Page 32 of Campfires & Canines
"Hey, Hazel!" A petite woman with dark skin and bright rainbow braids rests her elbows on the counter, a laptop open beside her.
"Hi." I give her a lame half-wave. I don't remember being introduced to her.
"I'm Fern. Do you need anything? I can put it on Heath's tab." She offers with a wink.
I shrug. "I'm just checking stuff out, but this is cool."
Wandering towards the counter, I peer down a couple of aisles. Toothpaste, shampoo, bandages, and basic medication in one aisle; the next holds cleaning supplies, trash bags, and toilet paper.
"Well, let me know." Fern turns to her computer.
I don’t need anything, but it feels silly to decide to live somewhere without thoroughly exploring it. And it’s nice to know I won’t have to drive into town every time I need to restock shampoo.
The store is small and I’ve seen all of it within minutes. I should leave, but Fern’s eyes are on me. “How are you enjoying your trip?” she asks.
“It’s been stupendous.” Could I have picked a weirder word?
“Planning on staying much longer?”
“Um, maybe.” I rock my weight from my heels to the balls of my feet. Why do people keep asking how long I’m staying? Am I inconveniencing them somehow?
“What’s the deciding factor?” she asks.
“I’m sorry?”
Her eyes crinkle and a gem glints in the ring through her lip. “What’s influencing whether you stay longer or leave?”
“Oh, well, I was originally planning to leave early next week.” I hesitate but decide to open up. “I just really like it here. I was thinking about hanging around longer.” Close enough.
"Glad to hear it." Fern stands up, arching her back in a stretch. “You fit in nicely.”
My lips twitch upwards. "Thanks. I'll see you later."
Content to watch the goings-on, I settle in a hammock. A couple of older men stroll past, chatting about some repairs. A few minutes later, the twin's mother, Clove, leaves the diner and heads towards their cabin. She waves at Cedar as he pops up in the garden. He's got gloves on and a trowel in hand.
Just as I'm dozing off, a handful of kids burst out of the school. Marigold doesn't follow them. I hesitate, not sure if I should wait for her. But maybe she could use my help.
The school interior is one large space, save for some bathrooms off to the side. Marigold is gathering up artwork and sliding it into a drying rack.
The ceiling is wooden beams and planking, like Heath's cabin and the diner. The floor is a colorful linoleum pattern and the tables are all glossy pine smudged with lines of marker. The entire space is a riot of color and smells like wax crayons and chalk.
Huge windows on every wall alternate with bulletin boards covered in the kids’ artwork and various charts - multiplication tables, world maps, and an outline of basic grammar rules and sentence structure. An illustrated alphabet spans the windows, closeto the ceiling. Opposite, a historical timeline mirrors it. Dozens of little hand-written notes mark out all sorts of important events.
I circle, amazed at all the work she must have put into the space. It's as happy and welcoming as Marigold herself.
"Hi!" She crosses the room to hug me. "What's up?"
"Need any help?" I ask.
"Sure. Can you gather up those markers?" She wastes no time, moving from the artwork to some wayward papers. By the time I've gotten the markers into their bin, she's spraying each table and wiping them down with practiced efficiency. I busy myself by tucking in each chair.
"Okay, looks great. Those little pups are going to be cleaning the chicken coop this afternoon so I left them off easy this morning. Wanna grab some lunch?"
"Sounds good."
A few minutes later, we sit down with grilled cheese sandwiches and pickles.
"So, what's on your mind?" She asks. How can she tell?
