She was perfectly nice. Her hair in a long ponytail. I don’t want to be yes ma’amed. I want to be believed. It’s a little thing, a little thing. But I was so sure. Little silver pitchers. Danielle the waitress never saw them so they can’t ever have existed. My truths vanish, loss upon loss.
The Smoke House has a gift shop, which they prefer to call the Old General Store and have decorated with whiskey barrels and a player piano. What the place really purveys is old-timeyness, but the specific products include jams and jellies, bacon, wood that has been carved. I poked around the shop after my breakfast. God knows why. I suppose I didn’t want to go home. It’s tempting, in telling a story like this, to assign yourself a prophetic sense. If I hadn’t lingered like that, without purpose or cause, I would have been gone before she came in.
The moment I saw her I knew who she was. That is the truth. The squarish face declining into a graceful jaw. The somber eyes. Her hair the same blond, just as straight but longer, shinier. It has the sleek shine of gold behind glass, a gleaming irresistibility, kept where it can’t be touched. Perhaps she is her father’s girl, but she looks exactly like her mother. And carries herself the same.
She looked around hesitantly, like she wasn’t supposed to be there and was afraid someone would catch her. Her eyes passed over me. Well, why wouldn’t they? She went up to the counter and said to the woman behind it, “I’m looking for someone. I wonder if you might know her.” Exactly like a detective! But without the confidence, or the photograph to show, or the bribe of a folded bill.
“What’s her name, sweetie?” the woman asked, and the girl—Zoe—said, “Jennifer Young.”
“I—” I tried to say, but it came out a croak, as my voice sometimes does. As I worked to clear my throat, the woman kept repeating the name: Jennifer Young, Jennifer Young. “It does sound familiar,” was her conclusion.
“I know her,” I said.
They both looked at me like a cat had spoken.
“I think this lady can help you,” the woman said to Zoe, as if she’d accomplished something in pointing that out. It’s the job of the younger person to move, so I stood there with my hand on my cane and waited. She came up to me. Really, the resemblance is uncanny. I wanted to touch her cheek to see if she was real.
“You know where I can find her?” she asked.
“Of course I do,” I said. “I’m Margaret Riley.” And when her face remained confused: “We spoke on the telephone.”
“Oh,” she said. “Okay.” She said it in a stunned uncomprehending way. She had the woozy air of someone who’s just come out from under an enchantment. “I drove all night, I haven’t slept,” she said. She seemed to wobble a little, and instinctively I reached out to steady her, and then we both wobbled.
“Let’s sit down,” I said. “You need breakfast. Let’s get you some breakfast.”
I took charge of the situation. It’s not like I’ve lost the knack. We got a table, and when she seemed stupefied by the menu, I made some suggestions and then waved Danielle the waitress over and ordered for her. I took the menu from her hands and gave it to Danielle. “Do you drink coffee?” I asked Zoe. She nodded, and I said, “Two coffees, please.”
“And a pitcher of milk?”
I said yes, though milk isn’t what I want. It’s cream. “Now, dear,” I said to Zoe, “are you all right?”
“I’m just tired,” she said.
“Where did you come from?”
“Ann Arbor. I go to school there.”
“And what made you drive down? Did your mother call again?” Once you tell a lie, the only choice is to keep pretending.
She shook her head. “No,” she said.
“So. It was an impulse.”
“Yes.”
“What are you hoping will happen?” The question had more harshness than I intended.
She looked at me with her mother’s somber eyes and blinked. “I don’t know.”
Danielle appeared to set down the coffee and the pitcher. Zoe grimaced when the coffee hit her mouth. It wasn’t hot, so I waited for her to say she didn’t like it. But she didn’t. She took another sip and winced. Her face when she turned it toward me had a blind look, like I’d caught it in a flashlight beam.
“You seem like you need help,” I said.
“I don’t.” She looked down at the table, shaking her head, but I saw that she was tearful.
Sometimes the best course is a detour. “Have you ever been here before?”
She shook her head.
“Well, welcome to the Mountain,” I said. “I’m going to tell you about it, all right?” I saw Danielle approaching with a plate. “While you eat. I’ll play tour guide.”
“Okay,” she said.
So I told her about the elevation and the population. I described Natural Bridge, nattered on about caves and waterfalls. I said sandstone and overlooks. She ate her eggs and toast, nodding as I talked. When she was finished she sat back and looked at me. She seemed awake for the first time since I’d laid eyes on her. “Better?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. And then, “Thank you,” with more gratitude than I deserved, but still I liked it. “So it’s pronounced swan-ee.”
“What? Yes.”
“I thought it was sue-wan-nee.”