Page 89 of Summer with My Sexy Ex
“Nope,” the clerk confirms.
“Do you know of any store that might sell markers? Or something similar? That kids would use to color with?”
I nod, liking that example. I think it’s the one I used with the hotel desk attendant.
“I don’t. Sorry.” The clerk makes a clucking sound with his tongue, then looks around us and says, “Next in line.” Which I’m taking as our cue to leave.
Wyatt pushes the door open for me and steps aside to let me out when the clerk calls out to us, “You know who you might want to ask?”
I turn quickly. “Who?”
“MaryJane Pickett. She’s the local artist around here. Probably has a ton of stuff like what you’re looking for.”
“Perfect!” I say. “Where can we find MaryJane?”
“Oh, I can’t give out her address. That’d be against postal regulations,” the clerk says.
“Do you think anyone else knows where MaryJane lives?” Wyatt grits his teeth as he asks.
The clerk shrugs.
The woman at the counter the clerk is helping says, “Just take Patterson to Willow. Go left on Willow and drive until you can’t go any further. That’s MaryJane’s place.”
“Thank you!” we call out as we rush for the door. We’ve already been gone over ninety minutes, so Blake has to wonder where we are.
We follow the instructions the woman gave us. Willow Road ends, at least the paved portion does, and turns into a pothole-ridden dirt road, but we haven’t seen any houses yet, and we can still keep going, so we do.
Dozens of low-hanging branches slap at the cart as we pass. It’s clearly not a well-traveled path. But after a few hundred feet, right about when we are ready to give up, the ‘road’ clears, and we see the house ahead. Hundreds of wind chimes sound off in the trees as the coastal breeze blows through. I can’t decide whether that would be peaceful or annoying.
A woman sits on the front porch, painting a landscape, so I guess she’s MaryJane, the artist. She ignores us for the most part as we pull up. And as we climb the front porch steps.
“Do you think she’s deaf?” I whisper to Wyatt.
“No, I ain’t deaf,” MaryJane says. “I just figured you’d say something if you wanted something.”
“The clerk at the post office—”
“That’d be Geoff,” she interrupts me.
“Okay,” I start again. “Jeff at the po—”
“Ge-off,” she interrupts again.
“Jeff?” I ask.
“Geoff,” she says.
I can’t tell the difference between what we’re saying. I look to Wyatt for help.
“Geoff at the post office.” Wyatt pauses. MaryJane nods, so he continues. “Geoff at the post office said you might have some markers that we can borrow. Or even buy from you.”
“Markers?” MaryJane asks.
“Teal markers,” I say.
“Like markers?” MaryJane mimics writing. “Or markers?” Then she mimics putting something on the ground.
“The first one,” I say.
