And if I didn’t know how tweaked I was, the fact that it didn’t do what it normally did: make me feel all warm and gooey inside (and I was far from a warm-and-gooey-feeling girl), I knew then.
I instantly smelled apples.
This was one of the varied scents of candles we sold from a local candlemaker, Gemma.We could barely keep them in stock because even tourists who’d come into the store to buy one came back to our online store to buy more.
The shop was not wide, but it was long, and I gave Abigail all the credit for how beautifully our wares were displayed.
We sold from local craftspeople and artisans, and this was mingled with my found and refurbished pieces.Everything from rewired lamps to refurbished designer bags to full sets of china to big pieces of furniture.
We had a homewares section, with beautiful kitchen towels embroidered by a woman named Carol, who lived on a ranch with her husband south of town.Then there was the natural dish soap and hand lotion, created by the aforementioned Ida, who lived north.This intermingled with stuff I picked up at garage, yard and estate sales; no chips, cracks or dings, just vintage goodness.
This segued pleasingly into a personal care section, with natural body soaps, lotions, moisturizers, masks (etc.) also created by Ida (who sold great online too).Along with this, we had fabulous sweaters and scarves (the one I was wearing included) knitted by a lady named Melissa.Fantastic handbags and wallets, created by a leatherworker named Maude.And lots of gorgeous jewelry, all of it crafted by three different local artists.
We had fantastic pottery (created locally), art (yup, by local artists) and sculptures (you guessed it, local).
And behind the old-fashioned, wood paneled counter stood Abigail, my second-in-command who was more like my first, so I didn’t have to bother with much but constantly repeating she was so on the ball, it was a miracle I found her.
She had a head of short, blonde, spikey hair that she usually adorned with clips, a funky Alice band or a scarf, a rockin’ mom bod that was slender (ish) but had serious curves, a flair for making denim and gingham seem the height of fashion, a husband named Brett, who didn’t mind lugging furniture or making deliveries on the weekends, even if he had a full-time job, and two absurdly adorable kids, five and three, named Liam and Emma.
“How’s shakes, sister?”she called.
I smiled at her.
On my walk there, I’d made the decision not to alarm her with my run-in (allegedly) with The Lion and The Lamb.I didn’t need big, burly mountain man Brett rounding up his equally burly buds and storming the compound either.
I thought more on it during my walk, and I also decided not to tell her about my Post-it Lover.
So far, the only bummer of living in Misted Pines was that I’d left all my good girlfriends behind.
Abigail had made it clear she was down to be that for me, but I hadn’t made my final decision as to if I was going to stay here.
Yes, it seemed the store was going to be a go.
Yes, it was beautiful here.
Yes, Abigail was the bomb.
But, although I moved here during winter, I hadn’t lived a full winter here.
And for an LA/Orlando girl, the period of winter I endured had been zero fun.
Snow was beautiful, but it sucked driving in it.Cold was cold, and although I had a furnace, it was probably installed in the 1970s, so the cabin was constantly chilly.The only time I got really warm was about two hours before I woke up under my multitude of covers every morning.
Now there was this sitch with my not-so-friendly neighbors.
I didn’t want to leave another friend behind.
I couldn’t say I missed Orlando.
I could say it killed how bad I missed Kacey and Mona.
“Shakes are shakin’,” I replied, stopping in front of the counter, opposite her behind it.“Came down for provisions.I’m in an iced brownie mood.”
She rolled her eyes in delight like she’d just bitten into one of those particular treats, as she would.She knew my brownies.
I cooked.I baked.
I lived alone.
