Chapter Text
Summer is in full swing in the valley. The harsh late afternoon sun glares down across fields of drying grasses, blowing in the wind like the fur of some wild beast. A rusty little blue pick-up bounces down a two-lane highway, winding along between mountains and orchards, kicking up a storm of dust behind it as it goes. The truck whizzes past an overgrown green road sign, which states: Pelican Town, 10 miles.
“Almost there,” Mel says, one hand tightening on the steering wheel as the other reaches up to flip the sun visor down above her head.
The teen girl sitting next to her on the cracked vinyl bench seat doesn’t respond, and Mel takes her eyes off the road to dart a quick look over. The girl has her knees pulled up to her chest, a set of bright orange foam headphones over her ears, make-up-smudged eyes shut tight, mouth partly open, asleep. Mel smiles to herself at the image. She wishes she could reach her Polaroid camera, but it’s packed away with all the rest of her life.
An extended, bone-shaking honk reverberates through the valley, more like a foghorn than a car horn, and Mel’s eyes snap back to the road. She’s met with bright headlights, and the front of a huge red 18-wheeler barreling towards them at full speed.
“Oh, fuck fuck fuck,” Mel mutters, gripping the wheel tight and swerving to the right, back into her own lane at the last second. In the bed of her truck, a ridiculously stacked load of boxes teeters precariously, threatening to tip over as the truck careens around another bend, before settling back into place as the road straightens out.
“Holy shit! Are you trying to kill us?” The girl, now very much awake, yelps from the seat next to her, her headphones pulled down around her neck.
“I don’t know where that asshole came from! He just materialized there, I swear,” Mel says, her face red and her heart racing. “Also, language, Alice. A dollar in the swear jar when we get there.”
“You said fuck, like, five times when that truck was coming towards us,” Alice points out.
“First of all,” Mel says, “that’s another dollar. Second of all, I don’t know what you’re talking about. And even if I did, I’m sure that would be a very different situation, on account of me, you know, thinking we were going to die.”
“This is bullshit,” Alice says.
“Three dollars now. You better find a part-time job ASAP if you wanna keep that up.”
Alice grumbles to herself and pulls her headphones back on. She slides the volume up on her Walkman until even Mel can hear her music, before leaning against the window and watching the scenery pass by.
By the time they steer off the highway and onto an even smaller, more treacherous dirt road, the sun is starting to dip behind the mountains. Mel flips on her headlights, guiding the truck expertly down a tiny, overgrown road that Alice would decidedly call a path. The truck passes under a rickety wooden archway, complete with an ox skull and a sign that reads, “Crescent Lake Farm,” and then Mel spots it—just off to the right, a small farmhouse, plucked right out of her childhood memories. Well, farmhouse is maybe putting it nicely. Alice will probably call it a shack, and Mel will be hard-pressed to argue with that assessment.
Mel pulls the truck to a stop just next to the house, then hops out and marches up to the front steps. Up close, the house has definitely seen better days. The yellow paint is peeling away from water-stained wooden siding, there are a few spots on the roof where shingles have seemingly fallen away, and the porch looks like if you stepped too hard on it, it might just collapse in a pile of ancient dust. Yup, it’s definitely a fixer-upper. But it’s a house, and Mel owns it, and she can’t help the smile that spreads across her face as she looks up at it.
“Well, what do you think?” Mel asks over her shoulder.
Alice has hopped out of the car and wandered over next to her, gazing at the house with some mixture of fear and absolute repulsion.
“This is the place?” Alice asks, the derision clear in her voice.
“Home sweet home,” Mel says, smiling widely.
“It looks like you asked a blind person to draw a house,” Alice says. “And then you used that drawing as the basis for the blueprints, and hired a group of blind contractors to follow those diagrams.”
“What?”
“Translation: it looks like shit.”
“So it needs a little work!” Mel says.
“A little?” Alice says, incredulously.
“Okay, maybe a lot,” Mel admits. “But it has a roof! And it’s ours. Just ours, Al.”
Even Alice smiles at that. “Ours?”
“Ours,” Mel nods.
The inside of the house is in much better condition than the outside, and despite it having been almost twenty-five years since she was last here, it looks just how Mel remembers it—the lack of furniture and addition of a thick layer of dust that covers every surface and left-behind knick-knack notwithstanding. There are two bedrooms, one of which is actually a renovated attic, a miniscule kitchen, a central room with a fireplace and room for a table and chairs, and a single bathroom with barely enough room for one person to stand. It’s cozy, and quaint, and the styling is about fifteen years out of date, but Mel feels like it could be a good home, after some cleaning.
Of course, it’s not without issues. The first of which is that none of the electricity seems to work, and Mel silently curses herself for not calling ahead and getting utilities set up.
“No lights,” Alice says, unhelpfully flicking the light switch by the door up and down repeatedly.
“Yeah, I have eyes, thank you,” Mel says. “Grandpa used to keep some candles around here for emergencies. Gimme a sec.”
She rummages around in a cabinet under the kitchen sink, eventually producing a couple long white candlesticks in little steel holders. She grabs a box of matches from the back of the cabinet and slides it open to find it empty.
“Damn it,” Mel breathes. “Figures.”
Alice, who has appeared again by her side, holds out a silver zippo lighter towards her. Mel looks at it, surprised, then looks up at Alice, who looks sheepish. Her eyes keep darting around, refusing to look Mel in the eye.
“I don’t even want to know why you own that,” Mel says, taking the lighter.
“Would you believe me if I told you it was for emergency candle-lighting scenarios?”
Mel laughs dryly. “Nice try, but no.” She lights the candles, and hands the zippo back to Alice. “Thanks.”
Despite the inconvenience of working by candlelight, they spend the evening carrying things in from the truck, starting to organize things slowly, but surely. Once everything is inside, Alice quickly claims the attic bedroom, stomping up the steps with her arms full of luggage, and disappears for the night.
Mel heads into the kitchen, thinking she would make a cup of tea. Of course, no water comes out of the tap, and the gas isn’t hooked up to the stove. She makes a mental note to talk to someone about utilities tomorrow, but she’s not sure how, considering the phone likely isn’t hooked up either. She thinks there must be someone in town, and that it would be a good idea to get a lay of the land anyways, so she decides that tomorrow morning, she’ll walk the pathway into town and see if she can find a solution.
As she climbs into bed that night, (Or what she’s calling a bed—it’s really just a nest of blankets and a pillow on the hardwood floor. She let Alice have the only mattress they own.) she can’t help but take a peek out the window. It’s just a big dark field, but she can’t shake the strange giddiness that overtakes her. The night air feels thick with possibility. Like a new start waiting to happen. She blows out her candle and drifts to sleep, hopeful for this new path, however uncertain it may be.
– – –
While the cool shadow of the night had made the farm feel mysterious and full of possibility, the severity of the morning sun illuminates the truth of the matter. Mel steps out her front door, dressed in her best approximation of what a farmer should wear (a blue flannel and brown overalls), and stretches her aching bones. The floor was even less comfortable than she expected, and her neck is tense and it hurts to turn her head too quickly. She decides that a mattress will be her first purchase once she makes some money here. Taking in the sight of the farm in daylight, Mel is quickly humbled by what greets her.
The fields that make up the farm are completely overgrown with weeds and brambles, and any places which aren’t are simply big tan patches of cracked earth. If Mel had planned ahead, they would have moved in the spring. By this far into summer, the ground is already dry and the sun is unforgiving. Not the best time to take up farming. She’s going to have her work cut out for her.
With a sigh, Mel trudges down off her porch, wading through waist-high grass on her way to the little cobble path that runs east a half mile into town. The path is much better maintained than the farm, and she follows along a rustic wooden fence lined with wildflowers. Eventually, she passes a bus stop with a “No Service” sign posted, and not long after that she passes through a copse of oak trees, and the wilderness path opens up to a small town square.
Completely exhausted from the full day of driving yesterday, Mel had accidentally slept in until her watch read eleven a.m., and after the walk, it’s just about noon, and the town is bustling. Well, as bustling as a tiny seaside village can be. Mel watches from the edge of the square as stranger after stranger wanders by, each one greeting another as they do so, chattering happily amongst themselves as they walk, and she feels her chest tighten. She forgot how much of an outsider she would be. Everyone knows everyone in a village this small. They’ll be able to take one look at her and know she’s out of place. She does her best to shake the feeling and marches forward into the square, ignoring the lingering glances from curious strangers.
The first of Mel’s errands go as smoothly as one could hope, and after a quick—yet terse—meeting with the mayor, who was exceptionally surprised by a new face in town, the utilities have been arranged for the farmhouse and the landline has been reconnected.
“One last thing,” she says, stopping in the doorway of Lewis’s manor. “I need to have some repairs done on the house. Is there a contractor in town?”
“You’re looking for Robin,” Lewis says. “She lives up in the mountains. If you follow the northern trail from your farm, it’s just over a mile.”
“Thanks,” Mel says, smiling at him.
Lewis grumbles something and turns back to his newspaper, and Mel leaves him behind, already on to the next thing on her list.
Mel takes her time making her way through town, stopping frequently to take in the sights and listen to the wind whistling through the trees. It’s so different from the city. So much more peaceful and serene. She finds herself admiring every little part of town, even the imperfect pieces. The ornate antique street-lamps, dark green paint chipping away to reveal cold steel beneath. The way the cobble roads crack and bend, grasses and weeds and other enterprising plants emerging from the gaps between them, desperately vying for the sun. The old stone tavern in the middle of town, looking ripped straight out of one of her fantasy novels, the grey stone walls covered in ivy, a small wooden sign swinging in the wind above the front door. She makes a mental note to see what the inside looks like, once she’s better settled.
By the time Mel has paid Pierre—a very grumpy man with glasses—for her groceries, her watch reads as four p.m., and her empty stomach gurgles indignantly. She sets off back down the path towards the farm, her new wagon full of groceries and gardening supplies in tow.
In the farmhouse, she’s happy to find the lights, stove, and water working without issue, and quickly gets to work in the kitchen, tossing together a simple dinner. When her final timer goes off, she wanders down the hall to the steep stairs that lead to the attic, where she can hear Alice’s music blasting from her boombox.
“Dinner!” she calls out, and heads back to the kitchen to plate the food. A moment later, Alice emerges from down the hall, rubbing her eyes sleepily, a pair of flannel pajama pants and an oversized band tee hanging off her small frame.
“Smells good,” Alice murmurs, padding over to the kitchen counter to join Mel. “What’d you make?”
“Just some pasta, nothing fancy,” Mel says, handing Alice a plate. There’s some broccolini on the stove too, you should have some.”
Alice takes the plate, and peers at the broccolini on the stove, wrinkling her nose with distaste. Mel notes her face and says, gently, “Come on, it’s good for you.” Alice sighs, gingerly picks up a single piece of broccolini, squirming a bit as she deposits it on her plate. Mel lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, and puts a generous helping of vegetables on her own plate.
The farmhouse is still bare, so Mel and Alice sit on the floor of the living room, using a few cardboard boxes pushed together as a makeshift table. They eat the first half of their meal in silence, and Mel decides that if she wants conversation, she needs to be the one to start it, and after swallowing a bite, says, “So, how was your day?”
“Fine,” Alice says, shoveling pasta into her mouth. She always eats like it's a race, like if she takes too long, someone is going to take her food away. Mel knows it’s an old habit that won’t die easily, so she bites her tongue and stops herself from telling Alice off.
“Did you do any exploring?” Mel asks instead.
“No.”
“You didn’t hide in the attic all day, did you?”
Alice pauses, shifting uncomfortably, and Mel can see her shoulders tighten. “No,” Alice says, a moment too late.
“Al…” Mel starts, her concern evident. “The town really is beautiful. It might do you some good to get out of the house.”
“It might do me some good?” Alice shoots back, her tone suddenly hostile. “Jesus Christ, since when do you care what would do me some good? It would have done me good to stay in Zuzu city, where I had a life. Where I had friends. You really expect me to just start over, all chipper, day one?”
Mel opens her mouth to respond, but Alice cuts her off, still ranting. “I’m happy for you that you love it here so much, really, I am. Good for you that your life back home was so fucking empty that this huge change doesn’t feel like the end of the world. That’s great. Sorry I’m not as big of a loser as you.” She slams her fork down, her plate half-finished, and marches off back to the attic.
Mel finishes the rest of her meal in silence, picks up both plates, and scrapes the rest of Alice’s dinner into a plastic container, which she stacks in the fridge. She makes herself a cup of tea and sits on the front steps of the house, wrapped in a cardigan, sipping slowly.
In the attic, Alice has turned her cassette player to max volume, blasting something that Mel doesn’t recognize. It’s something angry, and the vocalist whines more than sings, the guitar almost drowning him out. The music is loud enough that she can hear it from the porch, and she contemplates telling Alice to turn it down, before deciding that she would rather not withstand another verbal lashing by a moody teenager. As she sighs into her cup, her bones feel heavy as lead. This is going to be harder than she thought.