Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125117 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Truman slumped.
Look, for someone to do that, they would have to be utterly selfish, entitled, and not care about anyone else’s feelings but their own. You dodged a bullet finding out when you did.
But it’s still super sad! Germaine acknowledged. T really loved him!
I know, which is why it’s so good he found out now! Charlotte wrote. Also can we talk for one second about how you found out because you were going over to drop off a surprise gift? Like, paging symbolism 101, your generosity saved you!
More like my pathetic into-him-ness revealed what a puddle I am. Truman hit Enter so hard he almost dropped his phone.
Aww, puddle truman, Germaine wrote, with a string of hug heart emojis.
I gotta jet, buds, Charlotte wrote. Client’s here, but I’ll chat later.
Charlotte was a lawyer, and when they’d first become friends, Truman had gotten self-conscious any time he’d say anything slightly illegal, like that he wished he could murder one of his bosses or that he’d picked up a dollar in the French Quarter and not tried to find who it belonged to.
Charlotte had laughed in his face (digitally) and said, I’m a public defender not a freaking hall monitor. And I want to murder my bosses on the regular, so.
When Charlotte’s name dropped off the text, Germaine wrote, So how are you really??
Ughh, shitty.
I’m so sorry bb.
I know C’s right and like obviously it would’ve been bad to never know, but…
But you would’ve gotten to continue being with someone you loved. I get it. It’s not like you just stop loving someone because they hurt you.
Yup.
For some reason, the image of the florist from earlier popped into his head then. Ash, right. The image of Ash holding out the beautiful rose to him. Ash dropping his large hand on the dog’s soft head.
You know, I did meet someone from the island earlier. I wonder if he’d know about whether Agatha lived here…
Great idea, Germaine agreed, and Truman sent them a silent bubble of gratitude for always understanding when someone wanted to change the subject.
***
Having mentioned asking Ash about Agatha Tark made Truman realize that there were likely many people on the island who might have known her if she did in fact live here. And since he’d eaten all the cheese and chocolate in the house, he decided to venture back out to the general store and procure supplies for actual meals.
He bundled up in Greta’s heavy wool sweater and, since he figured he might as well, grabbed her thick winter coat (too short in the sleeves and too small to zip but still very warm), hat, and gloves.
Owl Island possessed a desolate beauty. The sky was a grayish blue, snow fell softly, and the weathered clapboard buildings stood dignified and remote. Main Street, however, was anything but desolate. Fairy lights glittered the entire length of the business district, looping across the street and up and down both sides. Benches sat outside many of the businesses, and Truman imagined that in the warmer weather, they would be full of locals chatting and sharing coffees.
The streetlamps were charming globes set in metal bases, some with ships on them and some with carved rope, and all the signs appeared to be hand-painted. Particularly charming was one that promised ICE CREAM DREAM and was rendered in drippy pastel writing. It appeared to be closed for the winter. Apparently he’d been so hunched over with cold the previous evening that he hadn’t noticed any of this.
Truman passed a coffee shop called Owl Eyes (also sporting a sign that announced it was closed for the season), a hardware store with a sign that simply said HARDWARE STORE, and a drugstore with a faded sign announcing RX & MORE!
The bell above the door in Muskee’s General Store tinkled his arrival, and he stamped off the snow.
“Back again!” crowed the woman at the counter.
“Er. Yes. Thought I’d try a food group other than heartbreak,” he quipped, laugh-cringing.
“Ah,” the woman said and, either from kindness or horror, turned back to what she was doing.
Truman threw pasta, sauce, a few apples, some more cheese, a box of cereal, milk, and some microwave popcorn into a basket. He tried to picture Greta’s kitchen to remember if she had a microwave and couldn’t. He added a few more things to his basket and lugged it to the counter.
“There you go,” the woman said soothingly. Truman felt illogically soothed.
“Um. Are you…Muskee?” he asked.
The woman smiled at him, revealing large teeth and twinkling brown eyes. “I’m one of ’em. Carla Muskee. This place has been in my husband’s family for three generations.”
“Wow. Cool.”
He fiddled with a pack of gum at the display and then awkwardly added it to his pile so she didn’t think he’d messed it up.
“So you know a lot about Owl Island, then? I mean, I assume?”