counter and flipped through the Yellow Pages to the entries for storage units. There was one listing for a place called U Store Stuff. She realized she had absolutely no idea where it was in relation to the cottage. In fact, she had no idea what city the cottage was in. “Where the hell am I?” she wondered aloud. She climbed the stairs again and burst into the bedroom. “Henry, what city is this?”
Henry rolled over, his groaning mostly drowned out by the rattling mattress springs. He sat up and looked around, his expression dazed. “Are the movers here?”
“Yes, and we need a storage unit fast. I have no idea where we are to judge the distance of the storage facility.”
“Markleeville,” he said, yawning and scratching at his back.
“Seriously?” Camellia questioned, glaring at him. “You moved me to a place called Markleeville?” She laughed out loud. “That’s just fabulous.” She plodded back down the stairs to call the storage unit. “Fab-u-lous!” she cried, her shrill voice ringing through the tiny house.
U Store Stuff was only two miles away. Henry and Camellia got back into the Range Rover and led the way, the moving truck laboring behind. To get to the storage unit, Henry had to drive north along Beech Street through downtown Markleeville, a sleepy town with a storybook quality, especially covered in a layer of snow. The sidewalks were empty of pedestrians, and only a handful of cars were parallel parked along the main thoroughfare. The buildings held a hodgepodge of services, with a post office, pharmacy, hardware store, and real estate office anchoring the ends of the diminutive downtown. Interspersed were a toy store, candy store, ice cream parlor, bakery, bait shop, bookstore, frame shop , and a narrow business offering backyard décor. There was a barbershop and salon sitting side-by-side, with a pizzeria and a diner bookending them. On opposite sides of the street were two women’s boutiques. From the looks of their front windows, they were sharing an inventory of crew-neck sweaters and tapered trousers.
Just up the road, a car wash, animal hospital, and church were clustered together, as if they had seceded from the downtown. From there to the storage unit, they passed two more churches, a party store, a run-down motel, a hidden campground, two trailer parks, a seasonal farmers market, a boat and kayak rental company, a cemetery, and an equipment rental business. The intersection of Beech and Mitchell, where the storage unit was located, was also the site of the US-127 on- and off-ramp; a busier area with a Save-a-Lot, Dollar General, gas station/Taco Bell combo, movie theater, Econo Lodge, and fast-food row of McDonalds, Burger King, and Arby’s.
Camellia was speechless.
At the storage unit, she and Henry sorted through boxes, their fingertips turning white from the cold as they searched for clothing, kitchen supplies, and any other easy-to-grab comforts from home to take back to the cottage. Everything else went into neat towers in the ten-by-twenty-five-foot unit. Henry signed papers with both the movers and the storage facility manager, and then locked the unit, adding the key to the rental car keychain that also held the
cottage key.
“Want to get some coffee?” Henry asked, unzipping his jacket once he was back in the car.
“Absolutely,” Camellia replied, rubbing her hands together for warmth.
They drove back into town, parking in front of the Beech Street Diner. Henry held the door to the diner for his wife, a tinny bell announcing them. The diner, painted pink and green, was large enough to hold ten tables plus the L-shaped counter with stools bolted to the tan and white checkerboard floor. The only other customers were two middle-age men with considerable bellies, wearing navy work pants and rugged brown jackets. A stout, dark-skinned woman behind the counter made coffee. On the radio, which was sitting on the end of the counter, a weepy country singer with a
Henry rolled over, his groaning mostly drowned out by the rattling mattress springs. He sat up and looked around, his expression dazed. “Are the movers here?”
“Yes, and we need a storage unit fast. I have no idea where we are to judge the distance of the storage facility.”
“Markleeville,” he said, yawning and scratching at his back.
“Seriously?” Camellia questioned, glaring at him. “You moved me to a place called Markleeville?” She laughed out loud. “That’s just fabulous.” She plodded back down the stairs to call the storage unit. “Fab-u-lous!” she cried, her shrill voice ringing through the tiny house.
U Store Stuff was only two miles away. Henry and Camellia got back into the Range Rover and led the way, the moving truck laboring behind. To get to the storage unit, Henry had to drive north along Beech Street through downtown Markleeville, a sleepy town with a storybook quality, especially covered in a layer of snow. The sidewalks were empty of pedestrians, and only a handful of cars were parallel parked along the main thoroughfare. The buildings held a hodgepodge of services, with a post office, pharmacy, hardware store, and real estate office anchoring the ends of the diminutive downtown. Interspersed were a toy store, candy store, ice cream parlor, bakery, bait shop, bookstore, frame shop , and a narrow business offering backyard décor. There was a barbershop and salon sitting side-by-side, with a pizzeria and a diner bookending them. On opposite sides of the street were two women’s boutiques. From the looks of their front windows, they were sharing an inventory of crew-neck sweaters and tapered trousers.
Just up the road, a car wash, animal hospital, and church were clustered together, as if they had seceded from the downtown. From there to the storage unit, they passed two more churches, a party store, a run-down motel, a hidden campground, two trailer parks, a seasonal farmers market, a boat and kayak rental company, a cemetery, and an equipment rental business. The intersection of Beech and Mitchell, where the storage unit was located, was also the site of the US-127 on- and off-ramp; a busier area with a Save-a-Lot, Dollar General, gas station/Taco Bell combo, movie theater, Econo Lodge, and fast-food row of McDonalds, Burger King, and Arby’s.
Camellia was speechless.
At the storage unit, she and Henry sorted through boxes, their fingertips turning white from the cold as they searched for clothing, kitchen supplies, and any other easy-to-grab comforts from home to take back to the cottage. Everything else went into neat towers in the ten-by-twenty-five-foot unit. Henry signed papers with both the movers and the storage facility manager, and then locked the unit, adding the key to the rental car keychain that also held the
cottage key.
“Want to get some coffee?” Henry asked, unzipping his jacket once he was back in the car.
“Absolutely,” Camellia replied, rubbing her hands together for warmth.
They drove back into town, parking in front of the Beech Street Diner. Henry held the door to the diner for his wife, a tinny bell announcing them. The diner, painted pink and green, was large enough to hold ten tables plus the L-shaped counter with stools bolted to the tan and white checkerboard floor. The only other customers were two middle-age men with considerable bellies, wearing navy work pants and rugged brown jackets. A stout, dark-skinned woman behind the counter made coffee. On the radio, which was sitting on the end of the counter, a weepy country singer with a
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