Page 62 of Hometown Girl

As the loft came into view, he saw a makeshift art studio filled with paints, canvases, paintbrushes and a wall of finished artwork. Drew was no art lover, but judging by what he saw in front of him, the old lady wasn’t half bad.

She stood at a desk, filling an oversized bag with paint supplies from the drawers.

“What are you doing?”

“I knew it was just a matter of time until someone found me out here,” she said, her voice rough and low, like she’d smoked a lot of cigarettes in her day. “I’ve been waiting for you to come and kick me out.”

Drew stood awkwardly in the center of her space. “Back up. Why don’t you tell me who you are?”

Her head tilted to the side as she sized him up. “I’m sure you’ve heard the stories. What are they saying about me these days?”

He shrugged. “I’m not from here.”

“Oh. Well, there are plenty of stories. The government has a whole file on me.” She rushed over to him, invading his personal space, wagging a finger in front of his nose. “Don’t believe any of those lies they feed us on the television. We’re supposed to keep buying into whatever they’re selling. I’ve got a bomb shelter at my house, filled with supplies. When it all breaks loose, you come find me.”

He could only stare.

She stuck out a bony hand with three rings on it. He looked at it.

“People your age don’t shake hands anymore when they meet someone new?”

“Oh.” He took a step back and shook her hand, surprised by her firm grip.

“I’m Birdie.”

“Drew.”

“Good to meet you.” She let go of his hand and grabbed a little jar off her desk. “Bubblegum?”

As she took off the lid, the smell of Bazooka Joe wafted up, and the flash in his mind reappeared. Had he met her before?

“Go ahead. It’s not sugar-free, but one piece won’t kill ya.”

He pulled himself together. “Thanks, I’m fine.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“How long have you been using this space?” A loaded question, given his ulterior motives, but as an employee of Fairwind, he considered it fair.

She waved her hand in a circle near her head. “I lost count. Twenty-five years?” She took a step closer, squinting at him. “What’d you say your name was?”

“Drew.”

“Hmm.” She gave him a once-over, as if she was trying to make up her mind about him. “You say you’re not from here.”

“No, ma’am. I’m working on the farm.”

She locked her eyes onto him like a missile onto a target. “I know. I’ve seen you from the windows. You never stop working, do ya?”

He looked away from her too-curious eyes. “There’s a lot to do.”

“Oh, it’s more than that. You only work as hard as you do if you’re trying to avoid something. There’s pain on your face—I can see it plain as day. Same as that blond girl who’s always around. She never slows down either. But the brunette one? The one with the sheep. She seems like a riot.”

Well, she had them all pegged.

She walked back to her easel and picked up a brush. On the canvas, she’d painted two oversized flowers. Turquoise, orange and red, with accents of yellow. Gaudy colors, but they suited her. “Can’t figure out why kids your age refuse to sit still. What is it you’re running from?”

He didn’t like where this was headed. “Why don’t you tell me what kind of arrangement you worked out with the previous owner?”And what else have you seen from the windows of your loft?

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