A few days later, I still have zero information about Jericho. I also have the same number of prospective candidates for doing the work. I talked to Mark, and he said he’ll make the accents and some furniture. He’ll also work on the window and doorframes and stuff involving wood. Anything else is beyond his expertise, and besides that, he doesn’t have time since he’s replacing a fire chief who went on a leave of absence due to his health. Good for Mark—he deserves this promotion! But not good for me since it leaves me with fewer options and even less time that he can make it work.
I tried calling all contractors in Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, and even Massachusetts, but all of them refused to come here for a long-term contract. Which makes me mad since professionals who work in this industry know that people build houses in different cities,ya know, and this place is notasfar as they all make it seem.Damn pussies.
The next try on my list of desperate contacts was all our old subcontractors from New York. But I didn’t get past a secretary—when I introduced myself, they all became suddenly busy somewhere on another planet.
Another set of pussies.
The more days pass, the more desperate I become, and Jericho the Felon seems like my best and only option.
Today I’m in a particularly foul mood and decide to treat myself to one of the special breakfasts at the local diner. The road seems to be dry, so my car can make it. I can’t take staying another day without decent human interactions.
I get dressed in one of my white polka dot sundresses, put on my red kitten heels and red matte lipstick, and drive to town. I took ‘moving into a rural area’ a bit too seriously. It’s one thing moving into a small town, and it’s entirely another moving to the field-mountain-whatever-the-fuck-it-is ten miles away from the closest small town.
I’m losing it. My sanity.
I park my car on the already busy street and walk toward the diner, meeting a few curious looks thrown my way. I nearly roll my eyes, feeling almost back home where I grew up. When I open the door, the buzzing in the room stops, and all eyes stare at me. Some of them look at my outfit, some of them look at my hair—I don’t care, I like what I like.
“Hey, hun. You look like you just stepped out of that movie,StedfordWives.” An old, gray-haired guy booms through the diner with an Irish accent.
“Nah, it’s like she’s from that show. What was it called?” Another similar-looking man chimes in from behind his omelet. “About that Lucy girl. All you’re missing is a pregnant belly and bare feet.” He throws his head back and starts laughing. The Irish dude joins him a second later but stops when he sees my face.
“And you both are missing your teeth.” I square my shoulders, feeling a bit petty about talking back to old men, but it’s always irked me how people categorize me as some sort of submissive housewife just by the way I dress. I just like the style! I like dresses, and I like heels. I also like bright lipstick and funny patterns. But not everyone seems to get it, so they have a hard time separating me from some TV show from the fifties.
“She’s got you there, my man.” An amused voice giggles from the counter. I turn toward it and find Kayla, Justin’s forever fiancé, gesturing for me to come and sit on the barstool. “C’mon, I’ll get you coffee.”
Sending a stink-eye to one of the old guys, who retaliates the look tenfold, I gracefully place my ass on the stool.
“They don’t mean bad,” Kayla says as she puts a cup in front of me and fills it with drip coffee.
“Oh, I know.” I take sugar and generously pour it into the coffee. “Got some cream?”
“One second.” While she goes to grab the cream from the fridge, I, for the thousandth time, enjoy all the visible art she has. She’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and both of her full tattoo sleeves are on full display.
“Is that—?” I ask in astonishment as I point to her wrist. First of all, I’m surprised she found a spot for such a big tattoo on her already pretty full sleeve, and second, really?
“Yeah,” she giggles.
“Frank the Moose. I’ll be damned. Lemme see.” I open my palm and gesture for her hand. She stretches it to me, and I, indeed, find a moose looking at me with his very human eyes. His antlers are large and covered in rose vines that match the rest of her arm. I look up at her, still holding her hand in mine. “I can’t believe you got a tattoo of a local urban legend.”
She starts laughing. “Frank is not a legend. He is very much alive—I assure you that.”
I let go of her hand and lean back in my chair. “You all talk about him like he’s some sort of magical creature who understands everything. But I’ve been here for nearly two months and haven’t seen anything. I’m starting to think you all have mass hysteria.”
She moves a lock of her platinum hair behind her ear and gives me a secretive smile. “That’s because it’s not time for you yet.”
“For what?”
“To meet him.”
For a second, I think she’s insane, just like the rest of the town, but then I remember how oddly at home I feel, which probably makes me insane too. Especially if I’m secretly hoping for that meeting.
She probably sees my thoughts written on my forehead in bright, neon lights because she cackles and asks, “How bad is your day?”
“Lonely Kurt bad.” I wince and add, “Almost double bad.”
‘Lonely Kurt’ is the most popular breakfast in the diner. It’s packed with so many calories you can probably survive off of it for a few days. It’s usually reserved for bad days. Or very good ones where nothing can scare you.
She whistles and yells toward the kitchen to Marina. “One Lonely Kurt with extra bacon, crepes, and whipped cream.”
