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Skylar

"You know the drill, Mrs. Ryan. You can rub it on as often as you need, but just a small bit, as it goes a long way." I hand the glass jar containing the orange-tinted balm over to the elderly woman standing in front of me.

She mumbles a gruff "yes, yes" before handing me the necessary bills and making her way out of the store. After five weeks, I can see her mobility has improved since using my bestseller, an anti-inflammatory balm I have to make in large batches. She has been using it on her arthritic knee, and while she says it's her medication causing the change—the same medication she has been on for years with no results—she still keeps coming back.

When I first opened, I was lucky if I had even one customer a day walk into my store. After weeks of being open with nearly no sales, I was on the verge of calling it quits. Then one day, Mr. Adams from the bakery across the road came over to purchase some of that same balm for his hands. Someone—I'm still to find out who—told him about my shop, and thanks to that stranger, I am now thriving in this little town.

The improvement of his hands, which were inflamed because of arthritis, and all the kneading of bread he did, was called miraculous. That, coupled with the benefits of a close-knit community, means that word of mouth in this town is as effective as posting an ad. Word spread to the townsfolk, and now, a year on, business is booming. I even have a small online store where I sell and ship internationally.

"I'm heading out for a coffee. Do you want anything?" I ask Rene, who is spraying water on the various plants on a shelf near the door.

I hired her six months ago after she wandered in here asking me if I was looking for help. I wasn't, but after a brief conversation, I got such a good vibe from her that I ended up hiring her. The shop was doing well with the locals, and with online sales increasing, I could use another pair of hands. I got the feeling she was an outsider like myself in this town, and that made me empathize with her. I guess that's what ultimately swayed my decision.

That she is two years younger than me, vegan, and loves plants nearly as much as I do definitely helped her cause. Her dress style and mannerisms make me think she has been transported straight out of the sixties hippie period. She is my height, 5'5", lean and femininely muscular with a more tanned complexion compared to my paler, I-get-burned-just-looking-at-the-sun skin.

She also has gorgeous blue eyes, opposed to my plain hazel ones, topped off with thick, wavy black hair that reaches her waist. Her wavy hair seems effortlessly under control. Unlike mine. Though the partial dreadlocks were helpful for styling my unruly, curly red hair, it was far from the sleek hair Rene currently had tied up in a high ponytail.

She is really stunning, which made me wonder why she was still single. Though given the much older generation living in Willow Falls, the pickings were indeed slim. Not that a woman needs to be in a relationship to be happy, but this woman should have hordes of men or women lining up at the door.

"The usual," she says, giving me one of her killer smiles.

As I get to the door, the phone rings.

Rene answers it, her face scrunching up when she hears the voice on the other side, before coolly saying, "I'll get her for you."

Based on her reaction, I can just guess who it is, and my suspicion is confirmed when she holds the receiver up and mouths 'Chris', her dislike for him written all over her face. Bizarre, considering she has never met the man. Neither have I, to be fair. But from the first moment she spoke to him on the phone, she had an instant dislike for the faceless voice.

I, on the other hand, find his voice attractive and his personality charming. He supplies me with the more exotic herbs I require for my herbal infusions. The quality of his herbs is on par with mine, and his pricing isn't bad either. I'm lucky he found me.

He called me up out of the blue one day, saying he had seen my online store and wanted to know if I would be interested in buying herbs from him. I was skeptical at first, as he didn't even have a website I could check out. But he was insistent, even going so far as sending me some samples, along with a decadent herbal pumpkin pie tea mix, which I drink nearly every day. Chris includes this tea with every order I place, free of charge.

"Hey Chris," I say, after taking the receiver from Rene, who resumes her spritzing, though the frown remains deeply etched on her face.

"Hi Skylar, how are you today?" His voice is smooth as butter. While he sounds like he is in his mid-thirties, sometimes the way he talks makes me think he is older.

"You know you can call me Sky," I say, this reminder happening every time we talk. No one called me Skylar.

"Skylar suits you better." I blush and glance at Rene, who is rolling her eyes.

"How would you know? You haven't even met me," I say, angling my body away from her for some privacy.

"Just a guess." His voice has dropped and is deeper, more sensual.

"Have you received my latest shipment?" he asks, luckily changing the topic.

I turn back around to face Rene, and, as if she can hear both sides of the conversation, she points behind me without turning, to a box lying on the floor, unopened, next to the storage room. I shake my head, marveling at either her hearing or her ability to anticipate what is being said.

"Yep, I got it. I still need to open it. Thank you, Chris." I turn around again, playing with a leaf of the plant on the counter. Did he call all his customers to confirm they received their goods?

"I put some more of that tea you like in there. Are you still enjoying it?"

"Yes. It's so delicious, I drink it nearly every day. Thank you. You really should start charging me for it." Rene snorts, and when I glance at her, she has a strange expression on her face, one that she wipes when she catches my gaze.

"It's a gift for my special customer," he says, his voice low, almost seductive. A little too much for someone I haven't met.

"Well, I must go...thank you for calling. We'll chat again in two weeks, with the next order."

"Definitely Skylar. Take care of yourself." With that, the call ends. I slowly place the receiver down, wondering what kind of person is on the other side. When Rene clears her throat, I snap out of it, remembering the coffee I was on my way to get. I pass Rene, who is now giving her full attention to watering the plants, before I walk out of the shop.

The walk to Fred's Diner across the block, separated by a park, takes less than five minutes. I order the usual from Larry, the teenager manning the counter, who blushes and fumbles his words, as usual.

"Just a minute, Sky," he says, rushing into the back to get milk for the large coffee machine taking up most of the back counter.

As usual when killing time waiting for my order, I take in the décor, my gaze moving from one picture to another. They never get old. It's a vintage retro-style diner with old James Dean and Marilyn Monroe posters, among others, adorning the walls above the booths. The chairs and booth seating have worn red leather upholstery, adding to the old-school style.

As my gaze travels around the room, I catch the eye of a rather large, burly man sitting in the last booth at the back, sipping on a Coke. Aside from his size, the fact that he doesn't belong is drawing not just my gaze, but the curious glances of the locals occupying tables. The irony isn't lost on me that I am doing to a complete stranger what these people did to me. Staring at him like an animal on display.

My gaze dips to his hand wrapped around the glass. A glass that looks like a shot glass, thanks to the sheer side of his hand. I wonder how he hasn't shattered it. Perhaps he was taught from a young age how to control the force he applies, I think absentmindedly, smiling at the thought.

Larry brings my order, ending my musings over Burlo's huge hands. A coffee for me and a vegan frappuccino for Rene. Even small towns seem to embrace the vegan movement. I suppose they need to. Tourists love that kind of thing.

"Bye, Larry," I greet, grabbing my coffees and heading for the exit, giving Burlo one last glance. I almost felt sorry for him, being under such scrutiny. It was the same for me. To an extent, it still is.

But I'm not unaccustomed to people staring. The bright red hair and dreadlocks alone elicit looks, and that I wasn't born here means I will always be a spectacle in this small town where nothing much happens. Good thing I cover the birthmarks on both my wrists with chunky bracelets, else people's eyes would really pop out.

But this time, when I leave the diner, the feeling of eyes boring into my back, a feeling that should be usual, sends a ripple of apprehension down my spine. And with a bit more haste, I make my way back to the sanctuary of my shop, telling myself, just like I did this morning, that it is nothing. That it is all just my imagination.

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