The tacky knickknacks were a sharp contrast to the gentle wails of Enya that flooded from the speakers as Mallory untangled a wire shopping cart from a line of its brethren and moved slowly down an empty aisle. Had she been with Graham, the juxtaposition of tchotchkes, New Age signifiers, and fishing gear might have made her laugh. Instead, her throat unexpectedly tightened with tears. She forced herself to swallow as she headed to the dairy cooler. Since his death, she had hidden her strange surges of emotion by rarely going out in public. In the city, it had been easy to meet all her needs without seeing another human. She had groceries delivered, food ordered in, and packages left on her doorstep. But in a small town, it was necessary to be exposed. She had thought it was what she wanted—a way to force herself out of her cocoon of isolation. Now, she wasn’t so sure.
As Mallory stared at the half-empty shelves, tears rolled down her cheeks, which immediately became hot with shame at their presence. She distracted herself by thinking of an essay written by a German native who had been separated from her family and friends in West Germany by the signatures of postwar rulers. Days after immigrating to the US, the woman had also cried in a grocery store when she was confronted by the wealth of food on display. But the memory of the woman’s sorrow only made her feel worse. Mallory wasn’t a political refugee overwhelmed by the wealth of her new home. She was a spoiled urbanite who had made a terrible, hasty decision to try to outrun death, only to have it end up on her doorstep moments after arriving. She reached for a block of cheap cheddar nestled next to a slab of shrink-wrapped feta. As she deposited it into her cart, she smelled something even earthier than patchouli incense. A woman glided up to the spot beside her elbow.
“Oh, hon.”
Before Mallory had time to register much more than a fluff of ginger-colored curls sprouting from the top of the woman’s head, she was pulled into a soft, oddly comforting embrace. Her round curves snuggled against Mallory’s torso like a body pillow, and something feathery brushed the back of her head. The tears Mallory had been fighting released in a shocking flood, and she began to cry without restraint. The woman held her as her body trembled with the emotion. When her sobbing ceased, the woman squeezed her for one more beat, then opened her arms and stepped backward. Mallory wiped her eyes as the woman regarded her approvingly. Her eyes were as green as the frills of kale she was holding.
“Your energy was all over the place when you walked in, hon. You can’t bear this alone. You need to let it go.”
Mallory made a noise that sounded like a laugh that hadn’t fully formed. “Pardon?”
“You need a cup of tea and place to sit down. I’m Kylie Shine. You must be Mallory. But tea first, questions later. Caffeinated or spiritual?”
Mallory blinked at the young woman as she tried to understand the question. The whites of her eyes were as clear and luminescent as a pearl.
“Um, spiritual? I don’t do well with caffeine in the afternoons.”
She also wasn’t sure how well she could handle whatever a spiritual brew might be, but she kept that to herself. Kylie beamed brightly enough to make Mallory feel that she had answered correctly, then sidled in front of her and gently pushed her cart to one side.
“Come with me. Your shopping can wait.”
“What about the other customers?” Mallory asked, then realized they were the only two people in the store. Her cheeks flamed at having said the wrong thing again.
Kylie reached up and placed her hands on either side of Mallory’s face. For a brief disorienting second, Mallory thought Kylie was about to kiss her. Instead, she broke into an enthusiastic grin.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said with a wink. “I own the place.”
She turned on her heel and headed toward the back of the store. For the second time that day, Mallory found herself in a cloud of confusion incited by a McNamara native. She dutifully followed the small, round woman down the aisle to the back of the store. Kylie’s curls circled her head like the fluff of a dandelion gone to seed. On closer examination, her hair held strands of red, dirty blonde, and caramel. Her skin was clear, almost shining with good health, and Mallory guessed she was somewhere between her early and mid thirties. Though her frame was wide, her clothes were wider, hanging off her body in swatches of flowing fabric, suggesting that she wanted to take up more space in the world than her body allowed. Mallory was drawn to the bright patterns like a butterfly to a flower. Kylie’s patterned golden muslin blouse draped over a pair of loose, bright-orange pants. A rope tied in a complicated knot at the back seemed to be the only thing that was holding them up. Its silky woven strands cascaded from her hips nearly to the floor. Her wrists were wound with wooden beads with small threads dangling from them. The only indication that Kylie was at work was the apron wrapped around her large bosom, though it was tie-dyed in a raucous combination of gold, brown, and green.
At the back of the store, Mallory saw a small alcove behind two low coolers of produce. Kylie smoothly deposited the bunches of kale with a group of others before pushing through a waist-high gate, then holding it open so Mallory could enter. The space was furnished with two tables, four wooden chairs, and a pile of oversize throw pillows in predictably wild patterns. Mallory saw a bar to the side, which Kylie ducked behind. Several teapots, as well as an electric kettle, were poised for action on top of the counter.
“Make yourself at home, hon. Your spot will find you. This is a place for rest.”
Mallory looked at the wild pillows strewn across the floor and wondered if the old running injury in her knee could handle the pressure it would require to settle on one. She opted for a large wooden chair instead. Once seated, she realized that the piece had been hand carved from a single block of wood and polished to the smoothness of fresh butter. Its strong, wide arms were the color of maple syrup catching the light as it poured out of a bottle. Its seat and high back seemed configured for her body. She traced one finger down the length of the arm, marveling at the surface, which was as cool as marble.
She looked up as Kylie arrived with another cheerful smile and a steaming cup of tea. Mallory returned the smile, though she suspected hers was not as bright, before raising the earthenware mug to her lips.
“Maca and turmeric latte with goat milk. Of course.”
Mallory took a deep swallow before her nose registered the powerful smell of mold and dirt wafting from it. It took every ounce of strength she had not to spit out the foul-tasting liquid the moment it coated her tongue.
“It’s, um, interesting.”
Kylie laughed. “At first, it’s a bitch to get down. Then you’ll crave it.”
Kylie took a swig from her own mug as Mallory set hers down on the arm of her chair without taking another sip.
“I can tell,” she lied.
Kylie’s sparkling eyes grew rounder as she leaned forward.
“Listen, Mallory. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I thought you were going to be older when Betty told me about your husband. But you’re so young!”
Betty Barber definitely made her rounds.
“I’m not that young,” Mallory said. It wasn’t intended to generate a denial from Kylie. Since Graham had died, Mallory had felt every day of her forty years deep in her bones. “But yes, it was a shock. I appreciate your sympathy.”