AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My demon nature is to give and give and give, or take and take and take. Which one will I decide to do when I see what’s on the other side of the clearing?
Chapter 2
Kara
I’m still about three miles from home, trying to enjoy the changing colors of the woods on either side of the road, when my car makes that same weird sound it did this morning. I keep my foot on the gas and grip the steering wheel tighter, praying my old beater doesn’t come to a grinding stop again.
Fortunately I was only half a mile from the town’s mechanic and he made it out to me in no time flat. It took quite a bit longer than that to get it running again, though. I’d been just shy of an hour late to my job as one of three cashiers at the only local grocery store, and I had to hear about it for nearly that long. Yes, I’d called as soon as I realized I was stranded on the side of the road. Mae, the assistant manager, had assured me it wouldn’t be a problem and that I should deal with my car. If she hadn’t, I would have just begged for a ride into work and dealt with the hunk of metal later.
If only my boss was the same. Joe, the manager, happened to be having one of his “bad days,” which meant he’d stayed out too late at the bar the night before. As soon as I got in the door, he let me have it, hollering that if I was late one more time I’d be fired. Believe me, I’d quit in a heartbeat if there were any other jobs around here. But there’s nothing else.
The car makes the noise again, but keeps moving, albeit with a bit of a dragging feeling, like it’s begging me to retire it. Park it in the driveway and maybe plant some flowers in the engine block.
“You need a new car, Kara,” Mr. Ablowski had said when he was patching it up earlier.
Because I used to babysit his kids, Mr. Ablowski, the local mechanic, always gives me good deals. Thankfully, he didn’t charge me for the patch job this morning.
“I know,” I’d sighed.
“When you start back up at school, let me know. I’m sure I can find you something more reliable than this. You’ll never get into the city more than two days in a row with this old tin can.”
“Mmhmm,” I’d replied.
I didn’t want to let him know that the college I had been taking classes at in the hopes of becoming an English teacher one day had already started up again. Without me. Since money is so tight right now, it just seemed to make the most sense to drop out. Even my grandpa, my biggest cheerleader and top advisor, didn’t argue too much, saying it was only temporary. I think we both knew better. Money was that tight, and it still is.
Mr. Ablowski had smiled sympathetically as he waved me on my way. We were both aware that I was lucky to have the crappy car in the first place, along with the crappy job. Everyone knows everybody else’s business around here.
“You can do it,” I mutter, pressing my foot down a bit harder as I turn onto the long country road leading to the house I live in with my grandpa. “I don’t really need a new car. I just need you to get me home.”
The car rattles alarmingly, as if laughing at my pathetic life. Somehow, it makes it to the front door of our little rental cottage. The house itself isn’t much. The decor is so out of date it’s close to coming back around to having a kitschy kind of style. The place is comfortable, with two bedrooms and two bathrooms, even if none of the rooms aren’t much bigger than a postage stamp. The kitchen stove needs finessing to get it to work, but it works. The most important thing about it is the big plot of land leading into the forest behind it—that’s where we keep our beehives.
It’s the only home I’ve known since my parents drowned while whitewater rafting when I was only three. Gramps had taken me in afterwards. Despite its tiny size and somewhat ugly paint and wallpaper, I love it.
I paste on a smile as I walk in the front door, relaxing a little bit when the rich beeswax scent hits my nostrils. Gramps used to be a lot more hale and hearty, but over the last couple of years he’s started to seem more his age, becoming less able to do repairs around the house. It’s been harder than ever for him to get out and take care of his beloved bees.
The honey we gather is a good source of extra income. Two years ago, I learned how to make skincare products with the fragrant wax, which fly off the shelves of the local gift shop during tourist season. We’ve still got a few good weeks left, especially with people driving through to see the fall leaves, so I’m excited to see Gramps felt well enough to whip up a new batch of the lip balms and hand creams that are our top sellers.
My fake smile slides off my face and my shoulders tense back up when I see the table isn’t full of freshly made skin care ready for me to put our stickers on the cute little pots and jars. The vinyl cloth is covered with dozens of small figures instead. I lean closer to see there are foxes, owls, even a cat licking its paw. There’s even an intricate honeybee half the size of my little finger. They’re cute, but …
“What are these?” I ask, struggling to keep the frustration out of my voice.
“Beeswax figurines,” Gramps says proudly, showing me the molds he used.
Where did he get those, and how much did they cost? I swallow down those questions. “But what do they do?” All that wax could have been lip balms, our most popular item at six bucks a pop. We already have the containers, the labels, everything we need for them. All that beeswax, wasted.
“They’re just for fun,” he says, still smiling widely. “Look, the town’s name is stamped on the bottom. Like a souvenir.” He holds up one of the bees and sure enough, there’s some tiny writing stamped on the bottom. “I think we could easily get ten, twelve dollars apiece for them if we include a little note …”
He trails off and I realize my eye is twitching. My house of cards is about to fall and I don’t want the pieces getting on Gramps. He doesn’t deserve my anger. To be honest, it’s mostly not aimed at him.
“Or we could just remelt all of them to make the last batch of lip balm before the tourists dry up,” I say, trying to keep it a light suggestion.
I ease past the worktable, which will be the kitchen table again when everything’s packed away, and open the dreaded drawer. It’s the one where we keep invoices and house bills until the end of the month, then we sit down with a pot of strong tea and divide them up to decide which ones can be put off a little bit longer. I need to know how much those wax molds cost. Maybe they were a bargain. Maybe we’re not going to be put behind too much this month because of them.
Gramps sees where I’m heading and tries to cut me off, but in a cagy way, like he’s just going to make himself a snack. I wedge my way past him, my breath hitching when he groans as I pull open the drawer and take out the big handful of bills and receipts of our expenses.
At first nothing seems worth the horrified look on Gramps’s face, but as I flick through them and get to the bottom of the pile, I see three envelopes with alarming red stamps on the front.
Past due. Final warning. Notice of eviction.
