Page 14 of Caught in the Axe
“It’s the food pantry. My friend Vic runs it. Her aunt does, actually, but she’s been having health problems and needed a little help.”
The sun had fully set, and when I climbed out of the van, I buried my chin in my scarf to stave off the chill. “Vic moved Down East with her husband years ago, but she got divorced recently and is helping out here for a bit.”
Owen appeared beside me, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Do you work here too?”
“Nah,” I said, heading across the street. “I just volunteer to help with deliveries. Winter is hard. Some people are homebound, and food insecurity is at an all-time high in Maine. Resources are so limited. And the refrigeration garage needs a new roof, so they don’t have enough freezers.”With a bump to his shoulder, I steered him to the left of the building. “Here, we go in the back.”
He followed me down the ramp into the basement, where dozens of industrial steel shelves were lined with food. It was past closing time, but there were several employees and volunteers scurrying around, cleaning up and organizing all the non-perishable items.
I headed for the front table where patrons checked in and snagged the clipboard sitting on top of a stack of boxes. Each one was labeled with a Post-it detailing the recipient’s name and address.
“I guess I’d forgotten this was here.” He scanned the space, running his hands through his hair.
“That’s convenient,” I quipped without looking up from the delivery list.
Beside me, he cleared his throat.
The sound garnered my attention. Clutching the clipboard to my chest, I studied him as he took in the operation, wide-eyed and maybe a little overwhelmed.
“What I meant to say is that it’s nice that you don’t have to think about this place,” I explained. “That you’ve never experienced food insecurity. That you can so easily forget that there are tens of thousands of hungry people in this state.” I shrugged and swallowed back the indignation that always took over in the presence of people who took such basic needs for granted.
He shifted uncomfortably, his jaw rigid and his gaze unreadable.
As he scrutinized me, my stomach sank. What had gotten into me? I wasn’t a confrontational person. Had I had these kinds of thoughts before? Absolutely. But I usuallykept them to myself, and I never made bitchy comments. And here I was lecturing the guy who’d just hired me at thirty dollars an hour.
“Sorry,” I said as hot shame crept up my cheeks. My whole life, I’d prided myself on being polite. I was not the type to rock the boat. Quite the opposite, actually. I’d always worked to make those around me comfortable.
“Don’t apologize,” he said, catching me with those stormy blue eyes. “I deserved that, and you’re right.”
He shucked off his coat, draped it over the boxes on the table, and rolled up the cuffs of his dress shirt, revealing tan, muscular forearms that temporarily distracted me from my righteous indignation.
“Put me to work.”
“Thanks for coming with me.”
“It was worth it for the baby carrots,” he quipped with a wry grin.
I squinted at him. “Don’t forget about the gluten-free crackers and the string cheese. This is a classy establishment,” I said, twirling said string cheese in the air.
Back in the parking lot of the Hebert Timber offices, we sat side by side in my van, listening toWait, Wait, Don’t… Tell Meon NPR and eating the lame dinner I’d packed. Owen had been a rockstar with deliveries, and even putting Mrs. Revelle’s groceries away since she’d just had her hip replaced.
“I didn’t realize I’d have company,” I snarked. “Next time I’ll pack myfinest caviar.”
“I’d settle for drive-through fries. Isn’t there a Wendy’s in Heartsborough now? I’ll buy. Anything you want.”
“Thanks, but I have celiac,” I explained, “so I have to be careful about food.”
He bit into another baby carrot with a loudsnap. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I waved him off. “It’s not a big deal. I’ve lived with it for more than a decade. But that’s why I always bring my own snacks.”
I had a strange relationship with food, because it had the power to thoroughly screw me up for weeks, sometimes months.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” he said, looking a bit awkward, “does it just make you sick?”
The last thing I wanted to do was talk about the ins and outs of my GI tract with the hot dude who was my new boss. But there was so much misinformation, and he was interested in the details, so I took a deep breath and tried to explain without too many gory details.
“If I eat gluten, I experience acute symptoms. Uncomfortable stomach stuff.” I raised one eyebrow, hoping he’d get it so I didn’t have to say the word diarrhea out loud.
