Page 11 of Cold Winter Nights

“You look like you’re in need of some duds with thicker layers, buddy. We get winters far worse than Manhattan in these mountains.”

Royal found himself wondering how many other people Mrs. Pearl told that he was a lost, and pitiful soul.

After he left this store, soon they’d all know who his parents were. People they’d loved and missed. Now there he was, misrepresenting himself as if he had an ounce of his parents’ decency.

Royal was having trouble holding eye contact, luckily the bell over the door jingled.

A couple stepped inside, bundled up in thick scarves and heavy coats. The woman was holding a toddler in her arms wearing a puffy coat with a fur-lined hood that covered sixty percent of her little face.

They all stared at him with that unmistakable curiosity, was if he were the last thing they expected to see in Jessie’s store.

“Well, well, well.” The woman chuckled, her voice high and twinged with a down east accent. “You must be Royal.”

“Um, yeah, that’s me,” he answered, that time a bit slower.

He supposed he wasn’t going to have the trouble of introducing himself everywhere he went. Royal had only arrived last night, but already he seemed to be the topic of the town.

It made him feel awkward.

“I’m Rose, and this hulk standing behind me is my hubby, JB. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” he replied, because that was the response he was supposed to give.

“Well, I hope to see you again.” She got ready to walk away but quickly spun on the heels of her maroon cowboy boots, “Are you a reader? Come by the bookstore, okay. I’m the manager there.”

She didn’t wait for an answer before she walked over to where Jessie stood behind the counter.

Just as the woman’s husband—a big man with a name tag that read,JB, JB’s Auto Repair—introduced himself and offered his hand to shake, the door chimed again.

And then again, and again.

One by one, sometimes twos, people strolled in. Some stared through the window, others exchanged some pleasantries while Royal perused the clothes, others held conversations with Jessie, all while sneaking glances in his direction.

Royal’s anxiousness and discomfort increased with each new set of eyes that widened with wonder. Or was it curiosity…or confusion?

A buff guy dressed like a farmer—tall, rugged, with a full gray beard to match his thinning gray hair—walked right up to him with unapologetic boldness.

“So you’re the urbanite everyone’s going on about.” He thrust out a hand caked with dirt that looked ingrained in his skin. “I’m Hank, but everyone calls me Big Hank. I own the tackle and feed store at the corner of Main and Oak Knoll Avenue.”

Royal clasped Hank’s big palm and returned the firm shake.

“If you need anything, anything at all, you just swing on by. I got a small garden behind my shop, grows the best cabbages, some as big as my head, and I got carrots this season that are about ten inches long.” Hank held his hands in front his barrel chest, about thirty inches apart from each other. “Lie to you not.”

Royal had no clue why he’d need any tackle, feed, or big-ass carrots, but he nodded nonetheless. “Sure thing, Hank.”

“Big Hank to you, son. That’s what all my friends call me.”

Jessie, ever the considerate host, made his way around the store, seeming unbothered by the swarm of visitors. Every now and then he’d give Royal a little nod of encouragement as if he knew just what was going on in his head.

Haul asswas what he was screaming in the back of his mind.

“You’ll get used to it,” Jessie said when he came over, carrying an armful of merchandise. “Here, try these on for size.”

Jessie helped him out of his coat, that after today would go in the back of the closet in his room at the bed and breakfast, then handed Royal a few shirts he’d picked, perhaps assuming they was more his taste.

They kinda were.

Cotton high-collared shirts, fleece-lined Henleys, and a heavy, knee-length overcoat, all in solid colors, neutrals, gray, black, muted greens and burgundy,zeroshirts with checkered patterns or flannel material.

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