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“I’m not eating your lunch.”
“Please, this thing is huge. Take it,” she insists.
I give in and pick up the portion she gave me and take a bite.
“Oh my goodness,” I exclaim as I chew.
“I know, right? Hazel is, like, a hundred years old. She was making them for Ansley to sell at the café for a little extra money. Everyone went nuts over them, so we talked her into opening up her own place. It’s all she sells. These chicken and waffle sandwiches with a choice of either hot honey or barbeque sauce. The doors open at eleven, and she’s sold out and closed up by two. It’s genius,” Taeli explains.
“I swear, we’ve picked up lunch from there every day since she opened. We’re single-handedly gonna keep her in business,” Sara-Beth adds.
And that’s the way it is here in Balsam Ridge. No matter your age, your financial situation, or your level of social awkwardness, these people cleave to you, welcome you into their lives, treat you like family, and encourage you.
Whether you like it or not.
It’s wonderful.
It’s weird.
And somehow, in the short time I’ve been here, they’ve adopted me as well.
After finally escaping the clutches of Erin and company, I decide to make a stop by the hardware store to purchase the items I need to begin working at the fishing shack this weekend, and as I drive I think back to what Sara Beth was saying about my Uncle Zemry. I’ve never met him, so maybe now is the time.
I pull a sharp left and pull to a stop at the old antique store owned by my great uncle.
A bell rings as I open the door and I hear a gravelly voice greet me from somewhere in the back of the store.
“I’ll be up in a minute. Go ahead and take a look around.”
“Thank you,” I call out in return.
I begin perusing the dusty shelves filled with old treasures. Some are in better condition than others.
I stop at a rack filled with old fishing poles. None of them look to be in the best shape for actually catching trout, but they have a certain cool retro vibe that would fit in perfectly at the old shack.
I pick one up and examine it searching for a price tag.
“Ain’t she a beaut?”
I turn to see an elderly gentleman wearing a flannel shirt and cargo pants despite the warm weather. He has a crooked nose just like my grandmother as well as her same gray eyes. His face is weathered and those eyes are surrounded by deep lines, but they are sharp and focused intently on me.
“She is. How much is it?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, just stares at me for a moment.
“Do I know you young lady?” he asks, finally.
I shake my head.
“We’ve never met, but I’ve seen pictures of you. Your Zemry Wells,” I say as I step toward him extending my arm.
He looks down at my offered hand and back up to my face.
“Pictures?”
I take my hand back and clear my throat.
“Yeah, in my mother, Amy Jo’s old albums,” I clarify.
