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One of them now called out, “Will we see you tonight at the library, Maggie?”
“I’ll be there,” Maggie said to the woman. “Seven?”
“Six if you want to do some pre-sale shopping,” the woman said.
Maggie laughed. “Six it is. See you later!”
I glanced around to see if the youngest Mermaid was still nearby but couldn’t find her in the crowd. She was a chubby-cheeked baby who’d been strapped to the chest of a young woman with pink-streaked, wind-teased hair. Six-month-old Juniper, who wore a snug yellow romper covered in bold daisies, reminded me of a golden baby goose with her big eyes and tufts of pale floofy hair. When she cooed, testing her voice, I decided it was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard. It had been her mom, Gracie, who had gone out of her way to make sure I held the sea glass, too. I’d smiled the whole time, feeling included in the delight of the discovery, even though I was a complete stranger to the group.
I couldn’t quite remember the last time I’d felt included in anything exciting, and it left me slightly buoyant.
As Maggie and I turned the corner, she said to me, “The Friends of the Library is hosting a rummage and book sale thisweekend. Tonight, we’re sorting and pricing. One of the benefits of being a member is first dibs. Do you thrift much?”
“Every once in a while. I like vintage clothes and fabric. Thrift stores are some of the best places to find them.”
With each step I took, the thimble in my pocket pressed against my hip. I wanted to take it out, feel its dimples. Nostalgia hit hard and fast as I thought about my grandmother, Bunny, teaching me how to sew a zipper pouch, our first project together.
Hand-sewing had been a great hobby to ease the boredom of being homebound all the time. And though a sewing machine would’ve made easy work of the project, my mother forbade using one. The loud sound it made was a risk she wasn’t willing to take, fearing it would trigger a seizure in me. Noises sometimes did.
My first seizure had been a terrifying incident that had left my whole family shaken. After a series of medical tests, I’d been diagnosed with idiopathic epilepsy, a disorder with no known cause.
Then, three years ago, the seizures simply stopped occurring. Last year, after two years of being seizure-free, I was slowly weaned off all medications and was officially considered to be in early remission. I was well aware that relapse was possible. Probable, even.
But seizures or not, no one knew better than I did that my body wasn’t fully healed. Not a single specialist could tell me if my senses of smell and hearing would ever return to what they once were or if they would always be this way.Extraordinary,a doctor had labeled them. To me, they were just more things in my life that weren’t normal.
Fortunately, over the years I’d learned how to tune out when needed in an overwhelmingly noisy situation, but it took a lot of energy, and I didn’t do it often. I’d always been able to control my heightened sense of smell much better—sniff, identify, dismiss—but I’d never get used to being able to smell perfume from a block away. Nor would I ever understand how scent could reveal a glimpse of personality, but it did.
As Maggie and I walked toward a parking lot behind the coffee shop, I heard hurried footsteps behind us. Then a voice called out, “Maggie! Yoo-hoo! Hold up!”
We turned. A squat woman rushed toward us, her white-blond hair teased, her chin high, elbows out. Immediately, she reminded me of a beautiful, if slightly unusual, crested duck I’d read about in one of my wildlife books.
“I’m so glad I caught you!”
She wore sensible pink heels and a floral wrap dress that barely contained her generous curves. I had the feeling she was the kind of woman who hugged with abandon, practically swallowing you whole.
“Good morning, Bettina,” Maggie said, her voice cheery.
Bettina’s breathing, shallow and rapid, sounded like it was being squeezed out of fireplace bellows. “Ooh, goodness. I saw you leaving Magpie’s and turned on the jets to catch up.” She flicked a glance at me and pressed her hands to her heart. “Well, hello, there. I’m Bettina Hopkins Fish, and I surely don’t recognize you, young lady. Aren’t you pretty as a peach?”
“This is Ava,” Maggie said. “She’s from Ohio.”
“That explains the outfit.” Bettina smiled while quirking an eyebrow at my coat. “How long are you visitin’ our lovely little town?”
I didn’t bother explaining the lucky blazer. “I’m not sure, but I hope to stay a long while.”
“A snowbird, eh?”
Bettina spoke the wordsnowbirdlike she had a chicken bone stuck in her throat.
Tucking a fleeting pained look out of sight, she added, “Usually our snowbirds are a mite older than you, but we welcome all with open arms.”
It sounded to me like her hospitality only came with a great deal of determination on her part.
A jaunty breeze teased coppery curls out of the clip that held them off Maggie’s face. “Ava is going to be moving in with my daddy. A housekeeper of sorts.”
Bettina’s eyes widened, revealing shiny blue surprise. “Ohmy stars! I had no idea Desmond was looking for help. You know Sienna would’ve been interested. My niece,” she said specifically to me. “She’s been picking up odd jobs here and there but is still looking for something long-term. As much as I try to steer her along, she seems destined to wander aimlessly. Bless her heart, she simply can’t seem to find her passion in life.”
The comment struck a little too close to home for my comfort. Data entry was the only work I’d ever done, which paid the bills and allowed me to save a little. But it hardly fed the creative fires that burned inside me—the passion in me.
