Page 15 of Traitor
So that wasn’t his girlfriend. Doesn’t matter. “I bet you drove each other crazy.”
“I guess,” he replies. Then he glances back to the lodge. “I’d better get back. You okay out here?”
I hate that question. “I’mfine.”
He looks like he wants to say something else, but he shrugs. I watch him walking back up the trail for far, far too long for someone who isn’t attracted to him at all.
To keepthe promise to myself to get out of the room—and to stay away from Ford and the jittery feelings he gives me—I make the short drive into the heart of Windy Point. I park at a public parking lot next to the main street run of stores and shops, intent on passing time peeking through like a proper tourist, then stopping at one of the restaurants for lunch before I head back to the lodge to paint some more.
I stop first at a kitschy little trinket shop, the kind where they sell homemade jams and jellies along with local artisan crafts. I can’t resist the blackberry jam, chocolate-covered crickets, and a darling bee carved from oak. Weighted down with my purchases, I move along to the next shop, a tea emporium. Loving the thought of sipping tea in the morning on the back deck at the lodge, I eagerly peruse their selection and add a sachet of blueberry green tea to my bag, already looking forward to brewing it.
The next shop makes my heart sing the moment I spot the sign. Splatters Studio is framed by blotches of colorful paint. It’s a far cry from the highbrow art scene I used to participate in, but that doesn’t stop me from pushing through the bright red door. Some sort of lesson or group activity is taking place, and I keep to the back of the main room so I don’t interrupt.
A tall, statuesque woman leads the demonstration with a commanding presence. I observe in envy of her self-confidence, wondering what it must be like to be so sure of one’s self. I’d been like that once. Maybe, with time in places like Windy Point, I’ll find the girl I used to be.
It must be some sort of spin on a wine and paint night, except with pottery. The small group of women are each separated into pairs with lumps of clay in front of them and a variety of mixed drinks and glasses of wine at their elbows. Feminine chatter and laughter punctuates the woman’s instructions.
I browse around the public front of the shop, noting the different services offered. Birthday parties with little pails of art supplies for party favors. Variations of tonight with different mediums and meeting times. More serious instruction for the dedicated hobbyists.
“Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met before, I’m Alice Kent.”
Turning from the display, I find the instructor standing behind me and am stunned silent because she’s even more striking up close. In her mid-fifties or so, with thick-framed glasses and dramatic silver hair, she towers at least half a foot over me.
I remember social niceties long enough to shake her hand. “Peyton. I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t interrupt,” I add with a glance back toward the group of women, who are now shuffling out of the space with the remnants of their drinks, their cheeks flushed with laughter and alcohol.
She smiles gently and adjusts her glasses. “No, of course not. We’re always happy to have fresh blood here. New to the area or are you visiting?”
I clutch the small bag of purchases in front of me. “A little bit of both.”
“Ah, well why don’t you stay for a little while to see what we’re all about? I never say no to free labor,” she says. “Are you into art?”
“That’s like asking if I breathe.” She hands me the mangled remains of molding clay on a tray, and I follow behind her as she loads the rest into my arms.
“What mediums?”
“Anything really, though I stick mostly to canvas work.”
Once we’ve cleared away the clay, Alice leads me through a door that readsEmployee’s Onlyand we dump the supplies on a counter. She begins sorting through them and organizing them into their respective places.
“You should take one of my classes sometime,” she offers. “Or if you’re looking to stay longer, I can always use some help around here. Most of my part-time work doesn’t come in until the season starts. My husband and I are trying to prep to foster a child, so sometimes I can be a bit shorthanded.”
Wow, so this is what people meant when they said small towns can be friendly.
“I’m not sure exactly how long I’m planning to stay, but if it becomes more of a permanent situation, I’ll definitely stop by.”
I leave ten minutes later with her business card in my hand and the prospect of a future dancing around in my head. A future—that’s what violent acts steal from you—in addition to the scars they leave on your body or the people they wipe out from your lives. The future you planned for so long, coveted and nurtured. Mourning loved ones makes sense, but mourning the life you’ll never get to have again? That’s a mind trip.
Sensing my thoughts going down a path best left alone, I hurry down the street, back toward my car. My shopping bag slaps repeatedly against my side. The farther I go, though, the more I feel the weight of someone watching me. I brush it off, knowing I have a tendency to be hypersensitive and somewhat paranoid.
On my way back to the lodge, I swing by a drive-through and get a mound of tacos and a slushie. I plan to take my haul back to my room and lock myself in for a few hours of work. Alice’s offer keeps rolling around in my mind as I navigate the winding roads.
What if I did decide to stick around for a while?
Windy Point, the mysterious Ford aside, is the first place I’ve felt comfortable and creative. Why not stay while I am feeling inspired? The moment I feel the itch to move on, nothing is keeping me here. I can move on until I want to stop or keep playing gypsy for the rest of my life.
The reminder that I’m not trapped, I’m free to make my own decisions, calms me as I pull to a stop at the lodge. I didn’t realize how much time had passed until I get out of the car and see the hazy moonlight glittering off the slices of lake visible between the thick tree trunks.
I pause by my open door and figure, screw it. Ford had interrupted me earlier, but the likelihood that will happen twice in a row is slim to none. Besides, the nerves clamoring in my stomach make me even more determined to go see the moon glimmering on the water. I’d been trapped by my mind for so long, I won’t let myself be afraid of the dark anymore.