic ideal of a town hall, crisp white with tall columns. There’s a matching gazebo beside a sculpture of an old miner with a pickax and a pot of gold. I feel like I’ve just walked into the welcome brochure.
“Which do you prefer, country cookin’ or rabbit food?”
“Rabbit food?” I ask, confused.
“Country cookin’ sticks to your ribs. Fried trout, chicken ’n’ dumplings, macaroni and cheese with that nice crumbly stuff on top.” He puts a hand to his stomach and points to a brick storefront painted dark burgundy with gingham curtains in the window. “That’s Marla’s Home Cookin’. Whereas if you prefer rabbit food, Lindy’s has little fiddly sandwiches and soups and salads, although you can’t always trust the salads, just between us.” He looks vaguely disgusted as he points across the square to a light blue building with a striped awning. “What’s your poison?”
Realizing that there is no way to get out of lunch, I say, “Sandwiches sound good.”
He deflates. “Yes, my wife and my cardiologist would both agree with you. Sandwiches it is.”
When we reach the door, he holds it open for me, and I pause.“This is a weird question, but do you think anybody would mind if I brought in a cockatoo?”
He looks at me like I just barked at him, so I turn my backpack around to show the rose-breasted cockatoo sitting inside. She’s about the size of a football, with a Pepto-Bismol-pink head and chest, and soft gray wings and tail.
“This is Doris.”
“Oh, lordy,” Doris says, raising her feathered crest curiously. “Shipoopi!”
Colonel’s jaw drops.
“It’s from a musical—The Music Man,” I say, blushing just as pink as her crest. “The old lady who owned her kept musicals on all day long. She doesn’t actually curse, I promise.”
“Well, I’ll be. I guess we’ll see what we can get away with. If Chuck Hickman can bring in that rashy old dog of his, I don’t see how anyone could complain about a well-cultured cockatoo. Just don’t let her escape. Lindy’ll have a fit. She’s more of a cat person.”
I step into the restaurant, and it’s hopping. There’s a bakery counter and at least a dozen wobbling wooden tables filled with all sorts of folks, from moms with little kids fresh out of school to a man who’s got to be older than God sitting alone with a half-bald mini poodle that’s got to be older than God’s oldest dog. Colonel leads me to the counter, and I’m reading the chalkboard menu when a loud voice drawls, “Oh my golden gravy, Miranda Kirkwood, is that you?”
I turn around to see who asked the question, and the woman’s face falls, and I instantly know why. She’s about Mama’s age, and she’s just realized that I’m not her.
“Close,” I say, because I feel bad for her. She looks shaken, like she’s seen a ghost. “I’m her daughter.”
“Where’s your mama at?”
The look on my face tells her everything she needs to know. She puts a hand to her prow of a chest and shakes her permed hair, blond running to gray. “She said she’d never come back come hell or high water, so I should’ve known. I’m so sorry for that. Can I ask—”
“Cancer.”
She blinks rapidly as her eyes go wet. “She didn’t deserve that. She was a good friend. Still, it’s nice to see a Kirkwood around these parts, now that your grandma is—” She stops, eyes flying wide. “Oh, Lord. I did it again. Always putting my foot in my big ol’ mouth. No wonder my pedicures don’t last long.”
Colonel steps in gallantly so she’ll stop panicking. “Tina McGowan, this is Rhea Wolfe. She’s come to take care of her grandmother’s estate.”
I can’t quite decode the face Tina makes. There’s some pity and disappointment there, but also…amusement?
“Well, good luck with that, honey. Does that mean you’ll be sticking around?”
