A Life for a Life by Lynda McDaniel (best selling autobiographies .txt) 📖

The rest of the day saw a steady stream of customers, with a few gossipers on the prowl for inside information. And Emmett McCallum, one of our bread deliverymen (not the good stuff from Asheville but Bunny Bread, which most customers preferred), brought a couple dozen loaves. Even better, he solved a different mystery for me when he said, as he was leaving, “Well, let’s go deliver bread.”

For months, I’d been making my excuses when folks said in parting, “Let’s go to the house.” Truth be known, I was surprised so many people were inviting me to their homes, and frankly, I didn’t want to go with them. When Emmett invited me to join him on his bread route, it finally dawned on me that was just a colorful way of saying goodbye. I laughed at myself and imagined how puzzled folks must have been by all my excuses. They didn’t want me tagging along to their homes, either.

About quarter to six, I closed early. If folks were desperate, they’d honk. As I climbed the stairs, I could hear Jake snuffling at the door. I hadn’t let him come to the store as much lately, what with all the strangers streaming in and out. Inside, I scratched his chest and behind his ears, and we went downstairs again so he could romp around behind the store. The traffic was heavy enough that I needed to keep an eye on him; I’d seen too many dead animals on the road. I watched as he worked his way through the tall grass and deeper into the back woods. After twenty minutes or so, he came flying when I called out, “Dinner!”

I was too tired to cook, so I poured a glass of merlot and fell into my favorite chair. I loved my sanctuary above the store. No one had lived there for a couple of decades—except squirrels and raccoons—and Vester had used it only for storage for years. When I bought it, the whole building was so derelict I couldn’t move in until some of the most basic work was completed. That period between responsibilities, while I was waiting on the remodel, turned out to be one of the best times of my life.

I stayed at the Falls Inn just off the Blue Ridge Parkway for a couple of months and lived simply, with only a kitchenette, bed, dresser, table, and two chairs. I’d sold all my furniture before moving south and played out the fantasy of being a drifter—reading, sleeping, hiking, and taking drives into Asheville, the largest town in the region. Other than overseeing the construction, there wasn’t much I could do. After the long hours and deadline-filled years as a journalist, I just did what I felt like doing, when I felt like doing it.

The apartment sat high enough above the store that its front windows captured the tops of the Unaka Mountains piercing the horizon to the west. Like most dwellings around here, the view hadn’t been a consideration. These mountains were wallpaper to folks who’d lived among their beauty—and considerable hardship—for generations. The kitchen, which commandeered the front of the apartment, originally had only two small windows, side by side. I’d thought about moving the kitchen and turning that area into my living room and dining area, but the cost was prohibitive. Instead, I had the windows torn out and filled the space above the counters with large plate-glass windows. While sitting in the living room, just behind the kitchen, I could see only endless mountains and sky.

The two identical bedrooms in the other half of the apartment had been reconfigured. My carpenter moved their shared wall, expanding one room for my bedroom and saving the remaining space for an office/guest room. I did the best I could with the rudimentary bathroom, adding a claw-foot tub under the shower head and a batik curtain encircling the tub. 

On the couch, gazing out those windows, I could forget I sat above a country store, until someone honked or knocked, treating me like an all-night convenience store. Early on, I made some folks mad when I wouldn’t answer, but they soon got over it. I hadn’t always been so good at protecting my space, but servitude was no longer an option, especially given how much time I already spent inside Coburn’s.

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I must have dozed off because the telephone jerked me awake. I hoped like hell it wasn’t another call from Brower.

“Hello?”

“Della, honey, I just wanted to check on you.”

I sighed, grateful it was my friend Cleva Hall. “Thanks, Cleva, but they really aren’t my troubles. No one knows whose they are. Brower has no ID on that poor woman yet.”

“Well, don’t put on such a brave face. It must have been terrible to find that girl. You sure you’re doing okay?”

“Well, yeah. I haven’t been sleeping great, but all in all, I’m fine. And thanks for calling Gregg when ol’ Jake arrived at your doorstep.”

“He’s a pretty smart cookie, though I know better than to use that word in front of him. If you weren’t so fond of him, I might just steal him.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you—I’ve been kind of busy with Brower and all the looky-loos. Gregg said he’d let you know I was okay.”

“He sure did. And don’t give that a thought. If I had to spend time with our sheriff, I might just start drinking again.” I sipped my wine in agreement. “How about you come out my way tonight? Spend the night, we’ll catch up, and maybe you’ll sleep better out in the quiet.”

I smiled at her comment. Local folks sure had a different idea of quiet. Compared to D.C., there was nothing but quiet, but those who lived out of town thought the decibel level in Laurel Falls ranked just shy of Grand Central Station. Cleva lived about five miles from town, where the air was sweeter and the wildlife even more plentiful. Her home perched on a ridge, not far from the falls, the rush and rumble of its waters a continuous backdrop. I’d missed Cleva lately and looked forward to sharing her company.

“I’d love that, Cleva. Can I bring something?”

“Just Jake and yourself. How’s he holding up?”

“He’s had his dinner and evening romp. Now he’s curled up on the bed. But he’ll be delighted to get up and come see you.”

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When I first moved to Laurel Falls, I found Cleva by getting lost. Jake and I were out hiking, and we walked what felt like miles before I realized the sound from the falls had gotten louder—though we’d planned to hike in the opposite direction. I was getting cold and parched (our water gone after Jake accidentally knocked the canteen from my hands) when I saw a farmhouse on the ridge. I’d always been shy about going up to strangers’ homes, but I needed help.

As Jake and I neared the house, I could see someone waving. “Howdy stranger,” the woman called. “I’ve been meaning to come down and meet you. Glad you beat me to it.”

Who is this person who seems to know me? I thought. As we walked toward her, I recalled the mountain logic—anyone new to town was already “known” because they knew you were the only person they didn’t know. I first experienced that phenomenon when a friend from D.C. got lost and stopped in a café to ask if anyone knew me. The café owner said he, “didn’t know no Della Kincaid.” Offering her thanks, my friend turned to leave, when he added, “But I can tell you how to find her.” 

Once Jake and I arrived at her porch, Cleva stuck out her hand. “Cleva Hall. Pleased to meet you, Della Kincaid.” As we shook hands, she chuckled at my surprise that she knew my name. “Oh, you know how we are,” she said, opening her screen door and motioning me inside. “You’re looking a bit bedraggled. Come on in, and after a visit, I’ll run you home in the Jeep.”

I stepped into a knotty-pine paneled living room where a wood heater belched welcomed heat. Comfortable chairs surrounded it. I was looking at a picture of Jesus on the wall when Cleva said, “Don’t worry, honey. He means the world to me, but I’m not like those folks at the Church of God.”

I laughed at her reading my mind. I was about to comment when Cleva asked if I’d like some coffee to warm up. Recalling the coffee at the sheriff’s, I paused, then nodded. Anything hot would feel good, even just as a hand warmer.

Cleva and Jake headed to the kitchen, and I could hear her offering him a treat. I saw no signs of a dog, so I was hoping she wasn’t giving him a chunk of fatback. I stood by the heater and rubbed my raw hands. A photograph of a man with Franklin D. Roosevelt hung to the left of the heater; otherwise the walls were bare. The real artwork lay outside, through an oversized window facing the mountain vista behind her house. I recognized the handiwork of the same man who’d worked on my apartment. It was a small town.

A coffee grinder buzzed in the kitchen. Jake wandered back into the living room with a large Milk Bone. When he’d polished that off, he nosed around the hardwood floors, never missing a chance to hoover crumbs. Before long, the aroma of strong, fresh coffee wafted into the room as Cleva came in with a pot and two cups. And a plate of homemade cinnamon rolls. 

“I bet you thought you were going to have to swallow some of that wee-wee water they claim is coffee ‘round here,” Cleva said, chuckling.

I hadn’t said more than three words since I’d first seen her waving at me. And she seemed to read my mind.

“I knew what you were thinking,” Cleva continued. “I used to drink that bilge water myself. But I had a cousin move to Oregon, and that whole Pacific Northwest is filled with good coffee roasters. When I went for a visit, I got converted.”

The coffee was strong and rich. I added some thick, fresh cream.

“And take one of Peg’s rolls,” Cleva said. “Have you had the pleasure of meeting Peg Parker, Lonnie’s mother? Best baker ‘round the falls.” I nodded, my mouth full of the flakey roll, sticky with sourwood honey and cinnamon. 

“Now, tell me about yourself,” Cleva said, content to listen once she’d taken care of her hospitality duties. We talked like old