Disrupt

by Ella Fox

  The final block of stores features a coffee shop, a furniture store, a stationary shop and, on the very end, the bank. Across the street, I see an ice cream shop and can’t keep a smile from my face. Everything here is Mom and Pop, no chain stores at all. It’ll be an adjustment after living just outside of New York City for most of my life, but this little town fascinates me. I’m more excited about exploring it and getting to know people than I ever could have expected.

  After feeding a quarter into the meter, Margie and I make our way inside the bank. I’ve never thought of a bank as being beautiful before, but this one is. It’s readily apparent that the fixtures and furniture are antiques, all of the wood furniture and brass fixtures buffed to a lustrous sheen. The marble floor is so shiny that I’m reasonably certain I’d be able to see my reflection in it if I were to bend over and try. Like the rest of the town the bank is warm and inviting, something I’m not used to having lived in a bigger city. I’m not surprised when two customers in the bank lobby greet her by name. She stops to introduce me to them both, explaining that I’m taking over for her daughter at the motel. Before we can make any further headway, a woman comes out of her office and waves at Margie.

  Margie smiles at the woman with a smile as she joins us. Turning to me she says, “This is Roberta—she’s the bank manager.”

  Gesturing to me Margie continues, “Roberta, this is Eden Avery, the new assistant manager at the motel. You’ll be seeing plenty of her from here on out.”

  I smile at Roberta as I meet the hand she extends to me. “Lovely to meet you, hon,” she says as we shake. “Have you gotten to look around town at all yet?”

  “Not as much as I want to. I got here late yesterday afternoon and then was busy at the hotel today. This is my first time in town while it’s light out—I can already tell I’m going to love exploring.”

  “You absolutely will, dear. When you get up to the window make sure to take a few of the vanilla cream candies we keep at each station. They’re made fresh by Kandy Brubaker and her staff across the street at Kandy Land. I promise you’ll never have a fresher, brighter tasting candy anywhere. None of that chemical waste they carry in the big stores,” she boasts.

  Roberta looks over her shoulders and then leans in closer. “Between us girls, the food channel has come calling for her three times and she just keeps right on saying no thank you. If she ever says yes, she could probably buy and sell all of us within two weeks. Selfishly I’m glad that she’s keeping to her small town values.”

  Laughing, I peek over her shoulder to the bowls of candy at each window. “Now you’ve really got me excited to try some.”

  “Then I won’t keep you another second. Head on over there and grab one. You’ll be addicted from the first taste.”

  After saying goodbye to Robert, Margie and I make our way to the counter. I’m introduced to our teller, Maria. Like Roberta before her, she’s friendly, cheerful, and outgoing. In fact, everyone I’m introduced to in the bank is charming, and the vanilla cream candy I take from the crystal bowl at Maria’s window is hands down the best hard candy I’ve ever put in my mouth.

  In the car to return to Miller’s I stare out the window and really do my best to take it all in. This town is nothing like what I expected at all. Other than my time at Penn State, I’ve never lived anywhere other than in the city. This is the exact opposite and yet I’ve never felt more welcomed anywhere. Judging by the feel of the town and the people I’ve met, I’m going to love it here.

  The only downside of today came in the wake of accidentally bumping into Donovan Beckett, but I’m sure I can handle that. Even though we’re technically neighbors, I’m confident that I won’t have any problem avoiding him.

  3

  Eden

  At the conclusion of my workday, I make the journey back into town to Jackson’s market. Margie and I got lunch earlier from the gas station—which, oddly, (at least to me) carried homemade meals made by the owner’s wife, Kelly. The buffalo chicken wrap was to die for and half of it is back in my fridge, but I can’t eat takeout all the time, no matter how good it is. Since it is ten after six and the store closes at six thirty—something you’d never see happen in Jersey City—I’m only going to be able to stock up on the basics. Right now, that’s good enough.

  Like everywhere I’ve been today, this store is a gem. I never dreamt I’d live somewhere that the grocery store could be described as delightful, but it truly is. Even the produce scales are adorable. Instead of the digital versions I’m used to, this store has antique yellow Detecto scales hanging from the ceiling on chain links. After knocking on several cantaloupes, I choose one and bring it to my nose. Taking a whiff, I let out a small sound of pleasure as the scent of my favorite melon invades my senses. I think there’s really something to this whole country life thing because the food definitely smells and feels fresher—and, bonus for my bank balance, it’s cheaper.

  Shopping here is actually pleasurable. I’d meander my way through and enjoy it to the fullest but since it’s about to close I need to make this quick. After loading up on produce, I head to the dairy section and then hurry through the rest of the aisles. I can’t resist throwing two chocolate bars in my cart because they’re on sale, two for a dollar.

  I come to an abrupt halt as I round the corner from the last aisle and see Donovan Beckett standing at the only open checkout. For about two seconds I debate leaving my cart and hauling ass from the store. Then I remember that I’m an adult and I can handle myself just fine. Wheeling my cart toward the front of the store, I take note of the fact that it isn’t just me Donovan puts the stand back vibe out to. Currently his arms are crossed over his chest and he’s watching the cashier ring up his order in silence. It’s a marked departure from the scene when I walked into the store tonight when the same cashier was busy yapping it up with the customer who’d been in her line then.

  I get all the way to the checkout without him noticing me. Feeling pretty good about it, I start grabbing things from my cart and placing them on the back end of the conveyor system. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him visibly stiffen—silly me, I thought it would be impossible for his already board straight body to get any more rigid—and look down at me. My eyes miss the memo my brain is sending about not acknowledging him, because the next thing I know I’m looking up, directly into his glacier-like eyes. I open my mouth to say something but only a little squeak comes out. Donovan glares at me before he turns his body so that I’m not in his field of vision. I let out a huff of annoyance as I glare at his back. What an uptight dick.

  “Well hello there,” the checkout clerk says cheerfully as she rings up more of Donovan’s groceries. “You’re the new girl from up at Miller’s, right?”

  Although Donovan doesn’t turn or look at me, yet I’m positive he’s listening, even though he’s pretending to be alone on the planet. I nod my head at the cashier as she slides another item through the scanner and deposits it into a brown bag.

  “Word traveled that fast?” I ask.

  “There aren’t a lot of surprises in small towns, but it’s a good thing. Most people around here,” she says with a pointed look at Donovan, “are very friendly.”

  I can feel my cheeks turning pink. “Uh, yeah. I noticed. I mean, I’ve noticed how friendly people are. Everyone I’ve met so far has been lovely. I’m from New Jersey so slowing things down and knowing my neighbors will be a new experience. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Small town living will get right into your blood,” she says sweetly as she scans three more of Donovan’s items through. Judging by what she’s ringing up, he has a thing for canned tuna, beef jerky, and protein bars.

  “I know our selection isn’t as big as what you’d be used to in the big city, but if you need anything you just tell me, and I can order it in special. Just call here and ask for me—I’m Gloria, by the way. Gloria Jackson. Family’s owned this market for three generations. What’s your name, hon?”

  I’m d
oing my best to ignore Donovan, but it’s hard with his attention on me. It only gets more difficult when I feel his gaze shift my way, like he’s interested in my answer. Forcing myself to pretend I don’t notice him at all, I keep my eyes on Gloria.

  “Eden.”

  “What a lovely name. It really fits you, sweetie,” she says cheerfully as she scans and bags the last of Donovan’s order. “That’ll be twenty-eight fifty.”

  I turn and look at him when he doesn’t react to Gloria, only to find that the reason he hasn’t responded is that his attention is on me. He grimaces when our eyes meet, his jaw clenching as he stares down at me. The tension between us feels tangible, the air so thick with it I’m shocked it isn’t visible.

  “Twenty-eight fifty,” Gloria repeats.

  He doesn’t move or react. Neither do I. I’m aware that she’s speaking but this pull between us demands my attention, so I continue staring at him. Aside from his ticking jaw, his face is almost completely devoid of expression, something that rings a ton of warning bells as his eyes hold me in place.

  “Donovan. Twenty-eight fifty.”

  In a nanosecond, his eyes are diamond hard again. Turning away from me, he takes out his wallet, pulls out a twenty and a ten, and hands the money off to Gloria. While she makes his change, he grabs the handles of the four brown bags sitting at the end of the counter. Once she hands him his change and receipt, he grunts out a thanks, and walks out without another word.

  “So I see you know Donovan,” she says the second the glass door closes behind him.

  I know I’m blushing as I shake my head in the negative. “Um, actually, no. We haven’t been introduced yet.”

  Gloria barks out a laugh as she starts ringing up my groceries. “You might be waiting a while, honey. He’s been coming in here for seven years and I don’t think he’s ever formally introduced himself to me or anyone else on staff. Pricklier than a porcupine, that one is. Never saw him pay anyone a lick of attention until just now.”

  “Huh,” I murmur as I fidget with the amber beaded bracelet on my wrist while I look out the large front windows and surreptitiously watch Donovan loading his groceries into his truck. Surprise, surprise—it’s black. There’s something so severe about him. I wonder what he does for a living, because I can’t imagine it involves other humans.

  Forcing my attention back to Gloria I blurt, “What is he?”

  She raises her brows in question she slides my two cans of soup across the scanner. “What do you mean?”

  As I go to answer, the sensation of being watched hits me hard. Goosebumps spread across my skin as I brush my hair behind my ear and force myself not to look out the front window.

  “Career,” I clarify.

  “Skip tracer,” she answers.

  I make a mental note to do a Google search for skip tracing as Gloria weighs some of my fruit. Unable to stifle the urge, I look out the windows toward Donovan’s black Ford truck. He’s inside it now, and although I can’t see him through the tint on his front windshield, I know he’s looking at me.

  “That’ll be forty-two eighty-one.”

  Turning my attention to Gloria, I take out fifty dollars and hand it over. I don’t look back toward the window, but I still know exactly when his truck pulls out and drives off.

  Clearly, I need to do a better job of ignoring Donovan Beckett.

  4

  Eden

  Over the course of the last month, I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with this town. With the summer vacation season officially behind us, things are a bit quieter at Miller’s. Margie says that by the end of October the quiet will give way to more guests arriving to enjoy the fall foliage. I get it—this town is postcard idyllic.

  Everyone is welcoming, the scenery is beautiful, and with each passing day, I feel more at home. I’ve gotten friendly with Julie, who is Margie and Ron’s daughter that I took over for. She’s a twenty-one-year-old community college student who laughingly calls herself an oops-baby. Since she’s back at school she’s working part-time at the front desk, so we’ve gotten to talk a bunch. She’s invited me out with her and a group of her friends tonight and I’m excited about going.

  My anxiety about moving up here was so unnecessary. Although I never expected to, I fit in here. When I visit the shops on Main Street, people are starting to call my name and wave, and I do the same to them. Back in Jersey, nothing like that happened anywhere but on the block I grew up on.

  Other than the night after the grocery store incident when I could hear him in his room, over the last month, I haven’t had to ignore Donovan Beckett at all—because he’s not here. I noticed his big truck was gone the morning after what I’ve come to think of as the store thing. When it was still gone a week later, I broke down and asked Margie over lunch what was up.

  “Should I send someone in to clean room thirty since Mr. Beckett is gone?”

  Margie shook her head as she squeezed mayo onto her turkey and cheese sandwich. “Already done. I had the girls take care of it days ago.”

  I didn’t enjoy the feeling of disappointment that settled in my stomach at her confirmation that he was gone. Seven years and just gone in the blink of an eye suggested he’d left because of me. After all, I was the only thing different about Miller’s.

  “So, we can rent the room out now?” I asked.

  Margie raised her eyebrows as she set the container of mayo down on the table. “Why ever would we do that?”

  “I, um, well, if he’s gone, shouldn’t we rent the room out?” I spluttered.

  It felt like Margie’s gaze took on some kind of lie-detector quality as she silently assessed me. As the seconds passed without a word, I started to think she was not going to answer.

  “He’s not gone for good Eden—he travels for work. Sometimes he’s gone a day or two, other times it’s as long as six weeks, but he always returns. This is his… well, for lack of a better term, it’s his base.”

  Although I’ve wondered—excessively—about where he is I’m not sad about these Donovan-free days since it’s given me time to settle in without having him making me jumpy.

  Without any distractions, I’ve been able to get into a routine, which I’m enjoying. I’m off work today and I’ve been busy. I’ve been to the bank to deposit my second paycheck, after which I stopped at The Cuppa to have some coffee. Then I went to the library and signed up for a library card so I could take out eBooks with the Over Drive app. After that, I made a stop at Alan’s Auto World to get motor oil, a new oil filter, wiper blades, and wiper fluid for my car before I headed back to Miller’s.

  Margie and Ron gave the okay for me to do my car work in the maintenance garage that houses some kind of bike that’s beneath a cover, a quad with a plow on the front, and all of the tools and equipment necessary for Ron and his crew to keep the property and all of the vehicles in top shape. Having access to the garage is an awesome perk. My baby needs a little more TLC than a younger, newer car would, but I can’t imagine driving anything else.

  Pulling up my music app, I press play on my classic rock playlist before setting my phone on the counter closest to my car. Humming along to The Eagles Take it Easy, I pull a faded yellow bandana from the front pocket of my well-worn denim overalls and put it over my hair before I tie it into place. Heading around to the rear of my twenty-seven-year-old Jeep Grand Wagoneer, I open the cargo area and take out my rolling creeper, jack stands, and lift kit.

  Once I’ve got the Jeep up onto the jack stands I slide a wrench and flashlight into my pocket, grab my oil pan, lie back on my creeper, and roll under the car. Setting the pan in place, I loosen and remove the plug. With the oil draining, I wheel out from under the car and carefully check over the entire body for any signs of rust or peeling paint. The dark blue paint and faux wood paneling that accent the car are in great shape, something I’m damn proud of. With my exterior check complete I get back on my creeper and maneuver back under the car to check on the rest of the undercarriage.

&n
bsp; The reason my car is in incredible shape at twenty-seven years old is because it is constantly maintained. My grandparents bought it new and since my grandfather was a mechanic, he kept it pristine. After he passed my grandmother, who’d been his assistant at the garage for the entire forty-six years they were married, took over and did all the work herself.

  Everything I know about car maintenance I learned from the two of them. As far back as I can remember I always knew I wanted to do one of two things—rehab classic cars or work in lodging. Although I wound up choosing to work toward a degree in hospitality, I never stopped loving cars. I worked in garages from the time I was fourteen and could legally have a job and from my senior year of high school on, I took classes and got my ASE G1 certification. Keeping up with my grandparents’ legacy car allows me to continue enjoying my love for all things automotive.

  Alone in the garage, I’m free to let my freak flag fly, and I sing along spiritedly to the music as I click the button on my flashlight and begin a thorough examination of the undercarriage of the car. My grandfather always said that with proper maintenance, a car could run for two decades or more—and the Jeep is proof of that. I sing louder as I check over each nook and cranny and confirm that I’ve gotten another three thousand miles under my belt with no corrosion to be found.

  With my inspection complete, I wheel out from under the car. Standing, I dust myself off, head over to the workbench, wipe my hands off on a rag, set a timer on my phone, and pick up my iPad mini. While I was at the library, I loaded a thriller, so I pull up the book and dive in. There’s nothing I love more than a good book and it doesn’t take long for me to become engrossed. I’m so into it that I startle when the alarm on my phone chimes to let me know forty-five minutes have passed. Turning my iPad off I set it down before I get back down on my creeper and roll myself beneath the Jeep. I grin when I find the oil has stopped coming out. I’ve been working on this car for so long that I know exactly how long it takes to drain, and I haven’t been wrong in years. Singing along to Cheap Trick’s I Want You to Want Me, I put the plug back in and start to tighten it. I’m really rocking out when the music abruptly stops.