Page 9 of Something About September

A gruff voice answered, “Not since Dad retired.”

“Oh. Okay. Sorry to bother you.”

“Try Cort Adams,” the man said. “He’s the one you want.”

“Right. Thanks,” she said tightly, and hung up before he could say anything else.

She shoved the phone book aside and stood, her stool scraping the old tile. She’d take a break now, go and get some supplies she needed in town, regroup, and get back to this fruitless task. She’d find someone—she had to.

Upstairs, she dressed in a cozy cream-colored cable-knit sweater, jeans, and leather ankle boots, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and went out to the shed, where Lenore’s black wire shopping cart still hung on a nail. It was dusty and it squeaked, but it still rolled true and straight.

As she walked along Main Street in midmorning sunshine as fresh as golden straw, she found her heart rate speeding up as she passed Empire Street. Even though she knew Cort didn’t live there anymore, and hadn’t for years, not since they were in high school, she still walked faster just in case and felt glad when it was behind her.

Up ahead, she could see the town square, already on its way toward its annual Autumn Festival transformation. Volunteers were hard at work, spangling the gazebo with garlands—made from real maple leaves, of course, according to regulation, but Rebecca had to admit the result was appealing and festive. Wheelbarrows full of pumpkins sat waiting to be arranged, a flatbed full of hay bales arrived; they would serve not just as decorations but as places to sit, or for children to perch. It was the same every year, and Rebecca had never missed one before—except last year.

She turned toward the crosswalk just as she saw it: a gray pickup truck with a red logo, Adams Contracting, bright as a beacon. She had been poised for this moment, but it still hit her like a gale, spun her around until she was facing back toward the square. The gazebo, the garlands, the pumpkins and hay bales, the trees with their patchwork fall colors, now blurred as she tried to regain her composure. Behind her, she heard the truck pass and allowed herself to turn slightly, just in time to catch him in profile. He had one hand casually draped on the steering wheel. The honeyed sunlight glinted in his sandy-blond hair. In seconds, his truck had turned onto Spyre Street and was gone.

Rebecca wanted to drop down onto a nearby bench and wait for her heart to stop racing but at the same time had the urge to turn around and walk back to the diner, forget about her errands, and just hide. But, no. That wasn’t her anymore. She wasn’t going to let Cort Adams get to her like this. She had known she couldn’t avoid him all month in a small town like this—and now she had gotten the first sighting out of the way.

She kept walking, and as she did, she felt her nerves calm. Was that relief flowing through her body? As though knowing exactly where Cort Adams was in the world was a comfort, not a heartache.

Stepping into Jonagold General Store was like walking into a preserved memory: floors that creaked in all the familiar places, the musty scent of dry goods, the tang of lemon oil, the brass bell singing its same old tune. She made her way through the aisles, picking up the items she needed. The basil-scented cleaner that had been Lenore’s favorite. A scrub brush for the kitchen sink. Paper towels. Garbage bags, light bulbs, batteries, weather stripping.

At the cash register, Mr. Jonagold, his hair now white but his red bow tie as jaunty as ever, grinned when he saw her, his blue eyes dancing. “Fixing up the old place, are you?” he asked.

“Doing what I can for now,” she said, setting items on the counter. “Then I’ll have to hire someone.”

She wished she hadn’t mentioned this as soon as he said, “Cort Adams does fine work. He’s done a lot for us here at the store. Allowed us to renovate while keeping the charm of the place. Craftsmanship and care run in that boy’s veins.”

“I’m not hiring him,” she said evenly.

A small frown. “Cort’s not available?”

“I found someone else. It’s all sorted.” A lie as crisp as an orchard-fresh apple, and she pushed away the guilt and kept her voice casual as she asked, “How are those grandkids of yours, Mr. Jonagold?” Thankfully, this prompted a quick change of subject and some proud showing off of the photographs he kept tucked behind the cash register.

Next, she pushed the cart down the road to Ida’s Market. Fresh bread perfumed the entry, and she recognized the same sourdough used at the diner for years, for the apple butter grilled cheese. There was also the brioche that had been used for the chicken cutlet with apple compote. The focaccia for the muffuletta. Rebecca stood at the bread display, lost in memory, deeply missing the dishes that had flavored her childhood, before choosing a sturdy multigrain. She then walked through the store, picking up cheese, eggs, a Cluckingham’s Farm roaster, vegetables. Coffee, tea, milk, a pint of local honey.

At the register, the young cashier looked familiar. “Lily, is it?” Rebecca asked. “You used to work weekends at the diner, when you were in high school.”

The young woman smiled and nodded. “I loved McIntosh’s Table,” Lily said, scanning Rebecca’s grocery items. “I’m an English major now—online with Athabasca. Your grannie talked me into it.”

“That’s wonderful,” Rebecca said, meaning it. “I teach literature at U of T. Come by the diner for coffee and tell me about your classes. I’d love to hear all about it.”

Lily smiled and said she would. Then she paused. “Wait—I just have to ask you this. Do you think you’ll reopen the place? Is that why you’re back?” Her voice was hopeful.

Rebecca swallowed over a sudden lump in her throat. The question surprised her—but what surprised her most was how hard it was to say what she had to. “No, I’m fixing it up to sell.” She knew this was the right answer. She was only here in Bramley Hollow for the month, to sort out the issues that had arisen with the building, deal with Crispin’s threats, get the place listed, then go back to her life in Toronto. She could deal with selling it when she was back there. She wasn’t here for long. But why did telling herself that cause such an ache?

“Either way, it’s nice to see lights on again,” Lily said. “I’ll definitely stop by and see you sometime.”

Outside, the autumn air cooled Rebecca’s cheeks as she walked back the way she had come, stopping at the community notice board outside the post office. She scanned it hopefully for available contractors and finally found a battered-looking card in the bottom corner that read “Eli Walsh, Genral Contrator.” The professor in her cringed at the unfortunate typos. Rebecca remembered Eli from high school as a guy who once made a pair of nunchucks out of broom handles in shop class and spent the afternoon whacking lockers with them—until he eventually hit himself in the head and was sent home with a concussion. Not exactly the image of a reliable tradesman. But, she reminded herself, people changed. She slid the card into her pocket, telling herself that having a last resort was better than having nothing. And just as she was about to walk away, she spotted another small piece of paper, among the town event announcements, for Kwan Home Repairs.

Back at the diner, she put away her groceries, then reached for her phone again. Kwan Home Repairs answered on the eighth ring.

“Hello? Mr. Kwan speaking.”

“Hi, this is Rebecca McIntosh—at the diner?”

“Rebecca?” His voice warmed. “I used to run the pharmacy. Your grandmother was a kind lady—always sent me home with extra pie when she knew my grandkids were coming to visit.”