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But thankfully, I didn’t pass a car, and the route back to town was less complicated than I remembered.
And the town of Irving was much busier than I expected. Parked cars lined Main Street and the sidewalks were crowded with people. When I realized Main Street had been blocked off and American flags abounded, I gave myself a mental thump to the head.
I’d arrived in the middle of a Fourth of July parade.
Sure enough, a color guard of uniformed service men and women were marching toward me only a few yards away. I stopped, hopped off my bike, and hauled it to the sidewalk just as the group passed by. To my chagrin, the man holding the flag gave me an amused smile.
Sawyer King, looking very different in a dark blue dress military uniform.
My skin stung from embarrassment. And since I’d nearly crashed the parade, I felt obligated to stay and watch. The high school marching band was next, led by baton twirling majorettes. Then came floats of local organizations and businesses, beauty queens and kings of all ages riding in convertibles, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, vintage cars, floats for churches (a boggling number of churches for such a small town), and bringing up the rear, horseback riders, some wearing costumes and riding decorated mounts. And it wasn’t long before the horses revealed why they were last—so other participants didn’t have to march through the mess they left on the street.
I wrinkled my nose from the smell, glad when the crowd began to disperse. I wheeled my bike along slowly, taking in the names of some of the businesses. Harding Hardware, Sophia’s Jewelry & Watches, Blakemore Books.
Blakemore Books. A memory chord stirred in the back of my mind, but I couldn’t recall why. Regardless, I intended to avoid it because if anyone in town might recognize my name, it would be someone associated with the bookstore.
And I’d come here to get away from all that.
I had turned my bike toward the hardware store when I noticed Sawyer King walking in my direction. Every few feet, someone stopped him to say something or shake his hand. The man was obviously some kind of hometown hero. He looked up and caught my gaze, gave me a head wave, then looked back to the person he was talking to.
I took advantage of his distraction to pivot, losing myself in the stream of people heading to (I overheard) something called a Bed Race, which turned out to be an entertaining and wildly unorganized spectacle. I kept an eye out for Sawyer King, but as it turned out, I didn’t have to.
The man seemed to have disappeared. Pfew.
July 5, Friday
I SNAPPED on a pair of white disposable latex gloves from the box I’d purchased at the hardware store. I was learning quickly that almost everything having to do with housesitting the Whisper House had less to do with sitting and more to do with getting my hands dirty. Since Kelly Brown the groundskeeper had yet to put in an appearance, I’d decided to tackle the job of gathering eggs. After watching multiple YouTube videos, I was suiting up.
With my Veronica Beard jeans stuffed down into my brand-new leather pull-on workboots, I approached the room-sized gray wooden chicken house with much trepidation. The black rooster who had invaded the house sat on the roof. When he spotted me, he began to flap and crow, posturing, which seemed to stir up the hens. Some of the ladies were pecking at grass and marigolds, and some were holed up inside the coop, but stuck their heads out to let me know I was the interloper here.
From the videos, I knew to approach slowly and calmly. I tried to pick my way around the incredible amounts of poo, but quickly realized that was impossible. I stopped in front of the first opening that had a little ramp leading up to it from the ground. Thankfully, it was empty. I used my new flashlight to shine a light inside to make sure I wasn’t sticking my hand into the mouth (or tail) of some varmint. I gasped to see two eggs sitting on top of the straw. I picked up the first one but with too much enthusiasm because it broke in my hand. I grunted, then exercised more care gathering the second egg, which I placed in a basket lined with a soft towel. I felt around in the matted straw and found another egg and got that one, too. Feeling more confident, I moved to the next opening and found three more eggs there, and four in the next nest. By the time I reached the last opening, my basket was full, and I was feeling smug. Then a fat butterscotch-colored hen appeared in the opening, glaring at me as she settled on the nest.
“Hi, chicken,” I ventured in a soothing voice. “Are you a nice bird?”
I swallowed hard, then replaying a video in my head, I eased my hand toward her then slipped it under her to feel around. Her feathered body was warm, and heavier than I expected. My fingers closed around an egg, and I pulled it out. But apparently I moved too quickly because Butterscotch squawked and pecked my hand.
“Ow!” I yanked back and dropped the egg on the toe of my boot. I grimaced and tried again, this time more slowly. I found another egg, but got another peck and another broken egg for my trouble.
“Ow!”
This time she drew blood. And before I could react, she’d pecked me a half dozen more times, then flew at me, wings flapping.
I stumbled backward, flailing to defend myself, slipped on wet poo, and went down hard on my back. Air vacated my lungs, and I saw stars. My cheek felt wet, and I realized I had egg on my face, literally.
Another face appeared over mine.
“Are you okay?”
I screamed and flailed again, but realized I was doing snow angels in chicken crap and stopped. I blinked the upside down face into focus.
Sawyer King, who had swapped his military blues for blue jeans and an olive green US Army T-shirt.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I was driving to the cemetery to remove the flags,” he said, walking around until his face was right side up. “And I saw you were having a bad day.”
I opened my mouth to say I wasn’t in trouble, then I conceded defeat. “I’ve had better.”
He laughed, then reached a hand down to help me up. I took it and stood on wobbly legs, then groaned at the mess of broken shells and runny yolks on the ground. “I ruined the eggs.”
