Page 86 of Freak
Signal Bend trusted the Night Horde, and the Night Horde took that to heart.
After the violence of this year’s Harvest Festival, where people had been hurt, people had been killed, and the event, along with scores of businesses’ investments, had been ruined, one might expect the Horde to be caught in a powerful blowback. But it hadn’t come. There had been anger, certainly, there had been gossip and recriminations, and there was still grieving and healing to be done, but the club had made everything as right as they could. They’d all learned from the mistakes of that weekend, and now the town was planning next year’s events.
Of course, one new wrinkle to the fresh event planning was that not everyone trusted the Horde the way the people who lived here did. Yesterday, the Horde women, especially Lilli and Adrienne, had talked at length about the changes they’d be making in the events to better ensure a safe and calm experience, and their plans for publicity. Signal Bend had some regional fame, and a significant population of outsiders showed up for their festivals. The fight had gotten news coverage throughout the Midwest, a lot of it negative. Several pieces had harkened back to the really bad times and wondered if the Horde Harvest Brawl—a name the Channel 3 news in Springfield had coined—signaled a return to darker days. The organizers would have to do some damage control to keep attendance up in future events. After pie last evening, Autumn had led an impromptu brainstorming session on what she’d called ‘crisis PR.’
Abigail didn’t consider it much of a crisis. If people didn’t come back next year, they’d return the following. Folks had short memories for recent events but long ones for nostalgia, and that was the main thing a small-town festival or fair provided: a glimpse into a life most of the world had left behind. She was sure they’d figure it out, and she’d help.
After the mayor and Autumn did their little speeches, and Santa rolled in on his wheeled sleigh (pulled by eight actual reindeer), the shops opened for business. Mel had been called over to work on a problem with the wiring in one of the automated Christmas dioramas that dotted the area, and nobody needed her help at the moment, so Abigail wandered through the shops.
She knew almost everyone working and had pleasant chats as she browsed. Not being a fan of currency, she wasn’t much of a shopper. Mostly she was killing time until Mel could join her again.
But then she saw something in a case at The Nib of Time. She’d been surprised and impressed at the arrangement and stock of the shop. With something like an ‘Old World’ décor, lots of polished wood and stained glass, it was elegant without being fussy. And it turned out that pens and timepieces weren’t such an odd combination at all. She’d had no idea pens could be so beautiful, or that clocks and watches were still made that seemed, well, timeless.
One watch in particular caught her eye. It seemed to be made mostly of wood—the face, the casing, the band, all of it—a striped wood, dark and light, burnished to satin. Three small, cobalt blue discs and hands of the same blue lay on the face.
There was nothing about it that obviously suggested Mel. He wore a watch, and not a smartwatch, but his was steel, with a black face and bold white numbers. This watch was very different.
And yet it compelled her; she could not seem to step back from this case, that watch. Almost as if the words were being spoken aloud, she understood that the watch was for Mel.
“Isn’t it rad?” Zelda Bello said, leaning on the case from behind it. She was working at the shop.
“It is,” Abigail answered, not looking away from the watch. “I’ve never seen one like it. The band is wood, too, yes?”
“It is. Zebrawood.” Zelda opened the case and withdrew the watch, setting it on a velvet pad atop the case. “The tree grows in Central and South America, and I think in Africa, too. These watches are made by an artisan who works in the Ozarks, around Branson.”
“Oh, I was about to ask if Bo Lunden had made it. He does such lovely things with wood.”
Zelda let out an earthy laugh that Abigail didn’t quite get—oh, doing things with wood. The double entendre didn’t gibe well with her understanding of Bo, but it gibed quite well with her understanding of Zelda.
“Bo prefers to work in large format,” Zelda said. “Furniture and stuff like that.”
“Of course.” Abigail didn’t realize Zelda was particularly familiar with Bo’s preferences, but that wasn’t her business, so she didn’t remark on it.
She picked up the watch. A small tag dangled from the band.$300, it read.
Never in her life had she paid so much money for a want or a wish. Virtually every gift she’d ever given, she’d made. Significant wants and wishes for herself, she bartered for almost exclusively. Money was for needs, not wants.
But she’d never been in love before, never been engaged to be married. Never had a partner. And something about the watch told her it was Mel’s.
Unfortunately, she carried very little cash, and she didn’t have a credit card. She had a debit card, because those came with checking accounts whether you wanted one or not, but the thought of using plastic made her uncomfortable, so that card was tucked in a desk drawer. Was her credit union open on Black Friday? She didn’t know. But either way, her credit union was all the way in Rolla.
But the watch held her. She almost felt as if it clutched her hand, rather than the other way around.
“I’d like to buy this watch,” she finally said, “but I don’t have the money with me, and I don’t know if I can get it today. Is there a way I can ...” the words faded away; she didn’t know what to ask for.
But Zelda smiled. “Is this for Mel?” When Abigail nodded, Zelda added, “I can set it in back with a note that you’ll be back in by ... Monday afternoon?”
She had to go into Rolla on Monday anyway, to place a bulk order for winter feed. “That’s perfect. Thank you so much, Zelda.”
As she handed the watch back, she noticed the satiny smooth back of the wooden casing, and a new thought happened. “I don’t suppose you do engraving here?”
“I don’t do it, but Jeff Gaines does. It’s free. Jeff’s closing today, so he’ll be in at one, and since we’ve been in business for like forty minutes, he doesn’t have a stack of engraving jobs yet. He can get to it right away.” She pulled a pen and pad from the credenza behind the counter and set it on the glass. “What’s your pleasure?”
The words rolled out in Abigail’s mind as if she’d been planning and refining them for weeks.
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~oOo~
