From the friendly young woman at the bakery, I order a pistachio creme horn at her recommendation, and before I know it, she’s handing me free samples of almost every cookieand pie in the place. How can I refuse? Once I’m stuffed full of sugar, I promise to be back tomorrow before she can give me yet another sample. Outside, I grab my second coffee of the day, and make my way back to my car, feeling like I’m in the way of all this activity. But one thing stands out that I hadn’t noticed before—a single empty storefront.
It can’t hurt to have a look.
I clear off the pollen from the glass window and peek inside, using my hands to block the sun’s glare. It’s a good size, with lots of shelving. Needs some new fixtures.
I hadn’t ever thought about opening my own gallery, but something stirs in my belly when I see this place. I can actually picture myself here, setting up my displays, teaching classes. I could have a studio in the back with my own wheel, kiln, everything.
“It’s still up for lease, if you’re interested.”
I turn around at the sound of a man’s voice behind me. A tall, imposing guy with a polo shirt hands me a business card. “But there’s some competition, so you’re aware.”
That stirring inner sensation has me asking, “Do you have a rental application? I might consider it.”
“Right this way,” he says. The man has me follow him a block up, past more buzzing and dodging volunteers carrying tables, chairs, and tents, and into the office of Hutchinson Realty, the second business I’ve seen with a non-bird name around here.
This is happening at lightning speed.
But it all feels right. Something in these mountains is calling to me, and I think I have to answer.
Later, after filling out my application, I take the wildest roundabout route to the vacation rental I booked. Charlotte has some hills, and the countryside has some sharp turns, but nothing like this.
When I pull up, the sprawling, buttery yellow house speaks my language. It’s even prettier than I imagined.
Something is in the water in Songbird Ridge. Or maybe it’s the pollen in the air, but an odd feeling rises to the surface, and I can’t bottle it up.
I’m supposed to live here. This is home.
I turn that thought over in my mind, knowing how unhinged that sounds.
The front garden of the house is filled with small ornamental trees and decorative grasses, almost on the verge of being cluttered, but still inviting.
The fence around the property is a charming white picket fence, and there’s a covered porch that wraps around the front and one side.
As I walk up, voices drift through open windows.
“I’m just happy to have people around my table. It reminds me of when MiMi was alive.” The woman’s voice is wistful and kind. I know right away, somehow, that’s Iris, the owner.
Another woman’s voice responds. “You know I’m a picky bish, but everything was perfect.” That one sounds like she’s got a mouth full of food.
A man asks, “Is this local jam?”
“No, sadly, it’s imported all the way from the Piedmont.”
“That’s my only critique,” he says.
“Don’t listen to him. Everything is amazing,” the second woman says.
“I know I didn’t hear your man critiquing my preserves,” says the first woman.
The other one changes the subject. “Hey, are you doing any dresses for the Wright wedding in June, by any chance?”
“Yes, why?”
“I heard there’s trouble in paradise. Mother-in-law drama.”
“Oh no, don’t tell me that. I’m doing the bridal gown, a separate reception gown, the veil, the mother of the bride dress for her aunt…”
“All I can say is, I don’t think they’re a match.”
