Dan pulled his delivery truck into the rear of the deli, the park brake applied as he took a swig from the thermos of coffee notched in the drink holder. It had been a hectic morning for him, shuttling between different suppliers beyond town, gathering supplies for the deli and its patrons. His sole focus was to swiftly unload the cargo, allowing him to make a start on his long delivery route that would take up the rest of his work day.
With a sense of purpose, Dan swung out of the cab, clipboard in hand which was filled with the day's delivery schedule. Reaching the back of the vehicle, he opened the cargo compartment and began loading a hand truck with goods and raw materials bound for the deli's bustling kitchen and display counters. With the hand truck heavy and full, he wasted no time and pushed the supplies into the storeroom, calling for assistance as he efficiently began offloading the supplies.
In response to Dan's call, Colin emerged from the front of the shop. The two friends quickly shared their secret handshake, a brief moment of camaraderie, before getting back to the task at hand. With a shared understanding of the importance of their work, they swiftly moved to restock the deli's storeroom. Colin's seriousness was apparent as he diligently arranged large containers of herbs and spices onto their designated shelves, while fresh ingredients like eggs and milk were carefully delivered to the kitchen, awaiting the chefs' skilled hands.
After several trips of Dan's rattly hand truck, the deli's storeroom was fully replenished with fresh supplies for the day. Colin, always thoughtful, had already organized Dan's deliveries, ready to be loaded onto the truck. The orders were boxed, sealed and placed against the wall so as to not obstruct their movement. They were also strategically arranged, with the last deliveries conveniently positioned at the front, making Dan's job easier.
Grateful for Colin's attention to detail, Dan began loading his truck with the day's deliveries. Handing Colin his clipboard, Dan asked his friend to double-check the list to ensure it matched the orders Colin had prepared.
Colin grabbed the clipboard, his round, keen eyes scanning the lengthy list of customers and their corresponding orders. Dan couldn't help but smile at Colin's intense concentration, appreciating his thoroughness.
"Take it easy, buddy," Dan said, chuckling. "You look like you're about to pop a vein. It's going to be fine."
Colin sighed, his eyes still glued to the list.
"The quicker I finish checking the list, the quicker I can help you with loading the truck. We've got a long list of food orders today, probably because of this fantastic party weather we've been having."
Dan laughed heartily. "Absolutely! I'm eagerly looking forward to the weekend, so we can get together, have a couple of beers, and savor this gorgeous weather."
"Damn it, I forgot the Black Forest Ham for Lindstrom Sandwiches." Colin exclaimed, blowing out a puff of air in frustration.
Dan approached his friend, giving him a consolatory pat on the back.
"Hey, Colin, relax, it's all good." Dan reassured him. He observed Colin's frazzled demeanor and remarked, "I can tell today's opening has been hectic by how harried you look. Let me take care of the ham. You go ahead and finish loading the last deliveries and then head back to the front of the shop."
Colin nodded emotionlessly as Dan rushed off to retrieve the missing Black Forest Ham. He navigated the familiar aisles of the cooler, passing rows of dried meats hanging from the racks, memories of delightful lunch platters shared with his new friends from the deli. Opening a few boxes, he found legs of maple-glazed hams, another tempting sight but not what he needed. Eventually, before the chill of the cooler got to him, he spotted his prize: the deli's signature Black Forest ham, wrapped in a white cheesecloth.
Dan regarded the ham with pride. It was a creation of his own, one he had painstakingly cured and smoked following a traditional recipe he had stumbled upon in an old German cookbook from the Millerton thrift shop. As he carried the large ham over his shoulder, the rich aroma of pine smoke and juniper berries enveloped him. His mouth watered at the thought of savoring a thick slice of the ham on fresh bread with a generous spread of Dijon mustard.
Returning to his truck, Dan carefully secured the large ham in the cargo area before tightly shutting the door. He looked around, wanting to thank Colin for his assistance. However his friend was nowhere to be seen, Colin having returned to the front of the shop, attending to customers with his characteristic sense of responsibility and dedication.
As Dan circled around to the driver's side and opened the van door, a message from a customer on his phone momentarily distracted him. However, before he could react, a familiar voice suddenly shouted from the passenger seat.
"Hey there, Buckaroo!" Becky's voice rang out in a playful cowboy accent.
Dan nearly dropped his phone in surprise, but a wide grin broke out on his face as he leaned over the gear lever to give Becky a warm, tight hug. He was filled with joy to see her right there before him.
"Sneaky little imp," Dan chuckled affectionately, his heart warmed by her surprise appearance.
Becky accepted her new nickname with pride, delighted to have injected a bit of morning mischief into Dan's routine. She leaned in to take a careful sniff around Dan's neck.
"Hmmm, you smell good," she remarked, her voice filled with admiration. "Like a smoky deli sandwich."
Dan laughed heartily at her comment. "That must have been from the Black Forest ham I was carrying." he explained, "You like the smell huh? Maybe I should get into the perfume business. I'll call it 'Eau De Smoko Porco'.'"
Becky groaned in jest, but her eyes danced with amusement as she playfully swatted Dan's arm.
"Oh, you think that name is just brilliant, but you just don't want to admit it." He leaned back comfortably into his driver's seat. "So, what brings you to Millerton today? Did you drive all the way here to see me?"
"Hardly!" She replied, "I was looking for a bit of adventure, and I thought Millerton might fit the bill. I'm going to visit the local art gallery, do a spot of shopping, go for a nature walk, and I might even get a few frames of bowling in—all before sunset!"
Dan chuckled appreciatively. "I'm working for the weekend, but you're already there!" he said, clearly impressed.
They shared a laugh, and then Becky's eyes softened as she looked at Dan with a touch of hope. "Would you be free to catch up sometime?" she asked earnestly. "Even if it's just for half an hour during your break or something."
Dan thought for a moment before replying, "The advantage of doing the early shift is that I get off at 2 pm. I'm all yours after that. Where do you think you'll be around that time?"
Becky's face lit up with excitement, her hands reaching out for something to grasp, eventually her hand found Dan's.
"I just need to be back in Sommerfield for dinner, so I'll leave Millerton at four. I have no idea where adventure will take me, so I'll call you closer to two."
Dan nodded with a smile. "Sounds like a plan. That's plenty of time to do something together." He glanced at his watch regretfully. "Unfortunately, duty calls. I've got to make a start on my big scary delivery route."
Becky nodded in understanding as Dan settled into his seat, buckling his seat belt. However, she didn't move from her spot.
"Does your delivery run happen to pass by the art gallery?" she asked with an innocent look in her eyes.
Dan raised an eyebrow with a knowing smirk. "Are you trying to bum a ride?"
Becky responded with a sweet, hopeful smile, turning on the charm as she curled a few strands of her shoulder-length hair around her finger.
"I've never had the fortune to ride in such a cool, big, green delivery truck driven by such a hunky delivery man before,"
Dan shook his head with a mixture of disbelief and amusement. "Becky Jones, where did you pick up such cheap tricks from? Did you learn this from flirting with all the guys at university?"
Becky laughed, "Oh no, tricks this good they don't teach in school! But you do realize you've got an adoring female fan over at Pineview Kitchen who came up with the phrase 'hunky deli delivery man who's delivering more than just cold cuts'."
Dan chuckled with recognition.
"That would be Sophia. She's a really great girl. A bit of a dynamo of unstoppable energy."
"Oh I know! And let me warn you, Sophia seems to have sized you up already. I'm sure the word 'hottie' was also used at some point when she was talking about you."
A blush of modesty tinged Dan's cheeks as he considered the situation. He placed his right palm over his forehead in exasperation. "I better watch myself, or I'll be swept up in her supercharged tornado of hyperactivity. I made the mistake of drinking with Sophia once, that girl is a human beer sponge."
Becky, not one to be outdone, quickly related her beer story.
"You know Dan, I did win a beer-drinking contest in university recently." she said with slight embellishment.
Dan raised an eyebrow skeptically. "That's quite surprising. I always thought you were the reigning champion of staying sober."
"I wasn't old enough to drink back then! I didn't want to get in any trouble with my parents. But it turns out I've inherited a superhuman beer-drinking gene from my dad."
Dan nodded slowly, his eyes dancing with amusement. "I've always admired your girl scout-like discipline back in the day." Dan said, "To celebrate your achievements, it looks like I'll have to make you a mocktail next time so you can join the adults' table."
Becky responded with a mock frown, sticking her tongue out at Dan.
"Very funny, Danny Fenton. You've really picked up an attitude and a half in the few years I haven't seen you."
Dan smiled to himself as he started the truck's engine. "Well close the door and buckle up so we can get going. I apologize for being so bossy, but this hunky delivery man's gotta go deliver some cabanossi." He rhymed playfully.
Becky laughed with a chorus of delighted laughter as she closed the door. The truck slowly rolled away from the deli, setting out on their short drive to the art gallery.
As they drove down the main street of Millerton, the traffic became unusually congested. Stopping at a traffic light, Dan and Becky found themselves in a mini traffic jam, a sight rarely seen in these quiet parts of the country.
Dan furrowed his brow, bewildered by the traffic as he observed buses and trucks jostling for position, impatient honking disrupting the peaceful country air. He muttered to himself about how Millerton's traffic had never been like this. Glancing at Becky, he asked, "Is traffic really like this every day in California?"
A loud honk from the car behind him jolted Dan back to reality, and he quickly moved forward, extending his hand out of the window with an apologetic wave.
Becky smiled at his flustered reaction to the honking.
"California is such a big and varied place," she began. "Sure, downtown Los Angeles can get pretty gridlocked during peak hours." She paused, her eyes distant as she recalled fond memories. "But I've also driven through country roads in the desert where there was nary a soul to be seen for miles."
She chuckled as she recalled an amusing encounter, "Once, I even saw a roadrunner speeding across the road in front of me."
Dan's eyes widened with surprise. "What, like from the cartoons?"
Becky nodded, her laughter ringing out. "Yes, exactly like the cartoon!"
Dan couldn't help but smile at her infectious laughter. He had always appreciated her ability to find joy in the little things.
"Tell me more," he urged.
"Well, on that occasion, I had gone on a short trip with a few of my friends. We spent a night camping outdoors at a national park in the southeastern desert." Her voice held a sense of wonder as she continued, "It was incredible, watching the orange glow of the sunrise over the dry desert landscape. It reignited my love for nature. It's different from the forests and lakes back in Sommerfield, but it's no less beautiful."
Dan stole a glance at Becky, the serene look of satisfaction on her face made him smile too.
As the conversation flowed, Dan couldn't help but express a bit of concern. "Are there scorpions in the desert?"
"Apparently there are, but I didn't see any at that time," she replied. "Are you scared of scorpions?"
Dan shifted in his seat, his hand fidgeting nervously.
"Who wouldn't be?"
Becky smiled slyly, "I'm going to keep that in mind."
"Why?" Dan couldn't help but feel a bit anxious about where this conversation was going.
Becky's smile grew mischievous. "It's sure to come in handy sometime."
Dan jokingly protested, "I'm not sure if I like this new Becky Jones I'm seeing!"
Dan skillfully piloted the truck through the streets as they navigated the maze of traffic that had momentarily ensnared Millerton's center. Breaking through the choking traffic a mile or so down the road, they arrived at the edge of town. Dan expertly pulled the truck off the road, entering a small gravel parking lot in front of a converted barn that housed the local art gallery of Millerton.
Becky gazed out the window at the charming gallery, its rustic exterior exuding a warm and inviting atmosphere. Next to it stood a quaint farmhouse cafe and souvenir shop, surrounded by a picturesque garden. Wooden benches and colorful outdoor umbrellas adorned the lush green lawn. A small bus was parked nearby, and tourists could be seen enjoying their time, chatting and sipping cups of amber liquid. Some visitors strolled around the scenic garden, capturing photos of the gallery barn, which proudly displayed the North Star Flag fluttering in the breeze.
Turning her attention back to Dan, Becky smiled and said, "Well, this is my stop." She expressed her gratitude for the ride and confirmed once more that she would call him later in the day to arrange their next meeting.
Leaning over, she hugged Dan tightly, a genuine show of appreciation for his kindness.
Dan reciprocated the embrace warmly, his voice sincere as he said, "Have a good time exploring the town, Becky. I'll see you later."
Just as Becky was about to exit the van, she turned back to Dan with a thoughtful expression.
"Wait," she said, her curiosity piqued. "Every Millerton local I've met so far has given me a tip about the town. Now that you're a naturalized Millertonian," she continued, "what's your tip?"
Dan took a moment to contemplate the question, his eyes wandering toward the breathtaking view outside the front window. The rolling fields of green grass stretched into the distance, leading to the edge of a tranquil pond. He couldn't help but smile as he soaked in the beauty of the scenery and the sight of Becky patiently awaiting his answer.
With a tender smile, Dan finally replied, "Don't fall in love with everything you see, or you can never leave again."
Becky smiled in understanding, appreciating the wisdom in his words. She closed the van door and, before parting ways, gave Dan a final wave as his truck drove away.
Turning towards the gallery, she started down the fine gravel path, her hiking boots crunching softly as she approached the front entrance of the massive red barn. Above the door, an intricately carved wooden architrave depicted a cornucopia brimming with the bounties of the local harvest. Intrigued, she paused to examine its remarkable detail. Upon closer inspection, she discovered tiny figures hidden amidst the ornate woodwork, their features meticulously rendered, possibly inspired by real individuals known to the artist.
Upon crossing the threshold, Becky was enveloped by the cool, musky aroma of old wood. The gallery's interior revealed an impressive collection of paintings and sculptures. Smaller artworks adorned the barn's posts, while larger canvases hung from wires attached to the ceiling joists, creating partitions that divided the space into distinct sections.
Near the entrance, a petite counter was staffed by a friendly man, clad in an olive green cardigan. He looked up from the book he was reading, removing his reading glasses, and greeted Becky with a warm smile. His curly black hair framed his dark face, his eyes creasing with hospitality.
As he handed Becky a small brochure detailing the current exhibitions and brief biographies of the local artists featured, she noticed a donation tin and contributed to support the gallery's endeavors. The man nodded appreciatively before returning to his book.
The gallery's silence resembled that of an empty church, with every step Becky took echoing through the hallowed space. The occasional creak of wood echoing through the barn added to the reverential atmosphere.
The large paintings predominantly featured various landscapes, each one resembling an ornate window frame offering glimpses into different seasons and moments of rural Minnesota. These scenes resonated deeply with Becky, evoking memories of her childhood spent exploring the natural beauty surrounding Sommerfield; a wooded grove revealing itself along the tranquil riverbanks, vast plains of grass bordering cornfields, and solitary farmhouses standing steadfast amidst the unvarying farmland.
The paintings appeared to chronicle the very essence of the days she had known growing up. Those afternoons spent exploring the world beyond the backyard of her home in Sommerfield, as if it had been painstakingly captured by an astute and meticulous observer.
Despite the technical prowess and evocative nature of the artworks, they still lacked the whimsy and imaginative spark Becky had preferred in creative works. She sighed audibly, catching the curious gaze of the gallery's minder who momentarily looked up from his book.
Becky scolded herself silently, wondering why she couldn't simply appreciate these works as expressions of love and dedication from artists who shared her deep Minnesota roots.
Navigating the rows upon rows of landscapes, both grand and intimate, the cacophony of colors and shapes became overwhelming. A sense of drowning slowly crept over her.
Above her, the wires suspending the paintings ascended towards the barn's rafters, disappearing into the ceiling just past the collar tie. They were illuminated by the dormer, gently swaying in response to the subtle breeze that permeated the space. They resembled the long seagrass she had observed while diving off the California coast—tethered to the ocean floor and reaching out toward the light.
Struggling to wade through the sea of art, Becky finally reached the gallery's end. There, in dreadful majesty, stood a sculpture hewn from black granite, its gaze fixed intently upon her. It took on the form of a malevolent creature, its eyes sunken and filled with insatiable hunger. A pair of chipped and broken deer horns jutted from its skull-like head, its emaciated torso bearing the marks of battles endured, a canvas of random and deep chisels marks that conveyed a sense of a wounded and untamed soul.
The sculpture, with its primal allure, drew Becky in, almost as if her last breath had been captured in a final scream of terror, immortalized in this haunting creation. It was so lifelike that it seemed to move, its crouched form turning toward her, its malevolence palpable in the dimly lit back section of the gallery.
Becky's trance-like state was shattered by the gentle shuffling of fabric beside her. It was the minder who had silently joined her. A single cough brought her back from the depths of contemplation.
Startled, Becky turned her head to face the man, her breath returning to its regular rhythm as if she had been salvaged from the depths of the sea. Her disorientation ebbed away, and she felt her senses returning to her control.
"Is this sculpture of the Wendigo?" Becky asked shakily, her eyes fixed on the ominous figure carved from the unyielding black stone.
The man's response was filled with cheerful chirpiness, a stark contrast to the eerie presence of the sculpture, "Yep, a final work by a little-known artist who lived some thirty miles from Millerton. Are you familiar with the legend of the Wendigo?"
Becky nodded with a sense of recognition. "Very familiar," she replied. "I've read a lot of folklore books in my time."
The man acknowledged her response with a nod and continued, "This sculpture has quite an interesting story of its own. It was carved from an exceptionally hard and challenging type of granite that isn't native to the area. The artist must have endured considerable pain and frustration to mold the stone into the hunched, organic shape you see before you."
Becky was darkly intrigued, "You mentioned it was his final work. Did the artist..."
The man sighed somberly, "Unfortunately, yes. The sculptor passed away shortly after completing the sculpture. He had once been a healthy and active member of the Millerton community, but something changed in him. He withdrew from society, moving to a small farmhouse studio outside of town. He was about your age when he died in that studio, not long after finishing the Wendigo. They found him sitting on the patio, gazing out at the cornfields. It seemed he had acquired and succumbed to some sort of illness, an undiagnosed ailment resembling what they used to call consumption."
"Consumption?" Becky queried, puzzled. "But people don't really die from tuberculosis anymore."
The man pondered for a moment before responding, "You're right, that's true, but perhaps he shunned treatment due to his reclusive nature. Perhaps this dark sculpture was a way for the artist to reclaim himself from the pallor of his illness."
Becky's gaze shifted uneasily back to the sculpture. The mythical creature continued to regard her menacingly, as though challenging her to confront the questions lurking in her heart—questions about her true desires and the lengths she would go to achieve them.
The man regarded Becky with hope in his eyes. "I can see this piece resonates with you." he put his hands together before him, "Would you perhaps consider purchasing it? The proceeds would support the artist's estate and provide funding for the artist retreat at his former studio, providing opportunities for emerging artists in rural Minnesota."
Becky gazed at the man with heavy eyes and then back at the imposing sculpture. "I'm sorry," she replied softly, "even if I could afford it, I wouldn't be able to take it home."
The man shrugged, acknowledging her decision. "It's a shame," he said, "but perhaps it's for the best that the statue remains here in the gallery. I've noticed it has a certain effect on other visitors as well and is becoming quite a drawcard, attracting out-of-town visitors."
He chuckled softly to himself with satisfaction before walking back to his counter. "Before you leave," he called out, "you should try the cider from the gallery cafe. It got a kick like a whitetail. It's worth every penny."
Becky watched as the man settled back at his counter and buried his head back into his book. Drawn to the enigmatic black stone, she tentatively reached out her hand to touch it but thought better of it and let her hand drop to her side. Turning away, she moved quickly toward the exit, maneuvering through small gaps between the sea grasses in her haste to escape.
Stepping outside the barn, the familiar sounds of the wind rustling through trees and the occasional passing car grounded her in reality. She cast one last glance at the barn, its unassuming exterior concealing a dark heart that had unsettled her. With determination, she began her walk back into Millerton, eager to immerse herself in the distractions of shopping and the lively atmosphere of the bustling town.