Page 7 of Pity Parade

“I bet boys were terrified of you,” Paige says.

“And they weren’t afraid of you?” I ask.

Her face contorts like she just ate a spoonful of expired yogurt. “Afraid for themselves if I got any ideas.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute, Paige. You’re absolutely lovely.”

She laughs loudly. “All I know is that I finally got the guy of my dreams and I’m going to enjoy the heck out of that.” She points at my food. “Now, hurry up and eat so we can go rent the place where you’re going to find the man of your dreams.”

I don’t think for one minute that Paige’s plan is going to work, but I’m so grateful I’m not doing this on my own I decide to humor her. “I can’t wait.”

As I eat my food, I run through the short list of men I’m going to have her call. That’s when the worst possible thought hits me. What if none of them come?

CHAPTER FOUR

HEATH

From the looks of my temporary home, little has been done to update it in the last twenty-some years. The appliances are basic at best, the wallpaper in the kitchen is peeling, and the furniture reminds me of the stuff my grandmother had in her basement rumpus room. Yet one glance out the window at the picturesque beauty of Elk Lake, and I couldn’t care less.

I make quick work of unpacking my clothes, and then I take a small inventory of the kitchen cabinets. The only supplies remaining are some instant coffee and sugar packets, neither of which I’m going to use.

Once I’m back in my car, I make the necessary turn that takes me into town. Elk Lake is still charm personified. It’s laid out on a grid that surrounds a central park where kids run wild, screaming like banshees. The storefronts on Main Street appear to be well over a hundred years old, which offers that signature small-town Americana appeal. The people have a relaxed aura the likes of which seems foreign to my regular life. Chicagoans are always on the move, and you’d best not get in their way.

After parking in the grocery store parking lot, I stroll toward the building. Inside, I take a cart and start a slow crawl around the perimeter, starting in produce.

I eat most of my meals out in the city, and my housekeeper shops for the few staples I require. As such, I enjoy the experience of procuring my own food more than I’d anticipated.

I try to remember how to pick a ripe melon, but I come up dry. I’m not sure I’ve ever purchased a melon on my own. I’m about to stop a young mother and ask her how it’s done, but her baby throws up on her and she quickly becomes occupied cleaning up the mess. That’s when a young girl, probably in her early teens, approaches me. She tosses her red hair before announcing, “You never take the nicest looking one. If it’s a watermelon, you want to make sure it’s got some white patches and looks a little banged up. With cantaloupe and honeydew, you want to shake them and listen for rattling seeds.”

I have a vision of her recording me on her phone shaking melons and posting it on social media, so I ask, “Did your mom teach you that?”

“My dad taught me.” She makes a face that suggests it may have taken him a while to figure out how it was done.

“Do you and your dad live in Elk Lake?”

She nods her head. “We moved here last year from Chicago.”

“I’m from Chicago.” I make it sound like that’s a unique thing, even though half of Elk Lake’s summer residents probably come from the Windy City.

“Well, I hope you have a good summer,” the girl says before walking away. I’m left feeling reasonably sure I’ve got melon picking under control. I also feel a certain contentedness to be in a town where kids aren’t afraid to chat with random adults. That’s not something you find in the city.

After picking out enough produce for a football team, I visit the butcher and add some steaks and pork chops to my cart. I fill the rest of the space with spices, cheeses, crackers, assorted condiments, and frozen foods. When I start unpacking at check out, the cashier says, “You must have a big family.”

“Just me,” I tell her. “But I’m here for the whole summer.”

“You’ll miss out on a lot of fun if you make all your own food at home,” she warns. “For instance, tonight is the fish fry at the country club. It’s the only night of the year they’re open to non-members.”

“I do love a good fish fry,” I tell her while adding a few last impulse purchases to my lot. Being back in Elk Lake is making me yearn for Gobstoppers and saltwater taffy from my youth. Conveniently, both are located nearby for impulse buys.

After loading my groceries into my car, I walk across the street to a bakery called Rosemary’s. A pregnant woman behind the counter calls out, “Welcome! We’re out of everything but sticky buns and blueberry muffins.”

Approaching the counter, I tell her, “Then I guess I’ll take three of each and get here earlier in the future.”

Her laughter is reminiscent of bells tinkling. “That sounds like a good plan. Any time after noon and all we have left are scraps.”

“The scraps look delicious,” I tell her after taking the box and handing her a twenty.

“You here for the summer?” she asks while getting my change.

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