When the sun rises, so does the creeping feeling of self-hatred. I hate that I used alcohol as the bubble wrap between me and my feelings. Then I wonder, momentarily, if I am becoming him. If this is how he started out. But I pick at the hem of my shirt to distract myself from that thought. When I must rely on hard liquor to survive even the menial events of day-to-day life, then I’ll worry.
It's only when I go into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth that I’m reminded by my reflection that I’m wearing his shirt. It’s rumpled from sleep, the material so worn it’s paper-thin in places. I tear it off, unconcerned with the sound of buttons hitting the floor, and toss it into the tiny trashcan that was left by the previous tenants. No telling what’s been in it, but it seems like a good place for my alcoholic ex-husband’s shirt. What I can’t get rid of so easily is the tan-line left where my wedding ring used to be. It’s subtle, but it might as well be a flashing neon sign to me and others that I’m recently unwed. Unattached. Damaged goods.
As it so often does, the notion slides into my mind that Jenson and I could have made it work. If I had been stronger, had tried harder, we could be together right now, still married. Happily? I’m not so sure. But I banish those thoughts and replace the padlock on the box of emotions they came out of. Regret is a terrible thing, the first card in a precarious card castle of poisonous thoughts. I can’t invite that back into my life.
This is my new beginning, I remind myself.
Once I change and eat a bowl of cereal, I’m headed back out to do some exploring, with no plan in mind. After all, you never know what you’ll stumble across when you’ve got nowhere to be and nobody to see.
This region is mainly just a mish-mash of farmland and forest, striped by backroads that seem to lead nowhere unless you know exactly where it is you’re going. I don’t, so it’s no surprise when I take a few turns and realize I have no idea how to get back to where I started. I pull up the GPS app on my phone before I end up more lost, but the signal is nonexistent. Fantastic. When I pull into a driveway to turn around, a sign with Shanalynn’s Designs painted across it has me easing on the brake. I scan the surrounding area, all grass and barbed-wire fencing and old, weather-worn buildings. Where does she get her customers from? The sky? And “designs” could mean anything. The gate is open, though, and as of now I have nothing better to do than figure out what exactly Shanalynn designs.
The gravel crunches loudly enough to announce my arrival, yet there’s not a soul in sight. Do they just trust anyone and everyone out here? I pull up in front of an old farmhouse that reminds me a little of the one I’m renting, though this one has a fresh coat of paint and brand-new shutters by the looks of it. I was considering knocking on the front door, but when I get out of my car, I hear music blaring from somewhere behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I notice the doors to one of the buildings are thrown open. I approach cautiously—after all, nearly everyone owns a gun these days—and peek inside, giving my eyes time to adjust to the dim interior. The building is packed full of furniture, both broken and restored, some stacked haphazardly and some arranged in a way that I think was meant to show them off. And in the middle of all the hodge-podge is the woman who I assume is Shanalynn.
She’s on her knees on the dusty floor, bent over and peering at the underside of a wooden bench that honestly looks like a piece of crap, showing no sign of surfacing anytime soon. Meanwhile, some god-awful, auto-tuned monstrosity is blaring from unknown speakers. I knock on one of the doors, not wanting to startle her, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.
“Are you Shanalynn?” I try asking, leaning up on my tiptoes to better my chances of being seen. Nope, nada. She’s just wiggling one of the pieces on the bench, and her focus has yet to leave the hunk of junk.
My eyes sweep the perimeter of the barn and finally land on a speaker no larger than a brick with a phone hooked up to it. Bingo. I sidle over to it and press the power button.
“What the hell?” Shanalynn says from the ground, her head swiveling. Her mouth forms an apologetic O when she sees me standing there, and she straightens and brushes off her overalls. Yes . . . overalls. A knot of dark curls spills over top of the red bandana she’s sporting as a headband.
“I’m sorry. I knocked, but you were just so . . . focused.”
She laughs and shakes her head, revealing two dimples in a kind face. “It’s all good, I was just in my zone.” She bustles over and offers her hand, and I shake it. Yep, it’s another one of those. By tomorrow, everyone in town will know my name. I kind of owe her, though; I did interrupt her jam session.
“You must by Shanalynn. I’m Raven.”
Her face tightens into a grimace, and she drops the rag she’s holding over by the speaker. “Eeesh, no, just Lynn. Everyone from high school will tell you otherwise, but I prefer Lynn.”
“Changing your sign would be a start,” I offer. Then, remembering how blunt I can come off sometimes, I hold up my palms. “I didn’t mean it like that. You don’t have to change your sign, it was my fault for making assumptions.”
Lynn laughs again. “It’s fine, and it probably wouldn’t help anyway. It’s impossible to shake off your grade-school image when you’re still living in your tiny hometown at age twenty-eight. Anyway, TMI, sorry. I have diarrhea of the mouth sometimes. Most times. Jesus, see what I mean? What can I help you with?”
I make a circuit of the room, examining her pieces, and I can’t help but notice how perfectly opposite we are. Jenson could never get enough out of me, and yet, this girl has told me nearly her whole life story, on accident, in under a minute.
“I’m looking for a few things to furnish my home.” I emphasize “few.” I don’t need to clutter up my life again. You couldn’t walk through our old house without running into piles of well-thumbed magazines, sheet music, and abandoned guitar picks. Maybe that’s why it disintegrated so fast.
“Well, as you can see, I have plenty of shit. I mean things. Did you have a certain style in mind? Classic? Farmhouse chic? Modern industrial? Are you one of those Joanna Gaines types?”
I chew on my lip, buying time. I hadn’t thought of that yet. When I was half of a married couple, our furnishings made our home look like a thrift shop. Jenson liked furniture that told stories, as he had said to me many times. Well, our scarred end tables and couches could tell plenty of stories, but I’m not sure all of them were worth hearing. I thought he was going to cry when I went out and bought a new couch for our anniversary. But nope, he just did what he always does and wrote a song about it. He was one of those: a brooder.
It’s alarming how quickly I’ve stepped back into the no-man’s-land of memories, and Lynn is looking at me questioningly. “Classic, but not stuffy. And I like rustic, but with a modern touch.” Those things are contradictory and make absolutely no sense, but Lynn’s nodding like she understands.
“I know just what you need. Come this way.”
I follow her, surprised by her lack of hesitation, but it’s too early to tell if she actually gets me. She leads me to another section of the barn and flips on a light. We’re surrounded by scraps of lumber and a few assembled pieces made up of raw, blond wood.
“I still have to stain them, but that’s what I have finished so far.” Lynn gestures toward the opposite end.
“Do you have someone who builds these for you?” I ask, running a finger over the smooth wood of a bulky chest.
“I make them. I only just started designing my own furniture, but I eventually want to do custom work. If you need something now, those won’t take long to finish, but most of what’s in the other room is ready to go.”
Even unfinished, I can tell the new pieces will go well with what I have in mind. Modern, clean lines, with a homey feel.
“I’m in no hurry, but I like these. I’ll also need a dining table and chairs, something small to fit in my house. It’s tiny.”
“Most places are, in this neck of the woods. Do you live around here? I can deliver for free if you live within twenty miles.”
“Right up the road.” I go to point in the direction of my place before I remember my current predicament. “I actually ended up here because I’m lost and I don’t have the faintest idea how to get back to the highway.”
“Oh, you just continue up the road and make a right at the T. Takes you straight there.”
“Of course it does,” I mumble under my breath. Lynn pats her pockets, then waves me over into the other room, where she stops at a desk and slides a scrap of paper and a pen over to me.
“Just write down your phone number and address, and I’ll let you know when they’re finished. I could probably have them done by tomorrow.”
“No rush.” I write down my information, pleased to have accomplished my mission so easily.
Lynn accepts the paper, taking a closer look. “Hey, that’s the old Miller place. They just recently left.”
“Tell them they forgot their trashcan.”
“What brings you to Heronwood?” she asks, despite my dry humor. I almost say “divorce,” but then I remember how I vowed to keep my slate clean. Tell one person you were married to chart-topping Jenson King and everyone will be lining up wanting to buy off his memorabilia. Or his secrets. I don’t have the former and I won’t give up the latter. It’s not who I am.
“Change of scenery.”
“I hear ya. Though why you picked here is a mystery.”
I just shrug and angle myself toward the door, making my impending exit known. “Well, thank you so much for the furniture. And the directions. Do I pay you when you drop it off?”
“Sure. I trust you,” she answers, giving me a parting wave.
I almost scoff. Trust. The one thing I never seem to have enough of was the one that led to my demise.