Page 37 of Mountain Grump
I match her smile.
I push the feelings of anxiety and unworthiness down into my belly, and I pull the sides of my mouth up. And I let my round cheeks round even more. And I pretend.
I embrace the pageantry.
And when I turn my back to the cashier, I brush my fingers under my eyes, then I take the rest of my groceries out of my cart and act like everything is fine.
Chapter 21
Tilda
Settingmy mug of coffee down on the arm of the chair, I pull the zipper of my hoodie all the way up to my throat, then I sit.
It’s not early morning. Because why get up early when it’s not necessary? But the sun is still rising, and the air has a distinct nip.
Settling into the chair, I imagine Uncle Jack sitting right here, drinking his coffee just like this.
I take a sip, the steam warming my nose.
Then I spill coffee down the front of my hoodie because the world’s loudest duck lets out the world’s loudest quack from somewhere below the deck.
I hold my mug out with one hand and use the other to brush the liquid off my sweatshirt.
“Crap on a cracker.”
The duck lets out a quieter quack, and I snicker.
“Okay, fine. On a quacker.”
He lets out a double quack.
I stand and walk to the railing, looking over the edge in time to see the same duck butt from before waddle around the side of the house.
Since I need to wash my hands anyway, I turn around and head for the back door, hoping I can catch Quackers in the front yard.
Reaching through the screenless screen door, I use the side of my hand to depress the door handle and push the door open.
I set my mug on the counter and grab a hand towel from next to the sink, then rush the few steps to the front door and yank it open.
The soft thwaps of flat feet on damp earth pull my attention to the edge of the driveway, where the duck is once again making a break for the park.
I only ever crossed the boundary that once, and I didn’t get more than a few yards past the fence, but there must be a lake nearby. Or some form of water. Ducks like that, right?
I’m tempted to chase after him. But I don’t. Because that would be crossing a line.
Of insanity… Animal cruelty… It’s a toss-up.
Back inside, I wash my hands, use the towel to dry off the side and bottom of my mug, then I take my coffee to the front window and stand there in my dirty hoodie, looking out over the front yard.
I hung up the rest of my suncatchers yesterday, put the box away, and parked the truck in the one-car garage—took three tries to back it in, but I eventually got there.
Now with the light shining down on my suncatchers, everything sparkles. And a rare sense of pride fills me.
Quackers seems to like it too since he keeps visiting.
Except he’s not staying.
I hold the mug with both hands and lift it to my lips.
