Page 89 of Every Chance After

A call to Alice Harvey of Lavender Fields Forever, a vendor I recruited for Sunny’s and a growing friend with many contacts, solves my transportation issue. Within hours of asking Alice if she knew of a reliable used vehicle for a good price, she and her husband, Jack, deliver his 1977 Ford Bronco, a rusty, dulled mint green convertible truck with rips in the leather seats, no working radio or AC, and a sizable dent on the rear bumper.

“She purrs like a kitten, though,” Jack assures me, starting her up. “And drives like a dream, especially on the beach.”

The truck doesn’t have the modern conveniences of my former car, but it oozes character.

We settle on an amount surely lower than its value, but Alice says they’re pleased that his truck—nicknamed Beauty—is going to a good home.

Now, Beauty belongs to me.

I happily put my busyness aside when Marigold arrives on Thursday for our game night. She’s alone, driving a cute yellow VW Bug with eyelashes on its headlights and daisy stickers plastered to its sides.

“No Shadow Man tonight?” I ask after gushing about her cute car.

“Working. Farm emergency,” she replies dully.

“A girls’ night, then. Just how I prefer it.”

Before I invite her in, Peter Pike appears around the corner, carrying his knit hat and wringing it like a wet paper towel.

“Oh, Marnie, sorry,” he says, noticing my guest. “Didn’t think you’d have company.”

I chuckle. “I usually don’t. Want to come in? We’re having a game night.”

He glances awkwardly at his feet and then full-on stares at Marigold. He says nothing for two awkward beats and then, “Marigold, it’s nice to see you again.”

Her shoulders tense, and her lips push together. “Peter Pike.”

My brow quirks over their obvious history. We shared the same high school—Marigold, two years younger than me, and Peter, between us. Perhaps they were friends. But, judging by the way Marigold’s arms fold, I doubt they’re friends now.

Peter seems disappointed. “I need to talk to you, but I’ll come back.”

“No need.” I wave him to the porch. I push the front door open and tell Marigold to make herself at home. She’s happy to disappear, closing the door quickly behind her. “What’s up, Pete?”

He looks nervous. “Um, it’s Mom. We thought you were moving out, and she promised this place to her sister, Aunt Charity.”

The news rattles me, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Mercy Pike, merciful in name only, has wanted me out since she moved in with her son. She spends her days on his front porch or at the picture window, grumbling over anything and everything her eyes partake, like a grumpy queen with no power. “Are you sure you can handle MercyandCharity?” I joke.

His large shoulders bounce in a shrug, and he scratches his messy brown hair. “They’re family.”

The word cuts. And the dagger twists in my gut at the idea of losing this place—the only home I’ve ever really known. This house is so familiar to me. I know which floorboards of the steel-blue deck creak underfoot and exactly which siding pieces rattle when the wind hits them just right. I know the window over the kitchen sink is a tad off-kilter, making it hard to open, and the cats love how the shower drips into the tub long after I’m done. The bedroom’s ceiling fan wobbles at high speed, and I’m probably the only human alive who can make use of the oddly shaped, nearly-tiny second ‘bedroom.’ This ismyhome.

Now, I don’t belong here, either.

“I love this place. I don’t know where I’d go.” The words spill out in a stream of consciousness, no filter, and I immediately regret them. I have absolutely no business making him feel bad. He, and his grandfather before him, have made me feel welcome and safe here for a decade, even when I shouldn’t have been here on my own. How can I ask for more?

“Sorry, Pete. You’ve been a terrific landlord.”

“I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Ashe,” he says, still wringing his hat. “I didn’t know you were friends with Marigold.”

“It’s new.”

“She’s… I, um, we were friends in high school.” His eyes lock on his work boots as he shuffles his feet at the bottom of the stairs. “She’s a nice person.”

“Yes, and a talented artist. Like you.”

His cheeks redden. Pete is a carpenter. He makes a living from craft shows and odd jobs. He built my porch and the rocking chair that sits on it. He’s also surprised me with carpentry gifts over the years—a handmade cat tower, shelves, wooden planters, and once a hanging lamp that fits perfectly over my dining table.

“You know what, I bet she’d love seeing your trains.”

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