Page 39 of Pictures in Blue
“I don’t mind getting dirty either. Let’s go.”
Coffees in hand, we both turn toward the door at the same time and bump shoulders trying to exit.
“Marx brothers moment there,” she says. “Sorry,” she motions me to go in front of her.
“You know the Marx brothers?” I have never in my thirty-two years on this earth met a female who has seen Marx brothers.
“Youknow the Marx brothers?” she asks.
“What’s with the emphasis? They’re classic.”
“You just don’t strike me as a ‘classic’ kind of guy,” she says, gesturing with air quotes around the word classic.
“Classics. Black and white movies. I’m there. I like them. They’re quiet compared to color. Color can be overstimulating for me sometimes. There’s just something about black and white that’s—”
“Comforting,” she finishes.
We fall into silence as we walk down the sidewalk, passing townspeople as we go. I lose count of the number of heads turning our way the longer we walk. Suddenly, there are business owners cleaning windows that don’t have streaks on them, sweeping sidewalks that have no visible leaves to sweep, even Frank is outside fixing a sign I’m almost positive isn’t broken at all. Fran and Cordie are good.Toogood.
Avery sends me a wary glance when she finally notices the extra eyes staring at us. “Ignore them,” I tell her. “Don’t give them any more ammo than they already have.”
“Oooookay,” she draws out and takes her camera in her hands to snap pictures of the people around her. I don’t have the slightest idea as to why she would want a bunch of pictures of these people pretending to clean and fix things just to eavesdrop on us. All they want is to one-up Fran and Cordie and have something new to report to everyone. Those two are always five steps ahead of everyone else.
The click of her camera fills the air, and I find myself wondering what is going on inside her head. What motivates her to take the pictures she does? What makes her decide what is worth taking pictures of? And why do I want to know?
“So what do you have in your backpack?” she asks, gesturing to the pack I slung across my shoulders.
“Hiking essentials.”
“Like?”
“Snacks, water, whiskey.”
“Whiskey?” She laughs.
“Essential.”
We finally reach the edge of town and the campground comes into view. On top of all the usual campsites to rent for trailers and tents, there are a few long-term trailers available for people to rent. Tourist season kicks off around Memorial Day, so they’re sitting empty right now. Our primary tourist season runs from late spring into early fall with our proximity to the mountains, hiking trails, and campgrounds. The busy summer season helps the local businesses, but we are always talking about new ideas at town meetings to bring in more tourists late fall to early spring. I’ve lost track of the number of festivals we have.
Along with her outdoor store, Sky inherited the campground our parents used to run. It’s where my fondness for the outdoors comes from and it’s why my cabin is secluded a few miles down the road opposite from the camp. I like the quiet, and the lake nearby makes it more desirable. I never imagined settling down here, but leaving after Sarah died was never an option.
When I first opened my shop a year after she died, I never thought it would take off the way it did, but apparently people love detailed wood carvings of their animals, and it gave me something to do with my hands. Something to take my mind off of my grief. My family was never sure about my idea to do it, but Sarah always was. She saw something in me that I sometimes still don’t, and she was the first one to push me into selling my work. Before she suggested it, I always just did it as a hobby. Something to pass the time—to create something with my hands—and bring people a little bit of joy and some sense of comfort.
When we reach the edge of the campground, Avery stops at the sign marking the different trails and the length of each one.
“Which one are we taking?”
“This one,” I point to the one outlined in blue that stretches toward the middle peak. This isn’t the longest one, but it isn’t a short hike either, at least four miles or so and it isn’t usually too rough. But with the rain last night, some spots might be more difficult than usual.
“Not the shortest one?” She asks, wryly. “I would have thought you’d take the easy way out and take me on the shortest hike possible. Get me out of your hair sooner.”
The image of her hands in my hair comes to mind and I wonder what her fingers would feel like tangled up in it. I shake my head. “Nah, the short one is too easy. Figured you’d want a bit of a challenge.”
“And why do you think that?”
“You just don’t seem like the type to take the easy route,” I answer quietly like I’m telling a secret I promised to keep to myself.
“Mm,” is all she says and starts walking toward the blue trail.
