We say bye and get in the car. I climb into the passenger seat with the box of cozies and riffle through them. There’s a rainbow one, an American flag one. There’s even one covered in hearts.
“What’s Hal’s deal?” I ask when Callie starts the engine. “ ’Cause these cozies and that man do not seem to add up.”
“Yeah, he’s had a pretty rough year. His wife left him last year. Then his ma, who raised him as a single parent and ran this convenience store since he was born, passed away. And then a few months later, his dog died.”
“Oh my God.” I sigh. “His life sounds more tragic than a Darren Aronofsky movie.”
She falters, probably not fully understanding my comparison, but continues, seeming to get the gist. “We keep telling him that maybe a change of scenery could help him move on, but he’s adamant that he wants to stay and keep the store going, just like his ma would’ve wanted him to. But ever since he started crocheting, he’s been much happier.”
“If that’s his happy face, I shudder to think of what it was before.”
She laughs. “It was pretty much the same.” Then, in a more serious tone, she adds, “That’s why the people in town check in withhim often. Because Hal’s emotions don’t present themselves in obvious ways.”
“That’s nice of people to do that,” I say. Now that I know the source of Hal’s pained expression, I feel awful for assuming the worst about him. And I’m glad he at least has the support of the people around him.
Not too far down the road, we turn into a long driveway, passing a small barn with the most stunning garden around it. An older woman with shoulder-length white hair tied back in a bandana approaches us as we pull up to the house. She’s got a storage container in her hands. Callie and I hop out of the car after she parks it.
“Hi, Jean. This is Elena,” Callie says. “She’s new in town and going to help me today.”
“Oh, hello. It’s always nice to meet someone new. I’m Jean.” She lifts the container up to me. “Mind taking this from me while I go get the rest of the stuff?”
“Sure,” I say, taking it from her. I peek inside and find cartons of fresh blue eggs. They look like the fake ones I saw on display at the Four Seasons in Singapore, only these are real.
Callie follows Jean behind the house, and when they return, they each have a bucket spilling with bouquets of flowers.
“Those are gorgeous. What’s the occasion?” I ask.
Jean lights up at the compliment. “These are from my garden. They’re for the farmer’s market.”
“You grew these?Here?” My eyes widen. Even though I logically know that flowers come from nature, I usually only see them in crystal vases at high-end venues.
She places a hand to her heart. “Oh, my Gerry would be so happy to hear you say that. And it warms my heart to know I’ve been keeping up with his garden long after he left us.”
“Your dedication to him even after all these years is relationship goals, Jean.” Callie squeezes her arm.
“Aw, thank you, darling.”
“Sorry we can’t stay long, Jean. We have to make one more stop on our way.”
“No worries. We’ll catch up later. It was nice meeting you, Elena.” Jean smiles at me.
“Nice meeting you too.” I wave at her and get back into Callie’s Jeep.
“Now, go get top dollar for those ranunculi. For Gerry!” Jean waves at us.
“We will.” Callie waves back, then turns the engine on.
“She’s nice,” I say as we head back to the main road.
“Yeah, she is so sweet. And her husband, Gerry, was too. He passed ten years ago, but the way she carries his memory with her makes it feel like he’s still part of this community. That kind of loyalty is hard to come by these days.”
“Yeah, it is.” As I say this, I’m struck with a hint of envy. Even though I defended my friendships to Gavin, I admit that the only loyalty we truly have is to our own reputations. My train of thought is interrupted when we pass by a field of cows. “Let me guess, we’re picking up milk next?” I ask Callie.
“Close.” She smiles. “This is a dairy farm, but Dr.Blaire isn’t only known for her milk; it’s what she does with it that’s impressive.”
“Dr.Blaire?” I raise a brow at the name.
“Yep.” Callie nods, understanding my skepticism. “Mayor Beecham’s wife happens to be named Blaire, which made for all sorts of good fodder for his campaign.” She clears her throat. “A man so dedicated to the town of Blaire, he married someone of the same name,” she says in a TV announcer voice.
