Page 2 of Ink & Snow
“Call me Dwayne. People only call me Sheriff or McArthur when they’re in trouble. Now, I’ll go grab my towline, and then we’ll get you home. Sit tight.”
“Of course, Sheriff,” I said, biting my lip. I’d have to remind myself that I specifically had picked this place because I didn’t want to be in trouble, near trouble, or remotely related to trouble ever again.
True to his word, McArthur got me to town, pulling me behind him so absolutely none of the townspeople could miss my dramatic arrival. On the plus side, I had the chance to get a good look at the place.
Unlike in the city, the sky loomed low, none of the houses taller than maybe four stories, if that. A lot of the buildings were actually much smaller.
The homes with yards had decorations up, some more, some less, some going very much overboard and dominating their respective street. The family homes themselves tended toward medium-sized, well kept, painted white or light pastels.
“Fucking quaint,” I said, tapping the steering wheel with my finger.
McArthur pulled me toward the town center, which was an oval-ish park thing, not really big enough to be a proper park, but featuring a gazebo and greenery, even cleared walking paths, making evident the attempt of being like a park. In keeping with the season, lights and decorations had been strung on a tall fir close to the gazebo, and dotted throughout the pseudo-park, large candy canes stood, their red and white like warning beacons in the snow.
As we passed the gazebo, my jaw dropped slightly. There, under the snow-covered octagonal roof, stood a group of carolers wearing red and green and tinsel on their merry hats. I looked around to see if anyone was filming this shit, but no. They were doing it because it was normal behavior in their natural habitat.
“Calm the fuck down. You knew what you were getting yourself into,” I told my mirror image. My grip on the steering wheel had tightened, and I forced myself to ease it.
If things got too weird out here, I could always sell again and move on to somewhere else. I had the savings for it, even if I lost money on the townhouse. The townhouse in front of which Sheriff Dwayne stopped, his brake lights prompting me to pull the hand brake again.
Out my window, I saw the sign above the dark store, a simple work of white letters on a green background:Fran’s Flowers. I’d thought about replacing it before getting here, but in the end I couldn’t be bothered. Besides, I hadn’t decided yet what I wanted to call the place. I knew I wanted to change it, and to do that, the name had to fit. To make it fit, I’d have to break it in, to make it mine.
McArthur got out of his plow, feet pounding on the compacted snow of the road. I opened my door as well, more than ready to stretch my legs. The icy cold hit me right in the face, a needling snowflake landing right in my eye.
“This is it,” the sheriff said. “You got the keys?”
“Yup.” I patted the pockets of my jacket.
McArthur looked me over, though not in the sexy kind of way. Also not in the check-for-weapons kind of way, so there was that.
“You need to go shopping.”
“Excuse me?” The last person to criticize my clothing choices had been my mother, bless her heart, and even that had been years ago.
“It’s not even December yet, so the weather is bound to get worse. You’ll need something a little more outdoorsy than that if you plan on leaving the house in winter.”
Was he…suggesting it was going to get fucking colder?
“Ah. I see.” I kept my face even.
“Go see the triplets about some winter gear,” the sheriff said.
Okay, so maybe it was a cult after all. My bad, should’ve asked the realtor about that. I put on a stale smile.
“I need to go see the triplets.I see.”
McArthur gestured to approximately the opposite end of the town center. “Store’s calledWe Hikin’ Love It. They should have everything you need. You’re probably used to one-day shipping and whatnot, but we don’t really get that here. If the roads are really bad, it can take a while.”
Same-day shipping, actually, and fuck if I wasn’t aware of the lack. The old owner of the store, Fran, had told me her flower supplier came once a week “just like the mailman.”
“Duly noted. Do I owe you anything for towing me in?”
McArthur waved that off. “Nah. Just being neighborly. Go on, open up, and I’ll help you carry in your boxes. Does your battery just need charging, or do I need to call Ed?”
“Ed with the snowplow?” I asked.
“Formerly. He’s retired. But his niece runs his car shop now. He just picks up the phone these days.”
“I see,” I said once more, hoping that I eventually would. Was I supposed to memorize what he was telling me? Was it pertinent to townie life? Who the fuck knew. “I appreciate that, but I think a charge should do it.”
