So I worked with my hands, getting through each day as I did the one before. I helped old man Ron work on his cars, fixed broken pipes, cleaned out flooded garages, repaired hot tubs and broken balconies, helped with maintenance on the rental properties in the community. I almost blacked out as I worked, and before I knew it, I’d be back in my shower, and then back in my bed.
I was halfway through the day when the blur of it cleared in a sudden whoosh.
“See you same time tomorrow,” I said to Ron as I packed my tools away, wiping my forehead with the same raggedy towel I’d had for years before throwing it in my back pocket.
Ron was still under his 1978 Chevy Silverado, tools tinkering, only his legs visible from where he laid on the ground. He’d likely be there all day, unless he ventured down to Momma Von’s for a beer. I liked that about Ron. Every day was the same for him, too—and we both preferred it that way. He only grunted at me in response to my goodbye, and I walked myself out, boots crunching on the gravel until I reached the road.
My feet carried me down the same road they always did, past the same cabins, the same cars, leading me down to the Morrisons’. Their shed needed a new roof and new panels in the back, and that would be the project that would carry me through to the night.
But one cabin wasn’t the same. One car caught my eye. One moment, one look, and the haze I’d walked in for years blew out in a breath.
Because every day was the same.
And then I saw her.
The drive into the small strip of stores and businesses in Gold Bar was short, and I’d enjoyed the windows down and music loud as I made the trip each way. I loved the way the air smelled, crisp and piney, with the promise of hotter summer days to come. And though I’d told myself that I didn’t buy too much when I was at the store, I realized as soon as I popped the trunk back at the cabin that I’d lied.
I stared at the piles of bags, debating which to tackle first before slowly loading them onto each arm one by one and leaving Rev’s new litter box for last. Once I was red-faced and struggling and decided there was, in fact, no way I’d get them all in one trip, I turned to make my way inside the cabin. But I stopped short.
There was a man at the end of my driveway.
He was just standing there, staring at me, a large, rusted toolbox in one hand and rolled up sheet of paper in the other. Everything about him was hard—the bend in his brows, the edge of his jaw, the line of scruff that framed it. And because I was me, of course I noticed what he was wearing, and it was the first time in a long time that I’d seen someone who dressed for efficiency, not for style. His jeans were worn, but not dirty, with plenty of pockets that I could tell were each used in their own way. He donned a simple, deep red thermal with sleeves pushed up to his elbows and slight stains that ran down his chest and abdomen, and a charcoal gray hat sat low over his eyes, shielding them from the sun.
He was tan, and even from the distance his eyes sparked against the warm hue of his skin. They were bright—blue, maybe? Or green? I couldn’t be sure, and I let his potent appearance mesmerize me for just a moment more before I shifted, hoisting the bags in my right hand up enough for me to attempt a half wave.
If possible, his brow lowered farther, and he simply stalked off, clearing the view of my driveway in seconds.
I frowned.
“Well, hello to you, too.”
So much for the friendly cabin town.
I readjusted the bags, ready to make the first trip inside when one of them broke, spilling can after can right onto my foot before they tumbled the rest of the way to the ground. I howled, letting the rest of the bags drop as I mumbled a string of curse words that would have made even Adrian blush.
“Oh dear,” I heard from behind.
I spun, still hobbling on one foot as an older woman rushed toward me from the street. Leaning against the back bumper, I rubbed the top of my foot where the cans had hit, my cheeks flushing.
“Are you okay, sweetie?” she asked, scurrying toward me.
“I’m fine. A klutz, but fine nonetheless.”
She chuckled, bending to retrieve a few of the bags as soon as she reached me. I helped, standing once each of our arms were weighed down.
“Anything hurt?”
“My pride.”
A smile sparked on her face once more. “Ah, pride is such a funny thing, isn’t it? You never really even know it’s there until it’s wounded. Come on,” she continued, nodding to the cabin. “Let’s get these bags inside. I’ll help you.”
I led the way, the older woman with the gentle eyes following right behind. It took us another trip to completely unload, and once I had a kitchen counter full of bags, I turned to thank her.
“I really appreciate that.”
“It’s nothing. I’m Vonnie, but everyone calls me Momma Von.”
I smiled, reaching for the hand she’d extended. “Wren.”
“Nice to meet you, Wren.”
She hooked her hands on her hips and looked around, flicking her light blonde bangs from her face. Her hair was short, graying just a bit at the top, framing her round, tan face. She didn’t wear an ounce of makeup, and she was strikingly beautiful, with bright blue eyes and laugh lines that told me more about the life she led than her words could have. Her frame was slight, and though her sun dress was what should have caught my eyes first, it was the lack of a ring on her left hand that did.
I found myself looking for that more than I used to, and I wondered why. Maybe I was looking for a friend, for someone who understood, or maybe it was just nice to see that life went on without a husband. Though, how was I to know if she was single by choice or circumstance?
“So, you bought this old place from Abe, huh?”
My hand reached for the back of my neck out of habit. “Oh, no... I’m just renting for the summer.”
Her attention snapped back to me. “Oh? I was under the impression he was selling it.”
“He is,” I clarified. “But he... well he’s sort of doing me a favor, letting me stay for a few months while he visits his family. I think he’s going to put it back on the market in the fall.”
Momma Von eyed me that same way Abdiel had, like she, too, wondered who I was and what I was doing in her small town. But there was something else in her eyes, a hint of understanding, and she smiled softly. “Well, you picked a great time to stay here. Summer is beautiful. Here, what do you say I help you unload these and then I can take you around, introduce you to some folks?”
“Oh no, it’s okay, really. You don’t have to do that.”
“Posh,” she said with a wave of her hands, already moving to unload the first bag. “I want to. No sense in sitting in a cabin by yourself all summer. Besides, it’ll give this old woman someone to talk to.”
And talk she did.
I learned more about Momma Von in the twenty minutes we spent organizing my kitchen than I did about most people in a lifetime of knowing them. I learned quickly that she was very open, and very blunt, and that I appreciated both of those things immensely. After all, I’d lived with a man who preferred to never talk about his feelings for the majority of my adult life and with a family who saw communication as a weakness through all of my youth.
But Momma Von loved to talk, and she told me all about how she stumbled into the small cabin community when she was about ten years older than I was. She’d traveled the world before that, staying no longer than a year or two in country after country and working wherever she could find a job, mostly nannying or bartending. And though her vast knowledge of the world and its culture or her fluidity in three languages should have been what fascinated me most, it was her five marriages that held that title.