Page 41 of Merging Wright

The first place I visit in town is called On The Curve, a counter-service coffee shop that reminds me of bygone days. High-top stools line the long counter that runs the length of the exposed grills and coffee machine, curving at the end, providing for a few more seats. It isn’t called On The Curve because of this curled counter space, though. The location is literally on a curved portion of Bridge Alley, the main street running through the small business district.

I don’t drink coffee, but I am desperate for tea. Camilla told me this place makes the best scones, although I don’t typically eat sweet things for breakfast. The place is busy, and the man and woman behind the counter work in sync like a married couple in a kitchen. I quickly learn they are married.

“I’m Kirk. This is Stella.” The tall, lean, late-thirtyish man sports a man-bun while the woman working beside him has long brunette hair with multiple braids here and there. They both look bohemian and rustic, but kind and good natured.

After introducing myself, I tell them, “Camilla Wright told me you have the best scones.”

“She should have said I have the best buns.” Kirk wiggles his brows at his wife, and I laugh.

“We make them just for her.” Stella’s comment is a testament to how people feel about Mach’s mother in this community. “Tea?”

“I’d love some, especially if you have English black tea. The darker, the better.” Most breakfast places offer Earl Grey, which is okay but not my first choice.

Stella winks at me. “We keep that in the house for our favorite lady as well.” As Stella steps away from me, I notice a little girl sitting at the end of the counter, coloring on a sheet of paper. The dark-haired child looks up at me, and I smile. She gives me a weak smile in return and focuses back on her coloring. No adult sits near her, and I assume she belongs to Stella and Kirk.

“You have a beautiful daughter,” I say when Stella returns with my tea.

Stella grins, pours hot water over the dark tea bag in a mug, and leans forward. “That’s Willow. She belongs to Theo Clarke. He’s her great uncle.”

The little girl looks up at the sound of her name, and Stella winks at her. Willow smiles larger and returns to her silent coloring.

“How old is she?” My brows pinch as I watch the girl.

“She just turned five. She’s in kindergarten but told her uncle she had a stomachache. I take her in after school. We’re only open here until two.”

Looking back at Stella, I ask, “Do you have children?” I wrap my hands around the warm mug, allowing the heat to warm my suddenly cold fingers.

“We have two boys, five and eight. I used to be a teacher, so I tutor here when school lets out. Kirk coaches a middle school basketball team.”

Gazing back at the child, I can’t seem to take my eyes off her, and she looks up at me. I wiggle my fingers at her. Willow’s second sheepish smile at me is a little bigger this time.

“Theo works days laying brick.” Stella pauses before lowering her voice. “She’s so sweet, but the older a child gets, the harder it is to be adopted.”

I turn back to Stella, tightening my hold on my mug. “Adopted? What about her uncle?”

“He’s too busy to take on a little girl, but he was the next of kin, and the state asked him to keep her for a bit while some caseworker takes her sweet-ass time placing Willow with a foster family. It’s awkward for him being an older, single man and never having had a family of his own. The community steps up, though. It takes a village, right?”

Leaning on the counter toward Stella, I lower my voice, so Willow won’t hear me. “What happened to her parents? Am I allowed to ask that?”

Stella feebly smiles. “Boating accident.” She nods toward the window. “That river is temperamental water, and some places are safer than others. About a decade ago, there was a canoeing accident with three local high school boys. One died immediately. One found later. One missing. The community was rocked to the core. And you know about Camilla’s daughter-in-law.”

“I—” I didn’t know about her. However, I don’t feel right asking a stranger for details. Instead, I offer my own commiserating smile to mark a loss I know nothing about.

+ + +

To shake my thoughts of histories I haven’t learned, I continue my stroll down Bridge Alley. A wooden telephone pole that looked like a giant, naked stalk poking through the sidewalk stood about halfway down the street. An abundance of electrical wires hung from the pole. Both were an immediate distraction and eyesore. In addition, the exterior of the buildings along this strip are bland, dated, and worn. The atmosphere is melancholy and I curse a man I’ve never met. Fischer Wright. How did he let his own town get so rundown?

Then again, it doesn’t matter. Mach and I are here to restore this place, and while the task seems daunting, my excitement grows with every step I take.

Next to On The Curve is Needles & Thread, a combination tattoo parlor and yarn shop. It’s a rather eclectic concept, and I’m not certain it’s legal to have two businesses in one location, so I add that quandary to my list of things to investigate. Continuing my walk, I make a mental note of the locations on this side of the street. An empty store. An artisan shop selling jewelry and crafts from local artisans. And Bliss, which is my first official project.

After Tanza’s help the other day, I have a few ideas I want to run by her as I plan to renovate here first.

“Hey. Congratulations on your wedding,” Tanza greets me upon my entry. “How was the big day?”

Enchanting. Disheartening. Which adjective works best? How do I explain the event was nothing like I imagined, and the wedding night was more than I dreamed?

“It was . . . good.” More lies. More ease rolling off my tongue.