Wavedancer, part two
Apr. 30th, 2009 11:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valis2Intro/Index of all parts | Read the commentary version
Glenn's was in Moray Town, which was a good six or seven miles away from the Island. It was empty, as the handful of families that had summer cottages on the Island had already left. Only the Champlains--our closet neighbors--and two other couples lived on the island during the winter, and it was impossible to see the Champlain's house from ours. The other residences and cottages were all on the other side of the Island, which suited me just fine.
Moray Bridge was almost overrun with water; only the old stone railings kept it from complete submission. Mike commented on how high the water was. "We'll be flooded out by the end of the week," he added.
"Storm?" I asked.
He nodded gravely. "Sounds like a pretty big one."
"I've got to remember to fix the boatshed door."
"We'll have to stock up on supplies," he added. "Did you bring the checkbook?"
"No, I didn't," I said, and a quick mental inventory of the bills in my pocked revealed a deficiency in the cash department. "Did you bring any money?"
He nodded. "Did you bring the list?"
"Yep." I reached into my pocket and handed it to him, keeping my left hand on the wheel.
After we crossed the bridge the road became paved, which was a relief from the grinding ride on dirt. The bridge itself was terribly old and sunken in, and so close to the water now that it was impossible to pass underneath it, even in a canoe. The residents always got together and complained about it every summer, and ever summer a state engineer would drive down and declare it still sound. It was only one lane, and it flooded every time it rained, even sometimes when it only rained further north of us. It could be a real pain, but I'd gladly put up with a thousand such pains for the comfort and privacy of the Island. Besides, after six years I'd just learned to live with it.
The road followed the curving edge of the Bay and offered a very nice view of it. Moray Town itself was located at the farthest point away from Lake Huron, at the very apex of the bay. A jumble of docks connected the town to the water, and almost all of the charter captains in the area had their slips there. My business was the only one run off the Island, and it had been that way for years, ever since my great-grandfather had purchased a strip of land there to build his docks. One of the mooring posts he dug was still there, in fact.
The road curved further, and then I was driving into Moray Town itself. The main street serviced various businesses, a motel, the library, school, and police/fire station, as well as Steve Dell's gorgeous old Moray Tavern and Lenore's Take-Home Dinners. When I did sightseeing tours out of the Celestial out-of-towners always remarked upon two things; the lack of a streetlight, as if Moray was completely uncivilized without one, and Mr. Ames' Giant white whale sculpture, made entirely out of poured concrete. Truthfully, there had never been enough traffic to warrant a light, and as for the whale, Mr. Ames generally did what he wanted, regardless of what the small Town Council had to say. Most of the residents just shrugged and pretended to ignore it, until one of the summer boys decided to spray paint part of it blue.
The only other place of interest was Glenn's Grocables, which I was pulling into. I noticed immediately that someone--most likely Derek--had added a bright new green awning. Mike was still in deep concentration, checking over the list, so I elbowed him and pointed.
"It's pretty late in the season to be renovating," he said, unbuckling his seat belt. "It was probably Derek's idea." Derek was Glenn's grandson, forever trying to "modernize" the old store, sometimes with less than hoped-for results.
"Glenn would have liked it, though," I commented as I hopped out of the Blazer. And he would have, too, as the awning gave the store a quaint, old-fashioned look that Glenn would have loved. It was a shame that he has passed on a few years ago, as he never got to see Derek settle down and apply himself to the business.
The automatic sliding doors opened up onto a large foyer that contained the shopping carts and a variety of stamp and bubble gum machines. There were a second pair of sliding doors leading into the store itself, and one of them still displayed Glenn's handpainted sign: "Beware of Owner", a saying he'd always been mightily amused by.
During a business boom ten years ago Glenn had been coerced by his son Paul to remodel and expand, and it now resembled a large convenience store with modern lighting and registers. Glenn had insisted upon keeping the old store, and despite Paul's grumbling they had gone through considerable expense to buy the property adjacent to the store instead of using the half lot they already owned. The original store remained as the liquor shop, retaining the hundred year old wooden floor and antique cash register as well. I was secretly glad, as shopping there with my father was one of the few happy moments I had shared with him. It would have been a shame to demolish it anyways.
Mike took a cart and we walked through the second pair of doors. He began to circle around the right side of the store, the list in one hand, the other steering. As I walked past the registers I couldn't help but notice appreciative stares of all of the women present fixed devotedly upon him. Both checkout girls and housewives watched him unabashedly, and I had to admit that he looked great, too, in a pair of well-worn jeans and a flannel shirt paired with scuffed black boots, his legs lean and strong-looking. As I caught up to him I could hear some of the women whispering, and I could guess what they were whispering about. It was no secret that Mike was the most eligible man in Moray.
He turned to me, seeming oblivious to the fact that he had singlehandedly captured all of the feminine attention in the store. "I can't read this. Is this apples?" he asked, pointed to the hurriedly written list.
"Probably," I said neutrally, casually looking the other way. The town had enough to gossip about already without me doing anything to encourage it, so I always treated him indifferently in public. Like a friend, of course, but nothing more, which was exactly what he was to me.
"Do you want caramel too?" he said, looking directly at me.
I turned my uncomprehending gaze to him. "Caramel? For what?"
"For caramel apples," he said patiently. His blue eyes caught mine.
I stood still for a moment, remembering the summer we snuck into town and Mike bought us each a caramel apple, the first one I'd ever eaten. It had seemed like heaven.
"It has been a long time, hasn't it?" he asked quietly, breaking me out of my reverie.
"Just the applies will be fine," I said firmly. "I'll be right back." With that I went to the old store, where I picked up two fifths of vodka, my favorite drink. I paused for a moment and savored the musty scent of the original store and the well-polished floorboards.
Emerging from the liquor shop I walked back out onto the cheerless linoleum and found Mike again, who was filling the bottom of the car with fruits and vegetables.
I groaned inwardly. The man was shopping-impaired. "Where are we going to put the canned stuff?" I demanded. "You're going to have to move everything around."
He glanced at me. "I just thought we should get a lot--"
"I'll go get another cart," I said, depositing the vodka in the top of the basket and going back to the front of the store.
On to part three
Read the version with added commentary
Glenn's was in Moray Town, which was a good six or seven miles away from the Island. It was empty, as the handful of families that had summer cottages on the Island had already left. Only the Champlains--our closet neighbors--and two other couples lived on the island during the winter, and it was impossible to see the Champlain's house from ours. The other residences and cottages were all on the other side of the Island, which suited me just fine.
Moray Bridge was almost overrun with water; only the old stone railings kept it from complete submission. Mike commented on how high the water was. "We'll be flooded out by the end of the week," he added.
"Storm?" I asked.
He nodded gravely. "Sounds like a pretty big one."
"I've got to remember to fix the boatshed door."
"We'll have to stock up on supplies," he added. "Did you bring the checkbook?"
"No, I didn't," I said, and a quick mental inventory of the bills in my pocked revealed a deficiency in the cash department. "Did you bring any money?"
He nodded. "Did you bring the list?"
"Yep." I reached into my pocket and handed it to him, keeping my left hand on the wheel.
After we crossed the bridge the road became paved, which was a relief from the grinding ride on dirt. The bridge itself was terribly old and sunken in, and so close to the water now that it was impossible to pass underneath it, even in a canoe. The residents always got together and complained about it every summer, and ever summer a state engineer would drive down and declare it still sound. It was only one lane, and it flooded every time it rained, even sometimes when it only rained further north of us. It could be a real pain, but I'd gladly put up with a thousand such pains for the comfort and privacy of the Island. Besides, after six years I'd just learned to live with it.
The road followed the curving edge of the Bay and offered a very nice view of it. Moray Town itself was located at the farthest point away from Lake Huron, at the very apex of the bay. A jumble of docks connected the town to the water, and almost all of the charter captains in the area had their slips there. My business was the only one run off the Island, and it had been that way for years, ever since my great-grandfather had purchased a strip of land there to build his docks. One of the mooring posts he dug was still there, in fact.
The road curved further, and then I was driving into Moray Town itself. The main street serviced various businesses, a motel, the library, school, and police/fire station, as well as Steve Dell's gorgeous old Moray Tavern and Lenore's Take-Home Dinners. When I did sightseeing tours out of the Celestial out-of-towners always remarked upon two things; the lack of a streetlight, as if Moray was completely uncivilized without one, and Mr. Ames' Giant white whale sculpture, made entirely out of poured concrete. Truthfully, there had never been enough traffic to warrant a light, and as for the whale, Mr. Ames generally did what he wanted, regardless of what the small Town Council had to say. Most of the residents just shrugged and pretended to ignore it, until one of the summer boys decided to spray paint part of it blue.
The only other place of interest was Glenn's Grocables, which I was pulling into. I noticed immediately that someone--most likely Derek--had added a bright new green awning. Mike was still in deep concentration, checking over the list, so I elbowed him and pointed.
"It's pretty late in the season to be renovating," he said, unbuckling his seat belt. "It was probably Derek's idea." Derek was Glenn's grandson, forever trying to "modernize" the old store, sometimes with less than hoped-for results.
"Glenn would have liked it, though," I commented as I hopped out of the Blazer. And he would have, too, as the awning gave the store a quaint, old-fashioned look that Glenn would have loved. It was a shame that he has passed on a few years ago, as he never got to see Derek settle down and apply himself to the business.
The automatic sliding doors opened up onto a large foyer that contained the shopping carts and a variety of stamp and bubble gum machines. There were a second pair of sliding doors leading into the store itself, and one of them still displayed Glenn's handpainted sign: "Beware of Owner", a saying he'd always been mightily amused by.
During a business boom ten years ago Glenn had been coerced by his son Paul to remodel and expand, and it now resembled a large convenience store with modern lighting and registers. Glenn had insisted upon keeping the old store, and despite Paul's grumbling they had gone through considerable expense to buy the property adjacent to the store instead of using the half lot they already owned. The original store remained as the liquor shop, retaining the hundred year old wooden floor and antique cash register as well. I was secretly glad, as shopping there with my father was one of the few happy moments I had shared with him. It would have been a shame to demolish it anyways.
Mike took a cart and we walked through the second pair of doors. He began to circle around the right side of the store, the list in one hand, the other steering. As I walked past the registers I couldn't help but notice appreciative stares of all of the women present fixed devotedly upon him. Both checkout girls and housewives watched him unabashedly, and I had to admit that he looked great, too, in a pair of well-worn jeans and a flannel shirt paired with scuffed black boots, his legs lean and strong-looking. As I caught up to him I could hear some of the women whispering, and I could guess what they were whispering about. It was no secret that Mike was the most eligible man in Moray.
He turned to me, seeming oblivious to the fact that he had singlehandedly captured all of the feminine attention in the store. "I can't read this. Is this apples?" he asked, pointed to the hurriedly written list.
"Probably," I said neutrally, casually looking the other way. The town had enough to gossip about already without me doing anything to encourage it, so I always treated him indifferently in public. Like a friend, of course, but nothing more, which was exactly what he was to me.
"Do you want caramel too?" he said, looking directly at me.
I turned my uncomprehending gaze to him. "Caramel? For what?"
"For caramel apples," he said patiently. His blue eyes caught mine.
I stood still for a moment, remembering the summer we snuck into town and Mike bought us each a caramel apple, the first one I'd ever eaten. It had seemed like heaven.
"It has been a long time, hasn't it?" he asked quietly, breaking me out of my reverie.
"Just the applies will be fine," I said firmly. "I'll be right back." With that I went to the old store, where I picked up two fifths of vodka, my favorite drink. I paused for a moment and savored the musty scent of the original store and the well-polished floorboards.
Emerging from the liquor shop I walked back out onto the cheerless linoleum and found Mike again, who was filling the bottom of the car with fruits and vegetables.
I groaned inwardly. The man was shopping-impaired. "Where are we going to put the canned stuff?" I demanded. "You're going to have to move everything around."
He glanced at me. "I just thought we should get a lot--"
"I'll go get another cart," I said, depositing the vodka in the top of the basket and going back to the front of the store.
On to part three
Read the version with added commentary