Midlife Curses Read online

  “About fifty,” he replied with a shake of his head. “And if you don’t mind me asking, can you produce your license, insurance, and registration?”

  “Of course.” I gathered and handed them to him. This was where I knew things would get worse. He’d seen my California tag, and now my California license. It was a total lie to say I hadn’t had the time to run by the DMV and change them. Since moving to my Gran’s house, I’d had nothing but time. Not until last week, when I’d finally gotten off my butt and took her up on that job she knew about. Not a very good job, mind you. Easy, though.

  The sheriff shot me another smile, but this time his mustache did most of the work. He kept his pearly whites behind his thin lips. Then he strode back to his SUV.

  Without his siren on, and without Crookshanks running her motor, it was eerily quiet. The strobing lights danced, reflecting off every possible surface, the leaves of the trees and the road signs in the distance.

  If I were counting, and I was counting, this was my third week in the Virginia hamlet. East of Kentucky and just below the border of Virginia. Creel Creek was almost ghost town quiet, most everything rundown .

  When I left California, I’d left with a notion of starting my life over—of hitting the reset button. But the past few weeks hadn’t been the easiest. They were the icing on the misery cake, the stale yellow cake that had been one of the worst years of my life.

  My mind raced back to that day—the day everything went crumbling. Then the door hinge on deputy’s SUV creaked, and this time he came to a stop at my window. I could just make out a hint of his Old Spice deodorant. This man wasn’t the type to wear cologne. He was simple, a lot like the town itself.

  “I’m going to let you off with a warning… This time.” He handed the documents over but held on to my license.

  “Thanks, I guess,” I said. The clock on the dashboard told me I was already four minutes late for work.

  “You guess, huh?” He laughed. “I can scoot on back there and write you out that ticket if you want me to.”

  “There’s no need for that,” I said.

  He smirked, then shook his head, “Do I… do I know you from somewhere? We didn’t grow up together, did we?”

  “I don’t think so,” I told him. “Unless you grew up in California.”

  “No,” he shook his head. “I just think I know you from somewhere.”

  Unlikely, I thought. I could count on one hand the number of people I knew in Creel Creek. And as much as I appreciated not getting a ticket, sitting here while he pictured every blue-eyed blonde girl he’d ever met wasn’t getting either of us anywhere.

  “Sorry,” I said. “It’s just I’m late for work—”

  “That’s it!” He waggled his finger at me. “That’s where I know you from. I knew it.”

  “From work?” I asked skeptically. I had not been nor ever planned to be a sheriff.

  “Not my work,” he said. “Your work. You work down at the grocery, right?”

  “I do. I did.” I encouraged him to let me go on my way.

  Normally, I’d wonder if something was off with me, not recognizing a customer, especially such a distinctive one—the mustache, the dark eyes, the nice smile. But I’d found it was best not to let my eyes linger on any of our shoppers for too long. There wasn’t a Walmart in Creel Creek, but the grocery’s clientele more than made up for it. I was thinking of starting my own website, People of Creel Creek.

  “That explains it,” he said, nodding. “See, I know everyone around here. And I didn’t know you, Constance Campbell,” he read the name from my license before slipping into my waiting palm. “For a second this morning, I thought you might be passing through. But your face, it was so familiar.”

  “Well, I’m glad we got that figured it out,” I said. “It’s just I, uh—”

  “You have to get to work,” he said with a nod.

  I had everything back. And he did say he was giving me a warning. I wondered if I zoomed off right now if I would I into any trouble.

  “I’m Sheriff Marsters by the way. Sheriff David Marsters. You can call me Dave, if you like.”

  “Sheriff Dave,” I repeated.

  “Just Dave.” His mustache bristled with a different smile. There was something shy about it. It would’ve been kind of cute if he wasn’t ruining my day before it even started.

  “It was nice meeting you, just Dave,” I said.

  Now if you would let me leave…

  “You, too, Constance.” He tipped his ball cap toward me. “You have a great day, now. I’ll be seeing you around.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was a friendly gesture or a police warning. While part of me hoped I would see him again, another felt uneasy at the thought. There was something about police officers that always made me uncomfortable—like I was going to slip up and break a few laws in their presence, get arrested, and spend the rest of my days in prison. Seeing one on the highway made me practically forget how to drive. Seeing one in a bank made me feel like I’d just robbed it but forgotten about the getaway.

  After he got in his SUV, I eased Crookshanks out onto the road. Not a single car had passed us, and there wasn’t another for the remainder of the drive to the grocery. Like everything else about Creel Creek this time of the morning, it was dead.

  3

  In Witch I’m Late for Work

  I sprinted across the parking lot, now a full fifteen minutes late for my shift. Like the road, the lot was empty except for the few cars parked in the very back. Mr. Caulfield, the grocery’s owner-slash-manager, insisted that the employees park as far away from the store as was possible to leave spots available to our customers. While an okay policy in general, those extra seconds I spent crossing from one side to the other made me that much later.

  I heaved a relieved sigh, when I saw that the lot was also devoid of his ugly green Mustang. Said policy didn’t account for why Mr. Caulfield’s reserved spot—the one with his picture on it—was the spot adjacent to the two painted for the handicapped.

  Slowing my pace to a jog, I stutter-stepped waiting for the sluggish automatic doors to jerk open. This morning, the world was against me.

  I should have turned around and gone back to bed before anything else swooped my way.

  The store’s air conditioning sent a shiver down my now sweaty spine. Like most grocery stores, I was greeted by a row of registers just inside the entrance. It being a small store, there were five, only two of which were manned at any given time.

  The produce section was around to the right. And behind the registers were the aisles that every diet book tells you to avoid. The far wall was home to the butcher’s counter. It took up a whole side of the store and carried everything—and in quantity. As far as I know, it’s the only place to buy meat for a fifty-mile radius.

  Jade the butcher—no, not her serial killer name—was behind the display case portioning out premade deli meat bags.

  Working at the grocery, like living with Gran, was another in the long line of questionable decisions I’d made recently. With a master’s degree in business from UCLA, I’d been a project manager at three different tech firms, all of which were major players in the software industry, before moving to Swizzled Innovators with Mark.

  So, why was I putting myself through this?

  Well, for one, there weren’t any tech companies in Creel Creek, Virginia. And while I could’ve found a remote position, something to do from home—from Gran’s home—that just wasn’t me.

  I wanted—no, I needed to be around people. Or, so I thought. And for my own sanity, I had to be out of Gran’s house for long stretches of time.

  I didn’t need the money. Not really. Not yet. But I wanted a mindless job to get my mind off of things—things being Mark and the divorce. The grocery fit that bill nicely. Too nicely.

  The job was so mindless, I was hearing voices in my head. On several occasions over the last week, I’d asked a customer to repeat themselves only to find out they
hadn’t said anything in the first place. Then I was left wondering who had.

  Perhaps it had been my stank-faced coworker playing a trick on me. From her cash register, Trish smirked and tapped her finger on an imaginary watch.

  Yes, I know I’m late. I wanted to shout.

  She’s the closest thing to a friend, I reminded myself. I fluttered my fingers in a halfhearted wave. My attempt to be friendly.

  Besides Gran, Trish was the person in Creel Creek I knew the best. Not that that was saying much. But I’d gotten to know her a little, chatting at the registers.

  Trish had a way about her. A confidence—an air like it was her way or the highway. In that regard, she reminded me of Gran.

  Unlike Gran, Trish stood about a head shorter than me. I was used to that, at two inches shy six foot, I was taller than most men.

  She was around my age, maybe a little older. It was hard to tell. Her makeup reminded me of a teenage goth girl—her green eyes popped, framed in heavy black eyeliner. And not hazel green, these were a vivid emerald. Her lipstick matched the streak of violet in her otherwise black-as-night hair. It was dyed but her roots were also dark. Maybe she was a brunette.

  Based on the gray hairs I found each time I parted mine, it was time I did the same thing. Thirty-nine might not be technically over the hill, but it felt like the grinding of a roller coaster before it lets go of the track.

  Ninety percent of the time, Trish communicated with gestures. She jerked her chin toward the dairy refrigerators in the back of the store and raised her eyebrows at me.

  I managed to stop rolling my eyes before she caught me. I knew I had to clock in and count my drawer. She was acting like she wanted me to magic myself there and back again.

  “I know,” I said. “I’ll clock in and be back in a jif.”

  “JIF’s aisle two,” Trish quipped. “And do hurry.”

  Honestly, she acts as if we’ll be swamped with customers any minute. The only other people in the store were my coworkers in their black vests, buttoned at the middle.

  Hal, one of the stock boys, beamed when he saw me. He was unloading cans of soup and arranging them so their labels were proudly on display.

  “Uh, Constance,” he said in his oddly soft voice, “you got a minute?”

  “No, I’ve got to clock in,” I told him.

  “That’s fine.” He nodded to himself. “It can wait. I just, um, wanted to—”

  I left him there to ponder those next words. I knew what he wanted to say or had a good idea, anyway. He’d tried to get the words out every day since I started.

  I pulled a black vest out of a breakroom cubby and pinned on my purple nametag. Constance, it proclaimed in bold block letters. Under it, in tiny print, was the word cashier.

  My, how the mighty have fallen. I wondered what Mark would think if he saw me here, doing this.

  I counted my till, then hustled back across the store. This was supposed to be a two-person job—like the second person was going to thwart a thief with a gun. Or a knife.

  In those dire circumstances, I’d gladly hand over the money, all two hundred dollars of it. Mostly George Washingtons.

  I detoured, circling around to the produce section. They were still no customers in sight.

  Nick, the produce manager, was unloading a box of green bananas next to the speckled brown ones. I grabbed one, well past its prime, and called it breakfast.

  I veered toward the register, well away from the soup aisle, but Hal caught up with me anyway.

  “You all clocked in?” he asked nervously.

  The answer was so obvious I didn’t even acknowledge it. I made a face that I hoped would pass for a friendly smile, a smile that also said I don’t have time for this right now. Or ever.

  “It just, uh, Constance, I was wondering—”

  “Hal,” I said, probably not as sweetly as I meant to, “we’ve been over this, haven’t we? Do we really need to…”

  His face told me we were going to have this conversation not only today but probably tomorrow and the next day and the next as well.

  “Hal, I just got out of a relationship. Not just any relationship—a marriage. I’m still married. Technically. And I’m so not ready to date anyone. You’re really sweet, though.”

  Sweet was one way to describe him. Goofy, blithering, and a little pushy were other words. He was also on the dumpy side, a tad overweight with unkempt hair. He had bald spot and his glasses came straight out of the 1980s and didn’t hide the acne scars high on his cheeks. He wasn’t anyone’s idea of the perfect rebound.

  “We wouldn’t have to call it a date,” he bumbled. “I mean we could call it two friends having dinner at Orange Blossoms. I’d even let you pay for your own dinner. Their steaks are—”

  “Adequate,” I interjected. Like most things Creel Creek had to offer, the town’s one chain restaurant was decent but bordering on subpar.

  “—fantastic.” His last word came out like the final whimper of air from a balloon.

  “I’m sorry, Hal. It’s still a no.”

  “For now,” he said.

  “Right. For now.” And ever and ever and ever. I felt bad for him but not bad enough to take him up on a date.

  “Could I have your number then?” he asked. “For later that is.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Then you take my number. Here, I’ll put in your phone. You can call me anytime day or night.”

  “Fine.” It seemed like the only way to get him away from me. I pulled my phone from my vest pocket—a violation of store policy—unlocked it and handed it to him.

  He mumbled as he typed each digit.

  “What was that?”

  “There,” he said with a flourish. “Call me whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thanks.” I took my phone. He’d be seeing my number light up his phone’s screen a quarter-past never.

  Finally, I reached my post in the express lane—the one meant for those with fifteen items or less. To some people, that number was only a suggestion. Either that or they needed to wear flip-flops to count that high. I dropped my till in the drawer and slammed it shut. Trish huffed loudly—exasperatedly. My tardiness seemed to have put her out something fierce.

  I thought she was going to come down on me. Maybe I’d get a written reprimand. Her name tag read Lead Cashier after all. Kind of like the express item count, I wasn’t sure the title actually meant anything.

  “What happened to you this morning?” she asked.

  “I got stopped.”

  “Stopped?” Trish’s Southern drawl was more pronounced than usual.

  “For speeding.”

  “You’re kidding.” She smirked. “I mean, you are kidding, right?”

  “Why would I joke about something like that?”

  “Who stopped you? Man or woman?”

  “Man. Sheriff,” I corrected.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d heard Trish laugh, but it was the hardest. “Dave probably hadn’t even had his coffee yet. And he stopped you?” Trish shook her head. “You must’ve been going mighty fast.”

  “He did,” I said. “And I wasn’t. Not that fast.” I sighed. It was my turn to be exasperated.

  “Dave didn’t give you a ticket, now, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t,” I replied. “I guess he thought I was from out of town when he stopped me. Then he thought he knew me from somewhere—turns out, it was here. If I hadn’t told him tell him I was late for work, he probably would’ve given me one.”

  Or we’d still be talking.

  “Sugar,” Trish leaned across her conveyer belt toward me, “Dave Marsters ain’t never gave no woman a ticket in his life.”

  Was that double or triple negative? I wondered.

  “Never? Really?”

  “Never.”

  “What, is it like a chauvinist thing?” I asked. “Or will he be trying to date me next?” Even though Dave was decent, maybe bordering on cute if he shaved his mustache,
all I needed was yet another local yokel pining for me. Hal was plenty.

  “Doubtful.” Trish straightened. “Dave hasn’t dated since his wife died two years ago. He’s got three little girls at home. Talk about being outnumbered.”

  Trish shook her head. “No, ever since she passed he lets them girls get away with murder. And he lets women off with a warning every time we speed through town.”

  “How often do you speed through town?”

  “Often enough.” Trish winked. “Now, Willow, his deputy, will give you a ticket. So be careful.”

  “Good to know.”

  This was probably the first conversation I’d had with Trish that wasn’t about the store or why I’d moved to Creel Creek. We didn’t exactly hit it off my first few days. And Trish, a lifelong resident of Creel Creek, had nothing in common with me.

  I searched for something constructive to do while we waited for shoppers, opting to spray down my belt with cleaner, then review the weekly sales flyer.

  Customers trickled in over the next hour.

  Along with them came Mr. Caulfield. He was a tall, pale, and slender man at least a decade older than me, but his skin was smooth like he used the world’s best moisturizer. His name tag read Eric, but no one dared call him that—something I’d learned on my first day—the day I assumed we were equal. After all, I’d been career woman until this point, one with an MBA.

  Mr. Caulfield quickly put me in my place.

  Today, he meandered toward his office in back and didn’t surface for another hour.

  Outside, a fog had rolled in, blanketing the parking lot with thick smoke-like mist. Since I was on a roll with Trish, and since we weren’t busy, I chanced my luck at a second conversation. This one about the life-or-death subject that is the weather.

  “What’s up with that?” I pointed outside.

  “What’s up with what?”

  “The fog.” I gestured more forcefully toward the sliding glass doors. They opened on my command, or so I thought for a moment. Then a freckle faced kid with his mother in tow hopped inside, playing a game with the sensor on the front mat.

  “Oh, that.”