jam.
Halfway through, my knife scraped the bottom of the jam jar. At Oasis, that
spelled disaster. Some residents would throw a tantrum if they didn’t have
their bread with both jam and peanut butter, as they were used to. It had
happened before—some disgruntled resident got aggressive and threw a punch at
one of the helpers.
Working at Oasis could be dangerous sometimes, and
exhausting, what with the long hours. But nothing could compare to the feeling
of being there for people in need. In my case, it was also an opportunity to
hide from the past and atone for my sins. By helping others get by, I helped
myself. The more strenuous the work, the better. It gave me less time to think,
to remember.
“I guess you’ll have to run to Shop ‘n’ Carry,” Lynnette
said in her deep voice, unexpected for such a small woman. “Three jars should
be enough. I’m sending out some orders on Wednesday.”
The Serendipity Shop ‘n’ Carry chain of grocery stores had
once belonged to Matthew Magill, Lynnette’s father. Though he had sold the
chain at a nice profit, it still occasionally donated food to Oasis.
Getting out sounded perfect. I’d already planned to go out
for my monthly prayer at Grace Chapel.
***
I descended the front steps two at a time, and hurried down
the street, past The Rising Dough. The door to the bakery was half open, and
the aroma of cinnamon bread wafted out. My mouth watered, so I increased my
pace to avoid being lured in by the smell. As I neared the chapel, I considered
going in but then decided to stop by on my way back. When I spotted a queue
that started at the door of Patty’s Petals, cut across the pavement, and
stretched all the way into the street, I slowed down. Cars honked, and people
laughed and talked, excitement dripping from their voices.
Patty, her breasts spilling out of a too-small dress, handed
out bouquets of flowers and single roses. Today was her favorite day. The Rose
Petal Festival occurred every year on the first day of summer, drawing people
from not only Serendipity and other towns in Door County, but from the rest of
Wisconsin. A yearly tradition, attended by lovers and seekers of love. People
brought food, drink, music, and of course, rose petals from loved ones and
admirers to sprinkle into Lake Serendipity at midnight—a wish for good fortune
in love. It wasn’t my favorite day, though. The Festival reminded me only of
the day Chris died. But I had to find a way to get through it.
“Excuse me.” I pushed my way through the queue, breaking it
into two.
Twenty minutes later, I was headed back to Oasis. With every
step, the jars of jam chinked against each other inside my carrier bag as I
quickened my step.
But I stopped abruptly in front of the chapel, my stomach
clenched with tension.
A black Porsche was parked near the entrance. Expensive cars
were a rarity in this part of Serendipity.
Brushing aside my surprise, I lugged the jam jars—and my
heart—up the cracked steps and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The cool
interior smelled of burning candles and comfort.
I parted my lips and slowly breathed out.
For years, I’d lived life holding my breath, except when I
came here once a month to exhale. I wouldn’t call myself a religious person,
even if I did believe in God and had attended a church service every Sunday as
a child with Aunt Deena from the orphanage. But today, as always, I longed for
the soothing power of prayer.
I slipped into the last pew to the right and placed my bag
on the burnished wooden seat, next to a leather-bound hymnbook. The chink of
glass against glass rang out and echoed in the silent chapel. I looked up,
ready to apologize if I’d disturbed someone’s quiet moment.
Apart from a tall, suited man lighting a candle at a stand
near the altar, the church was isolated. He didn’t turn from the dancing flame
of the candle. But his broad shoulders slumped forward, and he shook his head
as if unwilling to come to terms
Halfway through, my knife scraped the bottom of the jam jar. At Oasis, that
spelled disaster. Some residents would throw a tantrum if they didn’t have
their bread with both jam and peanut butter, as they were used to. It had
happened before—some disgruntled resident got aggressive and threw a punch at
one of the helpers.
Working at Oasis could be dangerous sometimes, and
exhausting, what with the long hours. But nothing could compare to the feeling
of being there for people in need. In my case, it was also an opportunity to
hide from the past and atone for my sins. By helping others get by, I helped
myself. The more strenuous the work, the better. It gave me less time to think,
to remember.
“I guess you’ll have to run to Shop ‘n’ Carry,” Lynnette
said in her deep voice, unexpected for such a small woman. “Three jars should
be enough. I’m sending out some orders on Wednesday.”
The Serendipity Shop ‘n’ Carry chain of grocery stores had
once belonged to Matthew Magill, Lynnette’s father. Though he had sold the
chain at a nice profit, it still occasionally donated food to Oasis.
Getting out sounded perfect. I’d already planned to go out
for my monthly prayer at Grace Chapel.
***
I descended the front steps two at a time, and hurried down
the street, past The Rising Dough. The door to the bakery was half open, and
the aroma of cinnamon bread wafted out. My mouth watered, so I increased my
pace to avoid being lured in by the smell. As I neared the chapel, I considered
going in but then decided to stop by on my way back. When I spotted a queue
that started at the door of Patty’s Petals, cut across the pavement, and
stretched all the way into the street, I slowed down. Cars honked, and people
laughed and talked, excitement dripping from their voices.
Patty, her breasts spilling out of a too-small dress, handed
out bouquets of flowers and single roses. Today was her favorite day. The Rose
Petal Festival occurred every year on the first day of summer, drawing people
from not only Serendipity and other towns in Door County, but from the rest of
Wisconsin. A yearly tradition, attended by lovers and seekers of love. People
brought food, drink, music, and of course, rose petals from loved ones and
admirers to sprinkle into Lake Serendipity at midnight—a wish for good fortune
in love. It wasn’t my favorite day, though. The Festival reminded me only of
the day Chris died. But I had to find a way to get through it.
“Excuse me.” I pushed my way through the queue, breaking it
into two.
Twenty minutes later, I was headed back to Oasis. With every
step, the jars of jam chinked against each other inside my carrier bag as I
quickened my step.
But I stopped abruptly in front of the chapel, my stomach
clenched with tension.
A black Porsche was parked near the entrance. Expensive cars
were a rarity in this part of Serendipity.
Brushing aside my surprise, I lugged the jam jars—and my
heart—up the cracked steps and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The cool
interior smelled of burning candles and comfort.
I parted my lips and slowly breathed out.
For years, I’d lived life holding my breath, except when I
came here once a month to exhale. I wouldn’t call myself a religious person,
even if I did believe in God and had attended a church service every Sunday as
a child with Aunt Deena from the orphanage. But today, as always, I longed for
the soothing power of prayer.
I slipped into the last pew to the right and placed my bag
on the burnished wooden seat, next to a leather-bound hymnbook. The chink of
glass against glass rang out and echoed in the silent chapel. I looked up,
ready to apologize if I’d disturbed someone’s quiet moment.
Apart from a tall, suited man lighting a candle at a stand
near the altar, the church was isolated. He didn’t turn from the dancing flame
of the candle. But his broad shoulders slumped forward, and he shook his head
as if unwilling to come to terms
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