Chapter 2: Early Arrival

Replacing my flyer on the community bulletin board in the store, next to the postal boxes at the back of the store, the first one had managed to generate my main source of income. My listing basically clarified some 'odd jobs' I was willing and able to help neighbours with, no matter how small. So far this winter, I'd made about $200 from a few basement clean outs, carrying a mini fridge up two flights of stairs, and troubleshooting a wifi router for one of the seniors.

Sitting in the store, which is situated on the only road in and out of the hamlet, is a prime place for generating gossip. My mom uses tidbits as currency on occasion with the regulars. I rarely watch the road, instead preferring to read or use my laptop.

This morning had been quiet, except for the weekly visit from one of my old high school teachers who continues to ask when I'll be going back to college. The only other occurrence of note is the gentle rain pattering on the ridged metal roof, until a shiny black Volvo pulls up, causing me to stand.

The car was rumored to belong to the widow Adair, who no one had seen at the lake since her husband's passing 6 years ago. The door opens and a figure stands from behind the tinted car door. All that's visible is a sleek brunette blow out and round black sunglasses covering her eyes. She was probably still under 40, though I'd never met her before. The pictures I'd seen of her in the local paper made her look older than she did now. After closing the car door, Mrs. Penelope Adair approaches confidently in a fashionable body con black dress, a steel grey blazer over top, and burgundy scarf elegantly looping around her neck. She holds a bespoke black clutch in her left hand, her keys limply in her right as she strides towards me- well, the store.

Realizing I'm staring, I quickly sit down again to stare at the computer screen and last night's photos I was editing to try to act like I hadn't heard her pull up. I lift my head cautiously to greet her with as little affectation as I can to hide my surprise at her joining the lake for the summer season. "Good morning, Mrs. Adair."

She lifts up her sunglasses onto the top of her head and sized me up and down once, gives me a slight nod, before turning her attention and striding to the wall of mailboxes.

"Let me know if you need help with anything," I offer before sitting back down on my stool. I never like to hover over customers, especially if I have zero inclination that they might potentially steal something like gaggles of teens tended to do in the summer heat. I pulled out the old edition of the photography magazine that had been replaced this week and continued reading about key lights.

As I try to read, I am distracted by the sound of rustling papers to my right.

A clear voice carries over, "Would you happen to have a basket you could part with for the day?" She asks.

Confused, I look up to realize her meaning. She stands there, clutch tucked under her arm, each hand holding as many envelopes as she can, mailbox still open wide revealing an equal amount of additional items to those she had already grabbed. I stand and grab a tote bag off the wall behind me and began walking over to her with it. I hold it open as she unloads her mailbox into it. In this close proximity I can smell her perfume, floral with a peach note shining through.

When she finishes, she locks up the box and takes the offered bag from me. Noticing the dangling price tag, she comments, "Thank you, what do I owe you for the bag?"

Embarrassed, I stammered out,"Oh, uh, uh, well, don't worry about it. We have plenty."

Her eyes meet mine and I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I'm slightly taller than her, by only a couple of inches and she isn't wearing heels. She simply raises one eyebrow and asks, "Won't this come out of your paycheque?" A bemused smile on her lips over something I wasn't quite grasping yet.

"No, ma'am. I'd have to have a paycheque first. It's my parents' business so I just…" I momentarily panic, was it illegal for me to work without pay? Wasn't Penelope Adair a lawyer? So few residents continued their careers at the lake, I never remember their professions.

Evidently I had paused too long as she suggests an ending to my sentence, "Work here?" She drops my gaze and gives a small shrug before stepping away from me.

I feel my cheeks redden, surely I have more self confidence than this, right? She begins heading for the door, I am tempted to call out to her, to find a reason to continue talking and save me from boredom. But I leave it, unable to summon any measure of cleverness, and walk back to my stool behind the counter, feeling inexplicably dejected.

"Did you take that photo?" Her voice surprises me again, a chill travels down my spine as I snap my eyes up from looking at the floor. She is gesturing towards the clearly visible computer screen, the photo was of a loon arriving on the lake that I captured the night before. It was a decent composition, not too zoomed out or any part of the bird cropped despite it's wide outstretched wings.

I nod sheepishly, suddenly remembering I'd taken a couple of exterior photos of her mansion too in that same batch of photos. I hold my breath, hoping she wouldn't ask to see more.

"It's good.," she states, no room for disagreement, "You could probably sell prints of that," she trailed off as if talking to herself, seemingly lost in thought for a moment before continuing, "Especially if you connected with the right art gallery." Looking back to me, she gives a tight smile, like she's in practiced at giving them. "I'm sure that's the last thing on a young person's mind." She lingers a moment longer before she continues out the door without another glance to me.

I watch her leave as I slowly return to my stool behind the counter, watching her swiftly climb back into her car and speed away before I realize I had forgotten to thank her for the compliment. Looking down at the computer screen, I had been so caught off guard by her comment. Had she really been serious? What art gallery would want art that anyone could capture with a cell phone?

Shaking my head, I close the laptop and resume flipping through the magazine, trying to forget the hope her words had given me. They could be dangerous if I let them linger too long.

I think about bringing up the website for the art gallery in Stonewall, to fully put her words out of my head, but decide against it once I look at the photo again. Maybe I'm too critical of myself, I think for a moment before shaking my head and returning to the magazine for the rest of my shift.