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Nope! I stop that steamy thought in its tracks, and barrel into the museum.
“You took your time,” Dot calls from where she’s parked with her crossword puzzle. “Did they have any of those bear claws left?”
And that’s when I realize, I completely forgot our coffees.
* * *
I spendthe rest of the day hiding out in the museum, then close up, and drive out to my parents’ place, replaying that kiss with Reeve the entire time.
Why did Idothat?
Besides the fact it felt like the most natural thing in the world …
I sigh, driving the mountain road out of town, up to where my parents’ ranch sits, just over the ridge. Luckily, Reeve didn’t seem to mind me roping him into that kiss. In fact, he was a pretty willing volunteer. I remember the firm grip of his hands on my waist, and the heat in his eyes when we finally came up for air …
I shake off the memory, and turn down the overgrown driveway, following the winding dirt road past my father’s “found object sculptures” (read: trash heaps) and past my mother’s Zen garden (read: sandpit) before pulling up outside the rustic, sprawling, money-pit of a house, sending the flock of chickens scattering as they peck and hunt in the dirt.
A message comes through from Mary-Alice just as I’m getting out of the car."What’s this about a public make-out with the Hollywood hottie?! And why am I finding out from Linda at the hardware store and not my BEST FRIEND?”
News travels fast in Milford Falls.
“Tell you everything later. It was nothing!”I text back, but Mary-Alice can tell the lie even through three typed words.
“Bullshit,"she replies, along with more exclamation marks than is entirely necessary.
I tuck my phone away.
“Mom? Dad? Anybody home?” I call, as I climb the steps to the front porch, nearly tripping over a loose board my dad has been saying he’s going to fix since my high school graduation. Like everything else in this place, he’s long on good intentions, and short on actual follow-through.
“Back here!”
I follow my mom’s voice through the house to the bright mosaic-tiled kitchen in back, where she greets me with a big hug. She’s wearing a hand-knit sweater that’s at least two sizes too big for her, her graying hair in a pair of Pippi Longstocking braids.
“Um,” I say, wrinkling my nose against a dank, grassy aroma. “What’s that smell? Is dad trying to grow a new strain of weed again? I’ve told you, just get a medical marijuana card and buy it in Asheville, like everyone else. Sooner or later, Sheriff Galveston is going to retire, and get replaced with someone who actually does the job!”
“It’s not your father’s pot, it’s my new candle project!” my mom says proudly. “See?” she says, pointing to the bowls and bottles spread on every available surface. “I’m making lovely heart-shaped molds, and I’m not using any artificial chemicals for the scent, people don’t want that toxic stuff. All natural, that’s the way.”
Personally, I’d take artificial aromas over the natural scent of what looks like lawn clippings, but I know better than to argue. My mom takes up a new passion project every other month; by Christmas, the candles will be forgotten, and she’ll be stewing her own clothing dye out of berries and leaves. Again.
“Looks great,” I lie, carefully clearing a small patch of table. “But if you’re going to sell any of these, I’ll need to file for your permits. Remember last time, with the goats?”
My mother clucks dismissively. “Misunderstanding, that’s all.”
“Oh, let her help, Eileen. You know you never get around to any of the paperwork.” My father shuffles in, wearing his Dead & Co T-shirt and a pair of Birkenstocks; his grey hair in a ponytail. He smells like a mix of tobacco and pot – as always – as he pulls me into a warm hug.
“Good to see you, pumpkin. How’s tricks?”
“Oh, you know …” I reply vaguely. “The usual.”
If by “usual”, you mean a sudden influx of drama, lust, and loathing into my normally-quiet life.
Dad grabs a bottle of his home-brewed kombucha from the refrigerator, and offers me one, too. “Did you see my new sculpture on your way in?” he asks hopefully. “I just finished it this weekend, a creative frenzy.”
“He was out there all night,” mom adds proudly. “I think it’s some of your best work.”
“Richard’s going to love it,” dad nods.
“That’s great,” I cheer, relieved. Richard is an eccentric art collector out in Raleigh, who, for some unknown reason, thinks my father is the next … well, whoever the hot large-scale sculptural artist of the moment is. He’s been buying up my dad’s pieces for years, and now other people are following his example, too.
