“That’s one word for it,” she said, clucking her tongue. “Nosy, more like it.”
As we wandered, one office caught my eye, New Heights Headquartersaccording to the sign in the window, but we walked right past it.
“Now I don’t know how long you’ll be here, but you need a woman’s ear on somethin’, you come find me or one of the others.” Wanda pointed across the street, to the pharmacy at the far end of the downtown stretch, where a similar group was huddled around the bistro tables out front, made up of entirely women. One had blueish white curls I could see all the way from here. “We’re never too far away,” she said with a wink, and she headed away.
“Thank you, Wanda,” I called after her.
Taking my bearings now that I could see more of the street, I let myself be pulled into the coffee shop, Foamy Heights, on the same block, but the opposite side of the street.
And it’s made for a great temporary workstation all morning long, what with easy access to pastries (Made Local read the sign), a damn good London Fog, and Wi-Fi to give my hotspot a break as I cozied up at a corner table, slipped on my over-ear headphones and knocked out a few hours of code.
The large plate glass windows overlooking the center of downtown mean passersby wrapped in overcoats or hoodies dot my periphery as I work away on the current project I’ve been assigned.
As a freelance developer, my workload is sometimes lighter and sometimes a bit more full-on, depending on what the firm I contract with has available. I love the flexibility of what I do, but it’s not always the most reliable when it comes to volume of work. Lately, it’s been a little lighter than I wish it were, especially with Van Gogh on the fritz.
For the fortieth time today, a thought about my poor van hits me, and I remember why I’m sitting here, wondering about the status of Van Gogh instead of inside her at our next campsite.With those thoughts, the familiar tightening in my stomach comes back. The knots that drop lower and lower at the thought of what this will cost me.
One thing feels certain, it’s more than my measly budget is prepared for.
When I wrap up for the day, I shoot a quick email to my contact at the firm, asking if there are any additional projects I could be an asset on in the near future.
Here’s hoping they’ve got a little something more for me to get my van up and running again, so I can do what I’ve been doing for close to a decade: Keep moving.
A tinny, robotic sound plays in my headphones that alerts me the email has been sent, and I stare at the screen in front of me. The empty inbox in my encrypted email—one that’s generally favored by international hackers due to being virtually untraceable and anonymous—might as well have crickets chirping while tumbleweeds roll through the desert for all the correspondence I have. It’s a reminder of the loneliness my life entails.
Ignoring the pinch in my chest, the sting that always accompanies my regret, I start a new email.
Hi,
Me again. I am on the move once more. It’s not so warm where I am now. Makes me wonder how chilly you must be right about now. Good thing is, spring is already springing! I hope you send me a picture when your tulips start to bloom. What colors will you have this year?
Had a slight hiccup but should be on the go again in no time. Will tell you more about it later.
I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to!
Sorry again we couldn’t be together on your favorite day. Maybe this is the year we can meet somewhere? Let’s start dreaming. Where would you want to go?
Look out for a postcard from me before long.
Miss you always. Love you longer.
A
I’ve heard spring allergies in the South can be a real bitch. Once I put away my laptop, toss my recycling, hit the restroom, and step outside into the nippy early evening air on Main Street, I chalk it up to some henceforth unknown allergies that have me wiping my eyes as I head back toward the B&B.
Eyes still glistening, I don’t make it more than a couple of doors down—the hammering and whirring noises of construction having died down for the day—when a tall brunette woman across the street waves me down.
“Amelia!” she hollers, bouncing a baby in one arm, waving somehow both frantically and elegantly with the other. Once she has my attention, she returns to finishing locking the door on the New Heights Headquarters behind her, then hustles over to me. I’ve never seen someone move so quickly in a pencil skirt and heels, much less while holding a cooing infant, but she’s giving anomaly vibes all around. Definitely doesn’t look like most of the local women I’ve run into so far, I’ll say that much.
“Rory Weiss-Grady,” she introduces once she’s close enough. “Head of the New Heights committee. Wyatt’s wife, Weston’s sister-in-law. I’m the one who?—”
“Got me the place to stay,” I finish her sentence as she nods, a warm smile on her oval face.
“Right. Are you headed to the garage?”
I pull out my phone to check the time and see a missed call from an area code I don’t recognize.
Rory’s eyes follow my motion. “My husband tried to call you,” she says, not apologizing for snooping on my phone screen. I have a feeling she makes sure to notice more than most.“He had a look at your van today. He’s got a grasp on your options and is ready for you.”
