She shakes her head. “I’m not, Tucker. I’m a woman who lost, too, and I know what it feels like to not have somewhere to come home to.”
I look at her strangely wondering what she’s talking about. She smiles sweetly and leans back in her chair, pulling her legs up. “When Evan died, the house we shared didn’t feel like the one we had bought together. Everything about it was wrong. The paint wasn’t what we chose; the furniture wasn’t what we bought. I hated it. I hated everything about it, but I stayed because he had eaten off those dishes and had sat on that couch. I stayed because the bed that I slept in was the same one he did.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I tell her.
“Sure it does. With Evan gone, I had to make it a new home with his memories. And that’s what it came down to … memories. And the best thing about memories is that you can take them anywhere.” She turns to me and winks, telling me that she’s always right no matter how confusing she may sound.
“I’m going to go shower,” I say, leaning over to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Archer is a lucky man.”
“You’ll be lucky, too, when you have Penny back in your arms.”
Her words give me pause and hit me straight in the chest. I dream of the day when I can hold Penny again, when I can feel her nestled into my neck and her body pressed against mine.
The problem with my dream is that it seems to be quickly fading. The tick tock of the law is fighting against me.
I TAKE A DEEP breath after I get out of my car and tilt my head toward the morning sun before walking up the steps to the general store. This is my favorite time of the day, the time when everything is calm. When you can hear the birds chirp before traffic comes barreling down the road, and when you can still make out a four-legged friend who is grazing on the dewy grass across from the store. Everything looks fresh in the morning sunlight, which gives me hope that things are going to be okay. And I need a lot of hope these days.
Every morning, the same two men—John and Steve—sit on the porch in the white rocking chairs the store provides. They sip their coffee and carry on like two old ladies on a Sunday morning. They know everyone in town and absolutely everything that goes on. They are the unofficial mayors of Pittsfield. I say, “Hi,” as I pass by, earning a whistle and a wink. Some think they’re dirty old men, but I believe they’re being nice. They make a lady feel good about herself whether they mean to or not.
I open the door and cringe at the creaking sound it makes. We’ve tried to oil the hinges and even replaced the door, but the same thing happens each time. The guys say it’s the ghost of the previous owner making sure we don’t change the character of the store since it’s on the historical preservation list—not that we would do anything of the sort. There’s something about an old general store that takes people back to the quieter days of the world. The inside doesn’t fare much better with its old floorboards; they tell a story of age each time they’re stepped on. It’s a sound of history and you get used to it over time.
“Good morning, Amy,” Laura says, handing me a steaming cup of coffee. Holding it between my hands, I inhale deeply. I love the smell of her home roasted coffee. She sells it specifically for the store, along with an assortment of cakes, pastries, cheeses, and meats. Her little store is a tourist stop and is often too busy for just the two of us, but we make it work. According to Laura, her first year of ownership was a struggle, but after putting in the breakfast and lunch counter things picked up. And when she started featuring local products to help out the farmers and independent businesses in the area, people really started to come in. By the second year, her business had grown and it’s still thriving fifteen years later. I’ve been working for her for four years now and know just about everything there is to know.
I tip my head back and welcome the warmth as the coffee trickles down my throat before I answer her. Yes, this makes getting up early worth it.
“Morning, Laura. How are things?” I ask, coming around the counter to place my purse in the drawer and grab my apron. I do everything here: cook, clean, stock shelves, serve the lunch crowd, and chat whenever someone needs an ear … and believe me everyone has something to say. I’m everyone’s favorite history teacher’s wife, and when your husband is highly respected you do what you can to keep up appearances.
“Can’t complain. Now that you’re here, I’m going to run and do the banking. I’ll be right back.”