The Many and Varied Ways to be Awkward
Mercy Chapter 12
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Previous Chapter: A Safe Place for Everyone
“See you tonight,” Bill said, popping his head in at Isla’s office door. She looked up and nodded in a way that must not have seemed reassuring because he paused and said, “You’ll be there, right?”
Isla thought about a snappy comeback like, “Is it in my contract?” but bit it back. “Yes,” she nodded, “I’ll be there.” Actually, despite her inclination to needle Bill, she wouldn’t miss the town’s big Harvest Party. It was a big opportunity for several of “her” businesses that were holding open houses or other promotions. She’d even convinced Dave to borrow a screenhouse from Kim and Phil to set up on the common for participative stretching demonstrations. His new business card was sitting on her desk and she glanced at it now, noting the printer’s watermark which was the cost of getting 50 free cards. Well, you do what you have to do, she reasoned. Perhaps people would find it endearing.
When quitting time came, Isla just left her things in the office and ambled downstairs and out the door. She was pleased to see plenty of pedestrians, kids carving pumpkins in the park or decorating caramel apples. There was Dave, talking with a woman that Isla didn’t recognize outside his tent. She waved but he didn’t see her. Just then there was a wrenching, screeching sound from across the green. Isla winced as she turned to walk down the street towards a gift shop that had just opened in July. The big glass windows out front depicted a charming fall scene interspersed with pumpkin candles and apple soaps, handmade aprons, and dish towels. A sleigh bell tinkled on the door when she opened it and spicy scents streamed out.
“Oh, Isla,” said the woman behind the counter, “oh, Isla, you’ll never believe it.” An appliqued scarecrow sprawled cheerfully across her sweatshirt, but the woman’s face was pinched with anxiety.
“Hey, Irene. What is that terrible noise out there?” Isla gestured towards the park.
“Noise?” Irene looked blankly at Isla.
“Yeah, it’s not all the time, but it’s this screechy noise. Gives me shivers.”
“Oh . . . I guess they’re demo-ing a house across the way there,” Irene replied, preoccupied. “But listen, Isla, I’ve got to tell you something.” She leaned forward anxiously.
“What? What is it?”
“The mug cake kits? They’re selling them at the Farmer’s Market now.” Irene had been so excited to introduce that new product line last month, envisioning them flying off the shelves and into dorm care packages and Christmas stockings.
“Well,” Isla said, “that’s business.” She was always trying to walk a fine line between too encouraging and not enough. “Anyway, the market is only open for a few more weeks now.”
“True.” Irene nodded but seemed to feel only a little bit better.
“How’s it been today?”
“Starting to pick up,” Irene nodded as a couple of ladies entered. “A few of the girls I went to school with have been by; it was nice to catch up. People are excited about the buy-one-get-one sale.”
“Now we talked about that,” Isla said, a bit sternly. “Did you run your numbers?”
“I did, I did. I can swing it. I limited it to fewer items with bigger profit margins. I’m listening, Isla.”
“I know, Irene. I’m glad. I really want to see you succeed, you know. Handmade items are big right now, but it’s still a matter of connecting you with buyers.” Isla accepted one of the cups of hot cider that Irene was ladling from a crockpot and browsed the shelves for a few moments.
Irene couldn’t last, and Isla knew it. She’d tried to explain: handmade items need a market of people who appreciate the craftsmanship but won’t just make the items for themselves. Scottsville was basically the exact opposite: generations who needed to pinch pennies had made many people very competent at making things for themselves and cynical about spending cash on such things. Grandma was likely already supplying all the crocheted dish scrubbers that they needed. And the idea of purchasing for the sake of the craftsman or the local economy was something that a lot of people didn’t have the luxury to consider. On top of that, Isla had warned her that profits needed to be amazing now to float Irene through the vacant, glacial waters of January and February.
But Irene had wanted to try, and who could know for sure? Sometimes reality played pranks with the cold, hard data.
Isla picked out a cozy pair of wool mittens lined with felt; they’d make a nice gift for a small cousin at Christmas.
“Have fun,” she said to Irene. The bell tinkled behind her as she went out. Dave was still talking, this time to a man. Isla started to walk towards them; the man talking to Dave was stocky and several inches taller than him, partly due to the logger heels on his boots. He had work gloves sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans. There was something about him . . . Isla paused midwave as he turned slightly, realizing that it was Danny Fisher. Dave had seen her this time and motioned her over.
“Isla, I don’t know if you’ve met . . .”
“I have,” Isla said, somewhat asthmatic from her stroll across the park. “Nice to see you again.”
“You too.” Danny nodded agreeably and looked over her shoulder after briefly meeting her eyes.
“Isla’s probably here to check up on me. I’ve given away 20 business cards, boss,” he said, showing her the stack in his hand.
“Oh no, I’m not your boss. You’re the master of your fate, man, I’m not jumping on board that ship. But good job on the cards.”
“Thanks.” Dave grinned. Danny surreptitiously glanced between the two of them; Isla caught it and wondered why.
“Checking out the Harvest Party?” Isla asked Danny.
“Ah, well, no, not really, I was just over here trying to get a couple of things done. Seems like kind of a family event.” He shrugged.
“I know what you mean,” Isla agreed. “But it’s kind of fun.”
Dave looked at Danny and Isla mischievously, but Isla didn’t notice.
“Wish I could look around a bit,” Dave said. “Want to stay here and lead sun salutations for me?”
“Ha, maybe not. I think there’s free wings over at the ‘gastropub’,” Isla responded, complete with air quotes. “I’m going to head that way.”
“Is that one of yours?” Dave asked her.
“Nah, they have money,” she answered. “They don’t need me.”
“Yours?” Danny asked.
“One of the businesses I work with,” Isla explained.
“You should check it out,” Dave said to Danny.
“Well, I really should go . . .” he fumbled and came up empty.
“Great, it’s this way,” Isla smiled a little more confidently than she felt. “I’ll come back in a bit and I want to see names on your mailing and class lists,” she said to Dave.
“Aye aye,” he said.
Isla started to walk towards the pub, then paused to look back and see if Danny was making a move. He wasn’t, but when he saw her, he did, if somewhat reluctantly.
“Ever been to The Noble Publican?” she asked as his stride fell in line with hers.
“Not until now,” he said.
“Did you go to Gene’s Bakery when it was here?”
“I don’t think so; when was that?”
“Oh, years ago. When I was a kid. It was a favorite Saturday morning stop when I ran errands with my dad.”
“Hmmm, must have been before my time.”
Isla stopped and looked at him. “You can’t be that much younger than I am.”
Danny smiled and almost, for the first time in Isla’s presence, laughed. “I mean before my time in Scottsville. I grew up near Lewiston.”
“Ohhhh . . . I see. Well, Gene’s was the best. You could see into the kitchen and hear them rattling around and it always smelled sweet and yeasty.”
“And this place?”
“Rubbish.”
“Oh?” Danny seemed slightly startled.
“Run by some rich guy in Mass. I feel guilty every time I go there, but their wings are so good.”
“Just enjoy them, then,” Danny said. “Why complicate it? Anyway, what is there to feel bad about?”
“That I’m giving my money to some rich guy from away instead of someone here that needs it. And also . . . I don’t know. It feels. . .fake?”
“I have to be honest, I don’t know what you mean. It’s just a restaurant. You should just enjoy your wings.” Danny was scuffing his boots occasionally as they walked along, on purpose, and had his hands shoved in his pockets.
“Well, have you ever gone in there before?”
“No.”
“Why?” Isla stopped walking and looked at him.
“No reason,” he shrugged.
“But there is a reason. There has to be. Even when we don’t think about it, there’s some reason we make the choices we do. Go to some places and not others.”
“Maybe I just hadn’t heard how good the wings are.” Danny smiled at her again and held her eyes for one millisecond longer. She smiled back in spite of herself.
“But don’t you think about these things?”
“Wings?”
“No, no . . . who is welcome where, and why, and what things we value, and what makes us comfortable or uncomfortable.”
Danny considered for a moment before saying, “Nope. Do you recommend it?”
“Well . . . it’s probably easier to just enjoy the wings,” Isla said, resigned.
“I’d be happy to.”
A table was set up in front of the restaurant. Members of the wait staff, in pristine white aprons and shirts and black pants, were handing out one perfectly placed wing with one artistic garnish to each person who stopped. Adults got a tiny cup of ale to go with it.
“Hey, there’s ‘chick’n’ wings,” Isla said. “We should grab one for Dave.”
“Chick’n?” Danny looked at the calligraphed card.
“Yeah, it’s not chicken. It’s not meat.” When Danny still looked confused, Isla added, “Dave’s a vegetarian.”
“Oh!” Danny seemed profoundly saddened and Isla laughed.
“It’s all right, he’s a good guy anyway.”
Danny nodded soberly. “Yes, I know.”
Isla and Danny passed up the pub tables arranged in the vacant lot next to the restaurant and headed back to Dave’s tent, where Isla forked over his portion cup. Danny seemed more relaxed with Dave there to bear some of the social pressure. Isla was about to take a bite of her own chicken when Danny suddenly said, “Wait.” She looked at him expectantly. “Don’t think about Gene’s Bakery or who owns The Noble Publican or whether the staff’s aprons are too starchy for folks like us. You’ve got about three bites of chicken and four sips of beer. Just take a minute to taste them.”
Isla smiled, surprised to hear so many words at a time from him. “I’ll try it,” she said, “but you can have my beer, I don’t like it.”
“Thanks,” Danny made a toasting gesture as he accepted the tiny cup. She tried her wing; she’d chosen the hot honey flavor.
“Well?” he asked when she was done.
“Thank you. I feel rested.”
“Rested?” he laughed.
“You were right, it tastes better without the side of introspection. I mean,” she hastened to add, “I wouldn’t want to stop thinking deeply forever, though. Somebody’s got to do it.”
Dave chuckled and Danny smiled. “I guess so,” he allowed.
“Isla!” The voice approaching from behind her frothed with surprise and delight, which was odd, because it was Bill, whom she’d seen an hour before and knew she was coming. “So good to see you.”
It was interesting, Isla thought, the many and varied ways that people can be awkward.
“It’s nice to see you, too, Bill.” There was a sarcastic note in her voice for the benefit of the others, which she too late thought sounded a little mean.
“And this is . . . David, right? And Fisher?”
“Daniel Fisher,” Danny said, nodding a greeting.
“Excellent! You’re the one that Isla’s working with on the garage, aren’t you?”
Danny glanced at Isla quizzically.
“I’ve been up to Danny’s garage, yes,” she said.
“Great, I can’t wait to see what you do with the place!” It was unclear if this remark was addressed to Isla or Danny and a little current of tension became more obvious. Dave tried to disrupt it.
“Care to have a free mini yoga session?”
Bill said with characteristic gusto, “Absolutely! I’d love to! After you,” he said to Isla.
“Oh, I’m all set,” she said, “I’m in a class already.”
“You?” Danny shook his head. “Well, looks like it’s just me then! Let’s find out what all the buzz is about!”
“Buzz?” Danny asked as the screen fell behind Bill.
“It’s just how he talks. He is the buzz, usually.”
“Ah.” Danny was awkwardly silent, then said, hesitantly, “What . . . what did he mean about you working on my garage?”
“Oh, just what I told you when I was up there,” Isla said, “they’d like it to be prettier. I don’t plan to do more than I already have. You’re doing fine.”
“What is it that they want you to do?”
“Well,” she sighed, “there’s this big Main Street project meant to make the town . . . well, cuter. A garage is a garage. I suppose they’d like you to . . . I don’t know, a garage that all the cars could park inside would be unreasonable. Maybe a privacy fence, some landscaping, some vintage signs. Give it a kind of Mayberry/Gomer Pyle feel?”
“Do you think I should do that?”
“No. It’s a waste of money for you. It won’t get you any more business.” Isla enjoyed giving him a dose of the confidence that he sometimes seemed to lack.
“Would it be good for the town?” Isla couldn’t get a read on him; his expression was concerned, but he had also seemed a bit annoyed at the idea of being tampered with.
“I like the town. There’s nothing wrong with the town, or at least . . . nothing that vintage signs will fix.” Isla shrugged. “Look, your garage is a necessity, and I don’t think everything within the municipality needs to be curated and Instagram ready. Some things can just be what they are. People need be able to live their lives without being critiqued all the time. That’s what I think . . . so I’d say, in your case, keep doing what you’re doing. It’s working.”
Danny’s face relaxed. “Thanks. I think so.” He realized that Isla was looking over his shoulder and holding back a smile. Bill was trying unsuccessfully to find his center of gravity as he bent into positions that his dress pants were never meant to accommodate, necktie flapping. “He’s a good sport,” Danny observed.
Isla met his eyes for a moment. “I don’t always see him that way, but . . . I suppose he is. Yes, I suppose he is.”
After a few moments of silence, Danny said, “Well . . . I suppose I really should get home.”
“Oh, let me take your . . .” and Isla fumbled for his trash, dropping a napkin, a parsley sprig.
“Thanks. Good to see you again.” Danny nodded a farewell and strode towards a nearby truck.
“You too.” Danny turned back and waved. She waved back and smiled.
Next Chapter: Completely Understandable
Copyright 2025 Jennie Robertson