A Life for a Life - Lynda McDaniel (whitelam books TXT) 📗

The rest of the day saw a steady stream of customers, with a few gossipers on the prowl for inside information. And Emmett McCallum, one of our bread deliverymen (not the good stuff from Asheville but Bunny Bread, which most customers preferred), brought a couple dozen loaves. Even better, he solved a different mystery for me when he said, as he was leaving, “Well, let’s go deliver bread.”

For months, I’d been making my excuses when folks said in parting, “Let’s go to the house.” Truth be known, I was surprised so many people were inviting me to their homes, and frankly, I didn’t want to go with them. When Emmett invited me to join him on his bread route, it finally dawned on me that was just a colorful way of saying goodbye. I laughed at myself and imagined how puzzled folks must have been by all my excuses. They didn’t want me tagging along to their homes, either.

About quarter to six, I closed early. If folks were desperate, they’d honk. As I climbed the stairs, I could hear Jake snuffling at the door. I hadn’t let him come to the store as much lately, what with all the strangers streaming in and out. Inside, I scratched his chest and behind his ears, and we went downstairs again so he could romp around behind the store. The traffic was heavy enough that I needed to keep an eye on him; I’d seen too many dead animals on the road. I watched as he worked his way through the tall grass and deeper into the back woods. After twenty minutes or so, he came flying when I called out, “Dinner!”

I was too tired to cook, so I poured a glass of merlot and fell into my favorite chair. I loved my sanctuary above the store. No one had lived there for a couple of decades—except squirrels and raccoons—and Vester had used it only for storage for years. When I bought it, the whole building was so derelict I couldn’t move in until some of the most basic work was completed. That period between responsibilities, while I was waiting on the remodel, turned out to be one of the best times of my life.

I stayed at the Falls Inn just off the Blue Ridge Parkway for a couple of months and lived simply, with only a kitchenette, bed, dresser, table, and two chairs. I’d sold all my furniture before moving south and played out the fantasy of being a drifter—reading, sleeping, hiking, and taking drives into Asheville, the largest town in the region. Other than overseeing the construction, there wasn’t much I could do. After the long hours and deadline-filled years as a journalist, I just did what I felt like doing, when I felt like doing it.

The apartment sat high enough above the store that its front windows captured the tops of the Unaka Mountains piercing the horizon to the west. Like most dwellings around here, the view hadn’t been a consideration. These mountains were wallpaper to folks who’d lived among their beauty—and considerable hardship—for generations. The kitchen, which commandeered the front of the apartment, originally had only two small windows, side by side. I’d thought about moving the kitchen and turning that area into my living room and dining area, but the cost was prohibitive. Instead, I had the windows torn out and filled the space above the counters with large plate-glass windows. While sitting in the living room, just behind the kitchen, I could see only endless mountains and sky.

The two identical bedrooms in the other half of the apartment had been reconfigured. My carpenter moved their shared wall, expanding one room for my bedroom and saving the remaining space for an office/guest room. I did the best I could with the rudimentary bathroom, adding a claw-foot tub under the shower head and a batik curtain encircling the tub. 

On the couch, gazing out those windows, I could forget I sat above a country store, until someone honked or knocked, treating me like an all-night convenience store. Early on, I made some folks mad when I wouldn’t answer, but they soon got over it. I hadn’t always been so good at protecting my space, but servitude was no longer an option, especially given how much time I already spent inside Coburn’s.

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