Page 14 of The One You Chose

Ihadnoideawho this E. McConnell was, but I liked her. She didn’t seem to take herself too seriously. She had good pizza recommendations and worked with kids. It was fun to talk to someone with no expectations. It helped to soothe the ache that thinking about Lina caused in my chest. I vowed I would figure out where she was. I would just have to be a little more creative in my detective skills.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: teaser

Retta-Mae says Hi. Here is another picture in case you forgot what she looks like. She’s a domestic shorthair, 11 weeks old. She’s doing well at litter box training and loves playing with the feather teaser.

You were right about the pizza. The night I moved into my new place, I got some and it was surprisingly good. Especially paired with a variety pack of beer from Sticky Cow Brewery. I’m lucky enough I can walk there from my place. The pizza went well with the amber, but I’m not a fan of the dandelion beer. Who would want to drink a weed? That place is pretty adventurous.

Jeremiah F. Deir

Adoption Coordination Director

Port Madison County Humane Society

Only minutes later, I got a response. I smiled as I read through the email.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: re: teaser

Okay, okay, I get it. Retta-Mae is adorable. You’re starting to convince me. Now I just need to convince my roommate to take allergy pills so I can have a kitten.

Yeah, Sticky Cow has some bold choices in beer. It’s not my type, but they have quite a few fans who love their takes on beer. Fun fact about that place. I planted the cedar tree that is in the back corner of the patio area. My parents know the original owners. I got the sapling in kindergarten for arbor day and planted it. Eighteen years later, there is my tree. Next time you’re there enjoying an IPA, you can think of me and my exemplary pizza recommendations.

:)

Over the weekend, I started unpacking the boxes scattered around my new house. When I had downtime, I tried to find Lina. There was no trace of her on any of the normal social media. I found a Lina Hershey, who lived nearby in Illahee. I found Lina Park Bowling Lanes. But no Lina who lived in Ridgewood. The only person I was friends with on Facebook from Ridgewood was Cooper. It was possible I could have asked Cooper about Lina, but what would he say? Cooper seemed like a gossip, and I didn’t think it was right to talk about my sex life to someone I was now supervising. I had professional standards, after all.

At night I went to the brewery. Only a few doors down from the Skol House where we met, I hoped to catch a glimpse of Lina or even her friend. I became friendly with the brewmaster and had lengthy conversations about hops and malt. I sat beside the outdoor fire pit. For the first time in days, the typical drizzle had relented. Weather in the Pacific Northwest wasn’t as much torrential downpour but nine months of incessant mist a few degrees above freezing. December was always the rainiest of the months. The weather report was calling for snow in the next week, but I doubted that. Forecasts about snow almost always were exaggerated and when they did occur rarely lasted more than a week. Pulling my fleece jacket tighter around myself, I leaned back in the Adirondack chair. From my spot by the fire I could see over the high-pitch roofs of Front Street and into the sailboat lined marina of Freedom Bay. While I had lived in various cities in Western Washington, I had never had the chance to settle into a place that so casually had beautiful views and this hometown feel. Sure, the nearest department store was over thirty minutes away, and there was only one option for Indian food in town, but that was okay with me. The town boasted more than enough breweries and had a surprisingly large number of expensive art galleries. I was enjoying the Nordic kitsch the town boasted. The little gnomes painted on store windows, the large Viking statue with its signVelkommen til Ridgewoodthat Dr. Crosby told me was decorated differently for each holiday. It currently wore a Santa hat and sting of bulb lights around its neck. I liked the window display at Sluy’s Bakery with its selection of lefse and krigla cookies alongside gingerbread house kits.

Beer in hand, I rested my feet against the side of the fire pit, a construction of chicken wire, cinder blocks and oyster shells. Inside my pocket my phone buzzed and as I pulled it out I groaned. I was supposed to call my mother when I got off work earlier, but once I got home and the full boxes overwhelmed me it slipped my mind.

“Hi, Ma.”

“Don’t you,Hi Ma,me, Jeremiah Fitzgerald, you were supposed to call me hours ago.“ I heard the running of water and dishes knocking together. She must have called me on speakerphone, her voice was far away.

“Yeah, sorry about that. It was a long day. I’m just getting in. How are you doing, Ma? Sound like you’re cleaning up from dinner?”

The water turned off and her voice became clearer. “Alvita was over. I made her one of those pot pies from the store.”

“I’m sure she had something to say about that.” My mother’s best friend, Alvita, had big opinions about ready-made food from the shop. As successful as my mother was, cooking homemade dinners fell down the list of her priorities.

“You know I didn’t call you to talk about Costco.”

“I didn’t think so, but you--”

She cut me off. “I’m making sure you’re still coming over for Christmas.”

I took a long swallow of my Valhalla IPA before answering. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, Ridgewood is so far. I wasn’t sure if you could make the long trek. I haven’t seen you in almost a month—I go days without hearing from you. Don’t know if you’re alive or dead.”

“Ma, I’ve been busy getting settled. I’ve been unpacking my stuff at the house. Getting a feel for the job. And Ridgewood is only an hour away on the ferry. An hour and a half if I drive around. You’re acting like I’m across the country instead of across Puget Sound.”

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