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Seems to me I have three choices:
Follow the gravel road and pray that the person with farm-fresh eggs is a) not a homicidal maniac, b) knows how to get to Friendly, and c) will share that knowledge with me.
Swim across the marsh with the alligators.
Drive back to New York.
Despite all its caveats, number one is the best option.
The road is bumpy with potholes where the gravel has been washed away. Eventually, it dead ends at a small farmhouse. Though weathered, the house gives off a warm, homey vibe. No knives hanging from the trees, heads on spikes, or anything else that screams MURDERER.
When I knock on the door, a frail woman who appears to be in her sixties answers. Her head is wrapped in a scarf with pink Breast Cancer Awareness ribbons on it.
"Hi,” I say, pasting a smile onto my face, “I'm so sorry to bother you, but I'm hoping you can give me directions to Friendly?"
She tugs on an earlobe. "You were on the road to Friendly before you turned up my driveway. Just stay on that for another twenty miles or so."
I shake my head. "The road is closed. I need to find an alternate route."
"That's the only way to get in or out of Friendly—unless you've got a boat?"
"Afraid not."
"Then you're out of luck."
"So, everyone on the island is just…trapped there?"
She nods. "Happens sometimes at high tide. Nothing to do but wait it out." She walks away, leaving me standing in the doorway. After several steps, she looks over her shoulder at me and cocks an eyebrow. "You coming in or not?"
Leading me through the house to a large kitchen, she waves toward a table. "Sit a spell. I'll grab a pitcher of tea."
I pull back an old, rickety chair and hope it'll hold my weight. I breathe a sigh of relief when it doesn't collapse under me. "Thanks. Do you know much about Friendly?"
She fills two glasses with ice. "Lived there most of my life. Moved out here in '04 with my husband, may he rest in peace. My brother, Coop—he's the chief of police in Friendly—has been trying to get me to move back. But I'm happy here." She runs a hand over her headscarf. "And with all my doctor's appointments, a flooded road would be mighty inconvenient."
I watch nervously as she lifts a large pitcher out of the refrigerator, wondering if I should offer to help. But she handles it with ease, placing it in the middle of the table. Taking a seat herself, she pours the tea into glasses.
I take a sip, then reflexively spit it back into the glass, trying not to gag. Heat creeps into my cheeks as the woman watches me with a bemused expression. "I'm sorry. It's a bit sweeter than I'm used to."
She shakes her head. "You must be the New Yorker taking over Hildy's Hut."
My eyes snap to hers in surprise. "Yes, that’s right. My name is Margo Sterling."
"Carlinya Cooper." She reaches for my glass. "Are you going to drink this?"
I shake my head vigorously before realizing that may hurt her feelings. I plaster a smile on my face. "I'm not thirsty right now but thank you."
"Waste not, want not." She pours my tea back into the pitcher.Gross.
Staring at my now-empty glass, I'm glad I didn't drink more of it.
"At the town meeting," Carlinya continues,"Mayor Tuck saidthat Coop said that your contractors said thatyou saidyou'd be herenextweek."
"They talked about my store at the town meeting?" I can’t keep the excitement out of my voice. I'm thrilled to hear that there's already buzz about Sticks & Stones in the town.
"In a manner of speaking." She glances away, not meeting my eyes. "I reckon you ought to know, though I sure hate to be the one to tell you...folks ain't real happy about you coming to town."
My eyes widen in shock. "Why? They don’t even know me."
