Part Seven

Two Months Later

I missed another appointment to sit in my car. In a city full of spaces great and small, comfortable and uncomfortable, it was the only space that was truly my own. Because Waterford is such a walkable place, with everything that you could ever need within a tiny radius, most teenagers opted out of traditional car ownership. I was no exception. Giselle and I shared her mother's minivan and it wasn't until Mrs. Zipp noticed how many containers of finger paints and Mod Podge had busted open in the back seat, along with the inevitable acclimation of glitter glue spillage, that it became ours. The Subaru Baja was mine the instant that I saw it on the lot from the bus. Without so much as a fingerprint on the exterior or a hazelnut macchiato spill across the control panel, it was my own. Ostentatiously yellow with a bed in the back, less than half the size of one you might find on a trunk. What an oddity it was! Even in Waterford. It reminded me of Portland, where every other person and their dog had a Subaru to their name.

Most days, I would use the Baja to haul lumber and supplies from the hardware store to the schoolhouse. Destroying the legions of venomous spiders that had called the building home was a distant memory, thankfully. I sprayed the circumference over and over with repellant, just in case any more of the eight-legged freaks decided to head back to school. My next and most trying challenge of all was repairing the floors. I wanted to keep the schoolhouse as authentic as possible, with as many of its original intricacies as I could salvage. Keeping the old floor was my intention, but it would not pass safety regulations if it didn't have some kind of reinforcement. In other words, if I couldn't find the gumption to burrow into the structure's foundation and fix the floors from the bottom-up, the schoolhouse could not be used.

I was parked across the street, staring daggers at my work-in-progress. From the outside, nobody could see the weeks of effort that I had given it. I was eating again. I had to for the energy, my nutritionist convinced me of this much before I abandoned her along with those ridiculous worksheets and trite mantras. If I couldn't love myself, if I couldn't love Henry, I would love the schoolhouse—and I did, in spite of itself. I swiped through my playlist, it was a good day for Donovan. Even though I always found myself having to skip over "Mellow Yellow", which my mother, Saffron, was named after. Hippies are strange, quite rightly. The Neighborhood Market has the best stuffed grape leaves. I munched on them, delicately along with some pretzels, hummus and a large bottle of cold brew espresso. I wasn't a minute into "Sunshine Superman" when I noticed a tall man with reddish-brown hair and a wardrobe that was almost entirely composed of denim, examining the entrance that I had sawed into the building's base.

"Dammit," I grumbled, exiting the lumber-scented sanctuary of my car, "maybe I should build a gate, too."

Although I was approaching him with all of the gusto of a lioness protecting her young, he was unshaken. In fact, he strode towards me and I got a better look at him. He was not from Waterford, I could tell you that much. A tourist, I wagered, from the Northeast. He had the stride and posture of a Wallstreet prick (or a cop) and the attire of someone who tries and fails to fit in here in the South.

"I know that there are kids nearby," I babbled, "and I was going to close the opening off before leaving today. So, before you start acting all high and mighty about it, the Casey Schoolhouse is private property and owned by my family and everyone here in Waterford knows it!"

"Miss Casey?" We reached one another at the median in the center of the road. It was elevated and just safe enough to stand on should the occasional car crawl through the school zone. His voice, rich and deep reached and soothed my eardrums. He had very kind eyes, this man; and a friendly, albeit stern face. Perhaps the denim was not a total loss after all, it complimented his blue eyes beautifully. "Principal Ballard said that I might find you here."

I looked the burly stranger over with distrust. "Ballard, ay?"

"You see, Miss Casey," he looked both ways not once, not twice, but three times and tentatively made his way towards my car. He might have been threatening, if it wasn't for the poorly-concealed nervousness that I hadn't picked up on from afar. "I am looking for a friend of mine and I understand that they two of you know one another. You must think that I am horribly rude-"

"-Well, you were prowling around my schoolhouse." A wash of pure dejection moved across those pleasant eyes. I called it long before he had the opportunity to introduce himself and explain his situation. He was one of Henry's friends. He simply had to be. They carried themselves the same way, strange and lost, like drunkards who are fighting to appear sober. They were the same kind of 'different', a 'different' that I still cannot fully give a description to or find any sort of understanding towards. To this day, I still cannot. "Marigold." I shook his hand stiffly and leaned against the side of my super-sweet ride (cue sarcasm flag).

"Boris."

I laughed through my nose a bit. Now I knew what Henry meant when he said that the name, 'Marigold' suited me well. This denim-clad, baritone gentleman was undeniably the most 'Boris' human that I had ever seen. I had seen creeps before, too, cutthroats who make the hair on the back of one's neck stand up on end when you pass them on the street. Boris was not one of them. He was harmless, a sweetie pie, a Hufflepuff! Hear you me, it takes one to know one! "Who is your friend, Boris?"

"Henry Anderson."

Again, I saw that coming. Yet, it hurt to hear his name. The last time that I saw him was at the "end" of our whirlwind romance, which had "concluded" in the same fashion that it had begun, with Giselle giving him a bloody nose. I very nearly opened up my door to let him in, but there remained a hint of wariness at the end of the immediate fondness that I had for Boris. "Follow me." Instead of driving him there, we walked. Out in the open, through the heart of Waterford. Henry's apartment was a ten-minute walk from the school. I would show Boris the building and be on my merry way. That was my plan, anyway. "What brings you to Waterford? I mean… apart from the obvious."

"The obvious?"

"Yeah!" I blurted, drowning the poor, seemingly quiet fellow with my extravertism, "The history, the weirdos, the music scene…"

Boris crossed his arms. He was clearly uncomfortable, but something told me that I was not the only cause. His cautiousness about when to cross the street and remaining inside of a 'personal bubble' of sorts as we headed into the populated downtown district reminded me weirdly of Adrian Monk. "I suppose… the music… scene… the music scene?"

His quietness and lack of enthusiasm for everything from Waterford records to Jazz at the Bistro told me otherwise. "How do you know Henry?"

"We are very old friends." This time, I pinpointed a confidence and authoritativeness in his voice that I hadn't heard before. "Reconnecting through a mutual friend of ours in New York, Arthur Tarleton. And the Ballards, of course. I lived with Mr. Tarleton and Mrs. Ballard for a while after Henry headed down here to research Peggy Shippen. I was in Waterford once before, a long time ago. It's strange, I keep seeing faces here that I recognize. Even your own, Miss Casey."

"Well, I've never seen you before! And I had no idea what or who Henry was researching. Too late for me to care, I guess!" My brashness caused him to retreat, yet again. "Tarleton and Ballard. Hmmm. So, that would be Emily Ballard? They sent Henry some strange letters! I remember reading that Emily Ballard teaches in Julliard. Is she a musician? Are you a musician, too? Sorry. You answered 'music' earlier and I was just wondering…"

"I am… just Boris," his meek answer was salvaged by a nearly darling grin. Cute. Not my type, so there is no confusion, but I certainly did find him cute. I was on the verge of attempting to set him up with Giselle when Boris pointed Henry out on the grassy turf on the outskirts of the college. "I believe we have arrived!"

This was my cue to leave and heaven knows, I would have, but Henry was not alone. As he walked, I realized a tiny brown and white dot ringing his ankles and winding a long, purple leash around them. The nearer that we drew, the more that adorable dot of energy pulled me in like a magnet. He was leash-training a puppy. To be more specific, the cutest little collie puppy that I had ever laid eyes on. Every step he took, the puppy would intervene, nipping at his ankles and biting down on the leash like a chew toy. Boris wasn't nearly as captivated as I was, he called out to his friend and Henry looked up, catching both of us in one glance. Assuming this was part of some grand design, God had never played a more successful game of mousetrap.

"You!" He smiled. At Boris, not me. "You escaped the wrath of the deranged Arthur Tarleton!" With a stumble, Henry walked towards us. "Ship! Heel!" Of course, the puppy didn't listen and started to roll around in the grass, growing all the more entangled by the minute. "Ship! Damn!" I looked at the ground. Now, it was my turn to be the quiet one. Perhaps I would be able to make a run for it, after all. "Marigold. Will you grab hold of this infernal beast for a moment?" Nope.

"Nice to see you too, Hen." My words were hostile, but I was outwardly ecstatic to be charged with the tiny canine. Ship, the poorest named pet in the history of beastie domestication, was just as fuzzy, warm and squishy as I imagined her to be from afar. She nipped at my fingers, but I didn't mind. There is nothing more satisfying that holding a puppy, in my opinion. "You sure move fast! I see you found a cute girl to replace me with already! Now, why the hell did you name her Ship? That's the real question."

Boris kneaded his forehead, potentially embarrassed for Henry, but I never had the opportunity to figure out what for, "Shippen, most likely…"

"Shipoopi," Henry droned, "I was given a discount on her because she is a bit of an escape artist. Once she starts running, well, the girl is-"

"-hard to get. Clever." I was tickled, and my lack of a poker face gave me away, I'm sure.

"That's not all. The little hellion kept me up for three nights straight, just howling away! I tried taking her back, but-"

"-that's a little bit heartless, don't you think?" I didn't want to pick a fight, but he was asking for it, "Taking her in, making her feel loved and the second you realize that she isn't perfect, you kick her to the curb!" Boris looked down at his shoes. "I should go." The desire to get far away from the awkwardness clouded my logic. It took several paces in the opposite direction for me to realize that the puppy was still squirming about in my arms. I stopped and headed back to return her. That was my intention, anyway. Yet, I felt a sense of belonging as I held Shipoopi, a shock wave that was infinitely stronger and more profound than what the Subaru gave me. Henry had cared for and discarded us both. Now, thanks to Boris, we managed to find one another. I had to ask. I absolutely had to. "You really don't want this furbaby?"

For a moment, everyone was quiet. Henry stared at me, I stared at Shipoopi and poor Boris maintained a steady gaze on the tips of his toes. "Boris? ... Marigold?" he sighed and then, remarkably, he smiled, "Won't you come inside for a cup of tea?"