Yes, I’m aware that if I don’t show up, for whatever reason, Mrs. Riley will track me down. Is this what you feel like when you make a deal at the crossroads?
It’s possible I’ve been reading too many thrillers recently. I can’t help myself. If I could check out romance books, I would, but not with certain people working at the desk. No, thank you.
Love her dearly, but she’s a woman who doesn’t understand personal information and public knowledge. I’m not sure if it’s intentional or if she’s just oblivious, but it’s something I’ve noticed for years.
“You can even stay for the adult portion of the night,” she tells me with wiggled eyebrows. “You let me know if you want me to match you with a date. It’ll be in about a month so you’ll have plenty of time to shop for the perfect dress to wow the man who just might be your future husband.”
“I appreciate the offer,” my voice sounds bewildered.
Probably because I am. Should I be offended because she thinks I can’t get my own date? Should I take her up on the whole thing?
Sure, Ford Conners is the only man I can really picture a future with but sharing some lukewarm appetizers at the library raffle fundraiser with someone might be fun.
I just can’t imagine who she’d wrangle into this love match. It’s hard to stop it, but I manage not to cringe at the thought.
“You let me know,” she says it like I’m a child who has taken too long picking out their bedtime story. “I’ll keep an eye out for the perfect man, just in case.”
And then she’s gone and the scent of books and coffee clings to the air for long minutes in her wake.
The only thing I can do is shake my head. She’s a fixture in this town, and I’ve known her for most of my life. Story hour at the library was a frequent outing with my mom, especially whenwe first moved here and money was tight. It got us out of the house and gave her a few minutes where I was entertained.
I can see the merit now. And it’s not like I was complaining then.
Those story hours were filled with faraway places and fanciful tales. I loved them, and from there my love for reading grew. And it’s why my top-secret, tell no-one dream is to be a writer. Well, it’s one of my dreams.
The rest of the day is filled with people just like Mrs. Riley. It’s comforting knowing everyone and having them ask you how you are. It doesn’t feel like just words here; they really care.
Growing up here was nice because there is safety in knowing your neighbors, but it can be stifling as well. It doesn’t help that there are always looks with lingering pity from everyone. It was no secret that we moved here after my mom left my abusive, asshole of a father. I was young and there are a lot of things I don’t remember.
I’ve always been a shoot for the stars type person; that holds true even in what I dream of in my future. If I had my way, I’d publish adventure stories for girls where they save themselves or with the help of their best friend, who is also an awesome girl. And I’d find a way to help women like my mom.
Sure, she got out all those years ago. She did save herself, and me.
But I think part of her is still back there, in that house, that place, with him. At this point, I don’t even remember what he looks like, but I remember what he sounded like. It was always yelling. It was always scary. When we left, I wasn’t sad about it.
Safety was something new to experience. Which is a shame.
I’m quite sure Mom never really relaxed. She didn’t date after moving here. She poured everything into being the best mom, but now I wonder if it was sacrifice or fear that held her back. It’s not like she got any help afterwards, at least not that I remember.
Having a place for women to go to, where they’re safe and can get help, that’s a dream I’m not even sure how to make into a reality. It’s one of those hopes you take out when it’s dark, when no one is around, and let yourself imagine how good it could be and how many people it could help.
I wonder if it could have helped me because there are times when fear still clings to me.
Or maybe that comes from not wanting to repeat my mom’s mistakes. Is it my legacy to do so? My destiny?
I hope not, but is it out of my hands?
It’s one of the many reasons why I’ve never dated. I was asked out a few times, but I got a reputation for turning everyone down, and the well ran dry. Then I saw Ford Conners not long before his dad died.
The poor, unsuspecting man. I fell in love with him right then and there.
When his life turned upside down, in more ways than one if the gossip mill around here is to believed, I watched him. It couldn’t have been easy to shoulder his dad’s death, take over Sagebrush, and watch his mom and sister leave for richer pastures. Literally richer in money, which, from what I’ve heard, is the only thing that matters to Barbara Conners.
As much as I try not to listen to the gossip, it’s hard not to when information about Ford is few and far between. No onegossips about him going on dates. He spends most of his time out at the ranch. Miss Rosalie does his grocery shopping, and his ranch hands make runs into Seneca Falls for other supplies.
It was the thought of Ford rattling around in his big house, which is basically a mansion, all by himself without anyone there to really celebrate his birthday that had me writing to him the first time. I didn’t think I would still be writing to him a year later.
But it’s like I can’t stop.
