Page 7 of Don't Fall for a Grump

It didn’t make sense in a sentence, but I got it.

“I mean, you’re part of the community now. So, you know. You’re my neighbor.”

After I thanked her once again, Sylvie waved goodbye and headed back to town, leaving me to venture forth into my new home.

It may be a town in the middle of nowhere, but it has good people. I haven’t had the chance to call Sylvie yet, but knowing that there’s a town fair starting Friday night, I think I’m going to invite her to come with me.

Anyone who hears this story might be a little confused as to why I didn’t actually know where my cottage was. Surely, I’d been there before, right? Wrong.

One might think, having made the big decision to buy the property, that I had been out to see it, you know, like normal people. But I didn’t go to see it before agreeing to buy it, which caused my older brother, Jonathan, no end of angst. He told me I was completely nuts to buy a house I hadn’t even checked out before, and he was probably right. My only excuse is, I was desperate, and the cottage was going for a steal. I did see it, kind of… when the realtor took me there. Via Zoom. That information did nothing to appease Jonathan.

“It could be riddled with woodworm. It might be falling apart at the seams. It’s probably going for a song because there’re a hundred things wrong with it,” he had bleated through the phone.

Ordinarily, my older brother is far calmer. He’s the middle child, and far more pragmatic than our older sister. I’m the baby of the family, and clearly, the one everyone believes is incapable of just about anything.

“I’m not an idiot, John,” I had replied. “The cottage has been surveyed, and it’s in good order. The price probably reflects the fact that it’s situated in a town a million miles from civilization. That’s all.”

He wasn’t convinced though, and to be honest, if I were in his shoes, I probably wouldn’t be either. But I’ve been here two weeks, and apart from a few minor repairs, the cottage is just fine.

Of course, the whole town already knows who I am. Gossip travels fast when the population is five hundred and sixty people. Yes, I kid you not. Where I lived in the city, that was probably the population of the street on any given day. I’ve had fleeting moments where I do miss the brownstone in Astoria, but then, I remind myself why I’m here, and shake myself out of my reminiscing.

“What can I get you, my dear?” Mr. Shilliday asks, rounding his shoulders and leaning his tall frame toward me with his palms sitting flat on the counter. It does nothing to alleviate the fact that he looks like a bird, and me…what? A worm?

“I need a washer for a faucet,” I reply.

“Has Ben sprung a leak?” Mr. Shilliday frowns with concern.

I certainly hope not. He seemed entirely leak-free when I left his house yesterday evening.

My mind is a little strange. It creates pictures from the things I hear or read. Whereas other people might take Mr. Shilliday’s words as they were meant, my funny little brain has a tendency to go to another place entirely. Currently, I’m imagining Ben sat in the middle of the garden like a human sprinkler, with jets of water flying out of him in every direction.

I shake my head to rid myself of the image, even though it made me smile. “Oh, no. This is for the cottage.”

His frown deepens. “And you’re going to try and fix it yourself?”

Internally, I sigh. Yes, because no woman could ever do a man’s job, right? It’s not the first time I’ve encountered this old school mentality since I’ve come here. It’s like the people who live in this town are stuck in a distant past. I know he means no harm, but maybe if the old man left the 19th century for a day, he’d be surprised to discover what a woman was capable of.

Of course, while I’m thinking all this in my head, I still smile sweetly at him. “It’s not a big job,” I reply, trying not to let my slight frustration seep into my tone.

Mr. Shilliday nods amicably, though the dubious expression remains. “Try that aisle,” he says, pointing me down the right path. “And if you can’t find what you’re looking for, just give me a holler.”

“Thanks.”

My smile remains until I turn away. And, immediately after, I roll my eyes. Men.

As I reach the aisle, I try to cut Mr. Shilliday some slack. I mean, it did take me an hour of YouTube to figure out how to fix the leak. It’s not like I’m the world’s greatest handywoman or anything.

I love YouTube. Want to fix a leaky faucet? YouTube. Want to make a candle? YouTube. Want to make some ridiculously extravagant dinner that needs thirty ingredients you’ve never heard of that you’ll only make for yourself because you have no one else to share it with? YouTube.

The washers are in small clear plastic packets, hanging on hooks. There are so many to choose from. Lucky for me, I googled the size, and then took a picture of the one I needed. Yep, no handywoman at all. After a few minutes of searching the hooks, I finally find the one I need, but take three. Just in case. Because, well, you just never know.

The bell tinkles above the door again, alerting both me and Mr. Shilliday of another customer’s entrance. Not that I can see anything from behind the six-foot-tall shelves, but I hear Mr. Shilliday greet whoever just came in.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” There’s a delighted smile in his voice, so at least he’s pleased to see them.

I don’t hear the reply, because whoever it is, speaks far lower than Mr. Shilliday. But the old man carries on. “So, how long are you back for?”

With the items I need in hand, I make my way back to the counter as the conversation continues. Ben should be expecting me soon, and I don’t want to keep the man waiting. I turn the corner and move toward the counter, when I suddenly find myself face-to-face with Jackson Scott.

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