Page 20 of The Weekend Crashers
“Guaranteed. I only sell Docs manufactured before the year 2000. That’s when the company movied production to China. Everything I got here—made in the UK.” She points to a hanging Union Jack.
They step farther into the room. It smells musty, like all good resale shops. Piper pulls a pair of blue velvet Docs from a shelf.
“Are these organized by size or is it just sort of random?” Maggie asks. The woman sighs impatiently, then says, “Sevens, eights, nines...” pointing to various shelves. Maggie can’t follow. She gives up and just looks at whatever catches her eye. She hasn’t worn a pair of Docs in thirty years. The last time had probably been when she was still in college.
Piper pulls out a pair in classic black leather.
“There’s no returns, so make sure they fit,” the woman says.
Piper sits on the floor and tries them on, and then something else catches her eye.
“Mom, look at this.” Piper pulls a violet embroidered coat from one of the racks. She opens it to reveal silk lining. It has a faux-fur collar and cuffs. “You used to have one just like it.”
She did. She’d sold it at a consignment shop years ago and regretted it ever since.
“It’s like when I used to play dress-up in your closet,” Piper says, before trying on a pair of hunter-green Docs. Maggie’s about to say that they look great on her, that she should get them, when Piper’s phone rings.
“No cell phones!” the woman says from behind the counter.
Piper heads for the door, telling Maggie, “I’ll be right back.”
The store proprietress rounds the counter and makes a beeline for her.
“Did she walk out of here wearing merchandise?”
She did. Maggie produces her credit card. Moments later, Piper reappears.
“I forgot to take off the—”
“They’reyoursnow,” the shopkeeper says.
Piper looks at Maggie, confused.
“I’ve got it—don’t worry about it,” Maggie says, waving her credit card.
“Thank you,” Piper says, looking apologetic. At first, Maggie thinks her expression is about the shoes. But then she says, “Would you mind if I head back?”
“To the inn?”
Piper nods.
“What about the rest of the tour?” Maggie signs the credit card slip.
“I’m kinda tired. I’ll just meet you at the first workshop in...” Piper checks her phone. “About an hour.”
Maggie nods. “Um, okay. See you there.”
Piper leaves, unsmiling. The call seems to have spooked her. Strange. Maggie wonders if there’s something Piper isn’t telling her. If so, she has the rest of the weekend to find out.
Chapter Twelve
Aidan and Cole stand with the rest of the party on the outskirts of the nearby state park. Aidan, having lived his whole life in the area, knows the terrain well. It’s a mix of woody forest, open fields and the riverbank. The sun is shining and it’s warm for October. A perfect day to be in the great outdoors. And judging from his outburst at lunch, Cole needs the time to decompress.
Barclay, assuming the role of bushcraft guide, gathers them around and addresses them like they’re a bunch of troops. He’s fully committing to his leadership role, dressed in an army-green all-weather jacket, brown tactical boots and wraparound black sunglasses.
“I’m sure every one of you standing here considers yourself handy, capable, and self-reliant. But if you stop and really think about it, those beliefs are contingent on certain conditions we take for granted: Food. Shelter. Hell, having our phones. Bushcraft is about sustaining yourself using only what nature provides.”
One of Scott’s friends makes a crack about nature providing him with “plenty to work with” with an accompanying lewd hand gesture. But the laughter comes to a quick stopwhen Barclay announces he’s collecting everyone’s phone for the duration of the activity.
