The next day, Carol doesn't have any community work, so she busies herself with dusting the cottage while Sophia is in school. She wishes Daryl had left her some explicit chores he wanted completed. She's starting to feel guilty that she seems to have a much easier workload than other sponsees. She would chop some wood, as Noah mentioned doing, but there's already a bunch of it stacked against the cottage. It seems either Merle or Daryl, or both, already chopped enough to last all of fall and half the winter.
She tidies the bathroom, too, and removes the moldy white plastic shower curtain from the tub. She uses one of the tarps that was being stored in the root cellar and a tablecloth she found in the narrow linen closet to sew a new, vinyl-backed shower curtain and hangs that.
Then she straightens the hutch in the sitting room. She doesn't touch Daryl's knives on the shelves, but she reorganizes the cabinet underneath, where he's haphazardly shoved all the fancy china that probably used to be on display above. She stacks the china neatly to make more room in the cabinet and throws away the three half-finished cross stitch projects she finds down there. She doubts Daryl will miss them, and though she used to enjoy cross-stitching, these days, if she sews, she's sewing something more practical.
From the cabinet, she gathers a silver baby spoon, a silver commemorative cup, and a silver bell Christmas ornament still in its box. She'll bring those to the warehouse for melting down for bullets. She finds a couple of worn black leather wallets, too, and assumes they belonged to the husband of whatever grandmother used to live here. But when she opens the first one, she spies a long-expired military I.D. bearing the name William Merle Dixon, Jr. These must be Merle and Daryl's wallets. How long did they hang onto them in their pockets, out of some old habit, before tossing them in this hutch?
In the photo, Merle looks to be in his mid- to late-twenties, with short, dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes. There's a stale joint wedged in the corner of the billfold, along with enough one-dollar bills to fill a stripper's G-string. Three foil condom packets are shoved among the bills, as well as a little silver key that looks similar to Rick's handcuff key.
The wallet also contains about half a dozen credit cards, all with different names on them. There's a Florida driver's license for a Jeffery Lincoln, which contains a photo of an older version of the man on the military ID, this time with gray hair and gray stubble but the same blue eyes. Behind that is an Alabama driver's license with an identical photo. This one, however, bears the name Steven Dean. And then there's a third license, from Mississippi, with the same photo and yet another name.
Carol returns the wallet to the hutch. Unable to control her curiosity, she opens the next one. Daryl looks about eighteen in the photo on his driver's license, and that, she learns when she peers closer, is because he is eighteen in the photo. He must have been driving on an expired license for well over a decade, because according to the birthdate, he's 37 years old now, just two years younger than she is. Carol had thought he was thirty-five at most. His hair was much lighter – downright blond, in fact - when he was eighteen, but he still has the same surly look. His middle name, she notes with some amusement, is Beauregard.
Carol peers in the billfold, which contains only a single $5 bill. Daryl has no fake IDs or credit or debit cards in his wallet. The only other thing she finds is a business card, hidden in the inside pocket behind his license, which reads: J. Grady Dixon, Bathroom Remodeling and Custom Cabinet Solutions. There's a Georgia address and phone number and a sketch of a hammer and saw. On the back someone has written in small but masculine print – Call if you ever decide to be your own man. I'll put you to work.
It strikes her as sad, that buried business card. It reads like a secret invitation to a new life never lived. Then again, maybe Daryl's living that new life here and now, at Copper Creek Pastures.
[*]
After she has lunch with Sophia, Carol leaves the girl to her own devices and convinces Halley, who teaches the kids archery, to begin showing her how to use a compound bow. The young lady is certainly a talented archer, but she comes off as a bit shallow to Carol as she chatters to her incessantly through the whole lesson about her indecision over whether she should choose Zach or Noah to date.
Carol later alludes to the conversation when she runs into Noah in the library during open library hours.
"Who even says I want to date her?" the young man asks.
"I guess she assumes you're both fair game."
"Well, she's not the only woman in this camp," Noah insists.
"She's the only one between eighteen and twenty-eight," Carol observes. "Isn't she?" She may not know everyone by name yet, but she's been observing people and introducing herself whenever the opportunity arises.
Noah smiles. "Who says I have to stop at twenty-eight?" He signs out his book and heads to the door.
Carol wanders the shelves awhile longer and eventually selects a trashy romance novel titled Denim Dreams because she doesn't want to think tonight. If she thinks, she'll probably just think about Daryl out there in the forest, being devoured by a grizzly bear.
[*]
The next morning there's yet another pleasant surprise – a fresh fruit and vegetable delivery, brought by a one-armed, sixty-something woman named Juanita, who pulls the offering by one hand in a wagon. Carol receives a plump red tomato, two peaches, two apples, a pear, a half pint of raspberries, three jalapeno peppers, two ears of corn, a cucumber, an onion, and an eggplant.
These fresh offerings, the disabled woman tells her, come every eight to ten days, and depend on what's in season and how the harvest is going.
Juanita claims Daryl always gives her a nip of his vodka when she makes a delivery. Carol has no idea if that's true or not, but it's more believable than George and his cigarettes. She could envision Daryl taking pity on this woman. Even if she's lying, Daryl probably won't rebuke her if a little of his vodka is missing. He probably won't even notice, so Carol invites her in.
"Early for vodka, isn't it?" she asks as she pours Juanita a shot and hands it to her.
"It's good for the phantom pain." Juanita shoots the drink. "I got bit by a thrasher, so I had to have it amputated."
"That works?" Carol asks. "To stop the infection?"
"If you do it soon enough. I used to be one of the best harvesters," she says with a sigh. "And now I'm not of much use. I've worked this farm for thirty years, since before it was bought by those Richie Riches from up north. Those carpetbaggers would have run it into the ground if they hadn't eventually hired Jefe to manage it. She turned it around again."
"She does seem to run a tight ship."
Carol spends the rest of her morning working at the warehouse barn, where Handsy Andy keeps a respectable distance. Felipe, a man Carol knows by name and face only, drives through the gates and parks a pick-up truck in front of the warehouse barn.
"Where's DeShawn?" Andrew asks cautiously when Felipe exits the driver's side.
"A ways behind me on a horse he caught. But we got some other loot, too." He nods to the bed of the truck.
Carol checks in the bounty as Felipe unloads it – a shotgun, two boxes of shotgun shells, a few cans of food, six twelve-roll packages of toilet paper, several packages of diapers, and almost an entire shelf's worth of sanitary napkins.
"Did you loot a CVS?" Carol asks.
"Women's shelter," Felipe replies.
"And that's where you found the shotgun?"
"Si, señora. Didn't do them much good, though. They were all devoured." Felipe sighs and shakes his head. "Just a few thrashers left feasting."
Felipe moves on, and twenty minutes later DeShawn rides through the gates and up to the open doors of the warehouse barn on a somewhat mangy looking gray mare. "Just checking this beauty in," he says as he bends over and rubs its neck. "And then I'm taking it up to the horse barn."
Carol tries to pet the new horse, but it rears up on two legs, letting out an angry whinny, and she steps back quickly.
"Whoa!" DeShawn cries as he's bucked back in the saddle. The horse continues to buck him for a few seconds, rearing in a half circle, before DeShawn gets it under control. He leans forward and whispers soothingly in its ear as it whinnies in place.
"Sorry," Carol says.
"She was half feral when I found her," DeShawn tells her. "I was able to saddle and ride her, but she's not one hundred percent tamed yet. I'll be the only one riding her for a while. But give it time, and you can come pet her all you like." DeShawn steers the horse away from the barn, and urges it up the hill. The mare takes a couple of kicks to spur, and when it does, it's off so fast that DeShawn lets go of the reins with one hand to press his cowboy hat down and keep it from flying off.
A little later, Carol is back at the cottage for lunch with Sophia, who wolfs down her meal and asks if she can go "hang" with Ivan and Carina. "Any specific plans?" Carol asks.
"We're going to visit the piglets."
The farm only has three adult pigs, one male and two female, so it hasn't butchered any yet, but with this recent litter, it seems bacon might be in their future. "Don't get too attached," Carol warns. "And be back in an hour to help me with laundry. Two o'clock laundry truck."
"I will. Carina's washing today, too."
"How about Ivan?" she asks.
"His mom pays some woman in whiskey to do their washing."
Carol wonders just how much whiskey Nadia has and what she's going to do when she runs out, given her habit of nipping throughout the day.
Daryl didn't ask her to, but when it's time to catch the laundry truck, Carol takes the clothes he's thrown on the closet floor: two bloody outer shirts (checkered, with the sleeves ripped off), five sleeveless undershirts, five pairs of boxers, and a solitary pair of pants. At least he changes his underwear regularly.
Once they're at the stream, Sophia takes up a spot with Carina, and Ryan, who is there again, settles in next to Carol. "So," he asks after some casual conversation, "about that coffee date?"
She supposes a friendly date wouldn't hurt. Ryan's not likely to put the early moves on her, and she'd enjoy the company, so she agrees to let him stop by the next morning.
[*]
The coffee date with Ryan is pleasant enough. They talk about their old lives, or Ryan does. Carol doesn't have much to say about hers, at least not much she wants to say. She has no job to talk about, no friends, no community organizations, no family other than a husband she'd rather forget. She boasts on Sophia's former school accomplishments, and says her hobbies were cooking and sewing. She claims she was a "part-time freelance professional organizer." That's a lie, but it feels strange to have nothing to say about who she was or what she did. And she could have been a professional organizer. She would have kicked ass at that job.
"You know, I was just noticing," Ryan says, "you have the loveliest eyes."
Carol smiles uncertainly at the compliment. Maybe she should clear the air, be forthright, let him know this isn't likely going anywhere beyond friendship. She's just lowering her coffee to the table and is about to reply when the door flies open.
Daryl, apparently startled to see a man at his table, swings his crossbow into his hands and rushes forward a few steps with Ryan in his sights. The frightened man throws up his hands, but before Daryl reaches the table, he lowers his bow, lets out a whistle of relief, and then walks in a circle until he's facing the table again. "Who the fuck are you?"
"This is Ryan, Daryl," Carol says calmly. "He's lived at Copper Creek for months."
"Hell you doing in m'house?" Daryl asks.
"I…uh…Carol…" Ryan stammers. "Carol invited me."
"Oh. Sorry 'bout the bow." Daryl waves his crossbow upright in the air with one hand. "Just took me a second to assess the situation."
"It's just a coffee situation," Carol assures him.
Daryl looks from her cup to Ryan's. "Yeah. Yeah. See that now."
Ryan hasn't one hundred percent put his hands down. They're still up, but with his wrists resting on the table. He's looking at Daryl's shirt and pants and bare arms, which are covered in mud and blood.
Daryl looks Ryan over. "Oh. Yeah. You're Jorge's sponsee, ain't ya?"
"Yes."
"Good duck hunter. Jorge, I mean. You don't look like you know your ass from a shotgun." Daryl goes to his room to drop his bow and shake out of his heavy pack, tracking mud and Carol doesn't know what else across the wood floors of the cottage.
"I think I better get going," Ryan says nervously.
"You can finish your coffee," Carol assures him.
Ryan lifts his mug and guzzles the last of the burning liquid. "Done," he says and sets the cup down. And then he's out the door faster than Carol can stand up.