Take care of your tools, and your tools will take care of you, my grandfather had always said. And while that remained true, a clean shop also helped customers gain a sense of confidence in our expertise and service.
I finished cleaning and moved into the staff-only bathroom at the rear of our big workshop. We’d upgraded our premises a few years back, building a bigger and better garage so we could service more of the giant farm machines that the locals had begun to use. Along with that change had come heated concrete floors, better ventilation, and a new staff area including a bathroom with a shower.
In a town this size, one would assume we wouldn’t have much work. But between the hydroelectrical plant, the tourists, and the agricultural customers, we made a tidy profit.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror of the bathroom and sighed. Dirt and grime peppered my face, highlighting my blue-green eyes. My blonde hair had slipped out of my ponytail and formed knots and dreads caked with dirt. Grease smeared my overalls, and I had a thick layer of dirt under my nails.
“And I wonder why no one wants to date me.”
I might have a pretty face under all the grime, but one could hardly look past the dirt, my height, and my stature. I was no dainty fae, but a mountainous maid built for lean winters and bountiful summers. My wide shoulders, large breasts, and generous hips were a testament to the generations of strong women who had birthed my line.
Those traits might have helped my family in the past, but they did nothing to advance our DNA now. Alas, the men of this town did not seem to find me attractive.
“Their loss.”
Grumbling quietly, I cleaned up as best I could then locked the shop and walked the short road down into the village proper.
Early blooms of lavender, lilac and jasmine guided my path down the cobblestoned road and into our village center, their perfume light and sweet. The colors of the blooms reflected in the setting sky—a horizon of oranges, purples and pinks. I paused at the top of the hill, admiring the evening sky.
The cool breeze from the ocean brushed across my face, teasing my hair while salt touched my lips.
My frustration—an emotion I had acknowledged but refused to unpack—eased, leaving behind a bittersweet ache.
I wanted. I ached with want. A want for a partner to share sunsets like these. A want to fulfill dreams of travel and laughter, of shared memories and thoughts.
A want to love and be loved in return.
I kicked a pebble on the sidewalk, blowing out a long breath as I passed the trim cottages and sprawling gardens that lined our main street.
“Off home, are we?” Mr. Murdock asked, breaking my melancholy thoughts.
I forced a smile, stopping to lean against his garden fence, and admire his freshly trimmed roses. “Yes.”
“Bert? Where are you—oh! Hello there, Riley!”
I lifted my hand in greeting to Mrs. Murdock, who stood at the door with her other husband, Roger. The Murdocks were a typical family for our small town. Throuples had abounded for centuries as the women persisted. The government had even ruled polygamous marriages legal for anyone who married and lived on our small island, such was the recognition of our situation.
And yet I can’t land a date.
“It’ll be dark soon. Best be getting home.” Bert clipped a small rose from his bush, gently removing the thorns before handing it to me. “Go with kindness, darling.”
I accepted the flower and returned the greeting, tucking the bud in my hair as I set off for the pub.
I lived in a small cottage at the back of the pub. I’d moved in with Dad upon returning to the island, but my childhood home had become too much for us to manage, and I had needed my own space. After agonizing over the decision, we’d decided neither of us needed a house with eight rooms—or the electricity bill that came with heating it.
A newcomer and his partner had moved to the island with the intent of opening a bed and breakfast. While our island may be small, real estate was at a premium and there had been a lovely profit for Dad upon the close of sale. He’d purchased a small cottage close to town, placed most of it in his retirement fund then handed me the rest.
It now sat in a bank account accruing while I considered what to do with it.
My first thought had been to buy a house, but I’d quickly dismissed that idea, content to rent until the right place came along.
The two-bedroom cottage had originally been a small stable for the pub. The previous owner of the pub had converted it into a storage shed, and the current owners had converted that into a tidy little rental.
I adored my small home, appreciating the care that had been taken to lovely restore the original stonework and preserve the wooden beams. The cottage had a small courtyard with a high stone wall that removed it from view of the pub, giving me the appearance of privacy.
I pushed through my small gate and walked under the overgrown wisteria and ivy that grew over the arbor beside my house, to the back door in the stone wall that opened to the rear of the pub parking lot. A scant eight steps later, and I was pushing open the heavy wooden door of the ancient pub.
Built before most of the village had even been a thought, the pub had gone through many generations of hands before the most recent publican had passed away, willing the entire thing to a distant cousin.
