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My instinctive security radar kicks into gear as I shut off the engine. A scan of the small parking lot reveals two vehicles, calming my nerves. The crunch of gravel beneath my feet followed by a slam of the driver-side door creates momentary silence. The cicadas pause their melodic chirping to assess their own safety.
It reminds me of seventh-grade science class. With each student asked to complete a report on an assigned insect, I got the cicada. Everyone else moaned and groaned about the homework. Not me. It meant a visit to my favorite place in town. Ms. Pickett, the librarian, was a dear friend, even if she was old enough to be my grandmother. She taught me all about the Dewey decimal system. How to navigate the card catalog and find exactly what I was looking for. She did so with the grace and agility of a butterfly floating from one flower petal to the next.
Every other classmate had a single page, as required. Mine had five. It always seemed to be that way with me. My mind got sidetracked by interesting facts. I couldn’t help but share them with everyone. The world was a fascinating place, filled with nuggets of wonder to discover. I might not have found them at home, but that didn’t mean I’d stop looking for them elsewhere.
I assumed others would want to learn about them too. Our teacher, Ms. Davis, thought otherwise. She stopped me after I’d read the first two pages of my report in front of the class. I did get the chance to share a most curious tidbit about cicadas, though. Unlike butterflies, moths, and many other insects, they don’t pupate. They transform from one functioning state to another in a short period of time. Much like human beings.
I suppose it’s what I’m doing now, morphing into a different phase of my life. It might not be the direction I’d have chosen as a young girl, but that’s okay. Expectations change. Reality has a way of sneaking in a back door you never knew existed.
The gas pump clicks off, signaling my tank is full. Only then do I notice the request to prepay in capital letters staring me in the face. I must have missed it with all my distracted thoughts. The lovebugs I’ve been trying to clean from my windshield smear into a gooey mess. It seems appropriate for my day thus far. It’s like I’m searching for an answer that doesn’t have a question associated with it.
I slip through the front door, hoping Clint won’t go Dirty Harry on me.
“Good morning to you, ma’am.” To my surprise, he welcomes me into the shop with a smile and pleasant greeting.
“Sorry I didn’t come in beforehand to pay. My mind is a bit distracted today.” It’s best to leave the complete truth in a safe place.
“No worries. Trust is important in our community. And besides, Harry chases down anyone who tries to skip town without paying.” Am I vocalizing my thoughts through some unheard language? “I’m kidding . . . about the Harry part.”
Clint chuckles as a tiny dachshund trots in from the back room. His owner offers the treat he knows is coming. “This is Harry. Harry, meet . . .”
“Claire.” My first name is enough. There’s no need to offer more information than necessary. Even if he seems kindhearted and has an adorable dog.
My attention shifts to the small girl sitting in a grocery cart, accompanied by her parents. Dad zips her down the aisle in a mock Formula 1 race, complete with throaty engine sounds. The smile on her face, evidence of unbridled joy, is something I never knew. Jealousy and sadness bubble to the surface.
“Do you have a daughter?”
“What?” I’ve been staring at the girl with a longing desire. My facial expression reveals more than it should. “No.” I offer Clint only that curt reply before excusing myself. I navigate toward the aisle farthest away from him and the blissful family unit. The chocolate bar I grab is a temporary fix, but I’m most comfortable with those kinds.
I return to the register, paying for my gas and short-term sugar rush. “Where are you headed?” Why is every question so difficult to answer today?
“Nowhere in particular.” I slide my money across the counter. It’s an invitation to quicken our transaction so I can hasten my journey to nowhere.
“Ah, the wandering type, are you?” His gaze flits toward me, even if my eyes focus on the twenty-dollar bill still resting between us. “Sometimes meandering is the only way to find where you’re meant to be.” The ding from his cash register awakens something inside me. “But knowing when you arrive is a tricky thing. Best to keep your eyes open, lest you miss finding that golden ticket.”
He pushes the chocolate toward me and winks. “Safe travels, Claire.” I gather up the change, grab my candy bar, and head for the exit. “There’s more than five.”
“Excuse me?” Although Clint’s comments are prying, I can’t seem to ignore them.
“Golden tickets. There’s more than five. An infinite number are out there, if you know where to look for them.”
I offer a closed-lip smile and push through the door. I pause with it midway open. The creak from it reverberates in my memory. It sounds a lot like my footsteps on the set of attic stairs that’s now in my past.
#
MY TRAVELS CONTINUE more west than north into the afternoon hours. I stop in a more populated town for one more gas refill and a restroom break. But my recollection of the visit to Clint’s store stays with me.
What awaits me around the next bend in my journey? I have no idea. That scares and excites me. How can two divergent emotions exist in the same space? It makes little sense. That same feeling greeted me while I sat in the driveway earlier today. I’m thinking my rash decision may be ill-advised. Remaining in the safety of a known environment, even a caustic one, might be the more prudent choice.
Clint’s words and his signature southern accent repeat in my mind. Keep your eyes open. It’s more difficult to do as I squint through the glare of the setting sun. Navigating through the Atlanta area, I feel that magnetic force from earlier more strongly now. It pushes me away from the overpopulation surrounding me. I know with certainty that urban living is not in my future. There are too many people and countless opportunities for things to go awry. Best to limit my level of human interaction. My car almost steers itself around the city’s perimeter on autopilot. The number of cars eventually diminishes, replaced by backcountry roads that create a sense of welcome harmony.
The waning daylight and long hours behind the wheel remind me I need to find a hotel for the evening. I have been so focused on listening to my thoughts and appreciating the scenery. The rolling hills transform into foothills. Mountains in the distance seem to draw me toward them with an undeniable energy.
The pull becomes stronger as I cross a stone bridge. Tree saplings line both sides of the street. A vision of this small town a few decades in the future greets me with a warmth I don’t see but feel. Keep your eyes open. The charming character of each storefront speaks to my soul, but the nostalgic aura lasts only a few moments. A half mile ahead, I emerge from a metaphorical tunnel. A magical castle that I thought lived only in my childhood dreams rises before me.
It’s bigger than what I need, but this old house speaks to me. The planks of wood, exposed to the elements, remind me of the scars I hide. I sense this structure needs my help to protect it in the same way. Without realizing it, I’ve parked my car along the curb and am standing on the sidewalk. Its innate beauty mesmerizes me. The wraparound porch accentuates its angles and curves. I can tell there’s a story hidden inside these walls. And dare I say, this place is begging for me to understand it better.
Others have passed over this opportunity in favor of more appealing options. But this dwelling spellbinds me. Although my eyes are wide open, it’s my sense of smell that beckons me. Jasmine. The name of Dillon’s oldest sister. A tingling sensation radiates from the inside as I notice a sign in the front yard.
It always felt like a curse, being born on February 29. My mother used it as an excuse for a smaller celebration each year. She promised a bigger and more impressive one every fourth birthday. They all ended up the same, and of the smallish variety. Why should I have expected anything different? I guess it’s another example of that youthful naïveté. I hoped for a miraculous change in circumstances that never had a chance.
There’s no room for negativity in this moment. Those final four digits of the real estate agent’s phone number stir curiosity inside me: 0229. My birthdate. I catch my breath before the ensuing inhalation captivates me. The faint scent grows stronger. A hint of jasmine floats on the gentle breeze and arrives with tender intensity as a kiss on my cheek.
My heart expands. The deep-seated longings of a young girl convince me against all reason. It might not be home and it doesn’t make sense, but this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
The sound of rain floods my thoughts with unpleasant memories. The sea of tears shed throughout my life is already overflowing. I don’t need any more. It’s why I prefer radiant sunshine over rain-soaked days during the stormy season.
I listen with piqued curiosity. The ping of each raindrop hits something metal with a sense of enthusiasm. My eyes remain closed as I absorb this unexpected and cheerful energy. It’s nothing like the monotonous thud of morning showers falling on my roof shingles. Still protected in the darkness of sleep, my mind works through the confusion. I’m caught somewhere between bliss and misery, a vast expanse to navigate. Summoning the courage to face the reality of another dreary day, I open my eyes and smile.
In the cocoon of my car, I watch water droplets trace paths down the passenger-side window. The view couldn’t be more beautiful. I snuggle into the crevice between my seat and the center console. It would be uncomfortable on any other day but not on this one. Are the tears blurring my vision from Mother Nature or from me? It doesn’t matter. My grin widens as the white farmhouse smiles back at me.
#
PIGEON GROVE LIVES up to its namesake: Things fly here. I never imagined it possible for a small town to complete a real estate transaction so quickly, but in less than two weeks, all the necessary documents have been recorded. I’m the new owner of a quaint cottage nestled among rolling foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The alacrity of the sale was astonishing, but it’s outdone by the generosity bestowed upon me during the process. When I was unable to find temporary housing on short notice, the real estate agent insisted I stay inside my future abode until everything was official. Skepticism must have been written all over my face.
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