Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(47)

I hope she doesn’t hate me after this.

EIGHTEEN

Water

now

The scent of lavender and sandalwood announces Dakota as she places a tall black coffee and a pastry in front of me.

“What a wonderful morning it is!” she exclaims with a broad smile, dropping her suede fringed purse onto the counter. In the three weeks since I started working at The Salvage Yard, the twenty-four-year-old shopkeeper has greeted me with those exact words every single day, rain or shine.

You would think that it might have gotten old by now. And yet it’s a daily reminder that every morning is a wonderful morning. Because I shouldn’t be alive to see it.

Short, natural fingernails curl around the top of a box. “Oooh! I’ve been waiting for Ms. Teal’s jewelry. Is this it?”

I nod through a sip of coffee as she reaches in and pulls out several copper-colored bracelets made from guitar strings, her big doe eyes sparkling with excitement as she slides them onto her wrist. The shop is tiny and jam-packed with all kinds of recycled merchandise, from jewelry to clothing to furniture. And, of course, Ginny’s quilts, which I found out are made from discarded scraps of fabric from a local sewing store.

“What do you think, Water?” She holds up her arm to display the various pieces.

“They’re beautiful.” Especially against her naturally dark Native American skin. She says she’s only one-quarter Chinook, but it must be an awfully big quarter, given her exotic dark features, thick black hair, and svelte figure. I would describe her more as hippie by choice, though, opting for flowing maxi dresses and Birkenstock sandals and a makeup-free face.

She drove back to Sisters from San Francisco in her 1982 VW Beetle seven months ago after the great-aunt who raised her and owned The Salvage Yard died, leaving her the shop. Dakota expects to head south again one day, but right now she’s enjoying “being back with nature.”

I think that’s why, the day I walked in here with Meredith and introduced myself as Water, she offered me a job on the spot, saying something about the stars aligning and a kismet connection, her slightly glazed eyes getting this dreamy look in them.

The rumor that Dakota smokes a lot of weed is not so much rumor as fact.

Luckily for me, my hippie boss believes in things like gut feelings instead of résumés and references. She also doesn’t believe in paying taxes, so I’m handed cash every second Friday.

“They’ll go fast with the tourists. Just you wait.” She slides the jewelry off her wrist. “All of this stuff will.”

I help her cut open the rest of the boxes delivered over the last week, pulling out hemp-woven bags, log lamps, and metal sculptures, until my fingertips grasp a coarse fabric.

This feels . . . I pull the material out and find a red-and-blue checkered blanket. I rub one corner between my fingertips, the strange blend of soft and rough textures pricking my skin.

“Those are wool, from the McMillan farms, about twenty miles south of here. We get a dozen each spring and they’re snapped up within weeks.”

An eerie tingle runs through my body, holding the blanket in my hands. When it comes times to pull them all out and lay them on a table, I find I can’t let the red-and-blue one go. But the price tag Dakota just stuck on one is more than I make in a week! “Is there any chance I can set one of these aside until I have enough money to buy it?”

She smiles. “Why don’t you take it home tonight and I’ll just deduct a quarter from your next four pays. At cost for you, of course.”

“Thank you.” I know I’ll have to remind her or she’ll forget. I tuck it under the counter with my purse and then continue my work, hanging the rest of the bracelets.

Dakota hums to herself, reviewing a small notebook she keeps tucked in the old cash register. She doesn’t believe in computers. “How’s Ginny doing with her quilts?”

“She’s been working hard.” I set to break apart the cardboard box.

“And you? How is your new hobby?”

“I think I need to come up with another one.” Ginny showed up at my door one night two weeks ago with a bag of scrap material, a ruler, and a “cutter.” She started me off by showing me how to make basic squares. That was easy. Last week, she showed me how to stitch the squares together.

I’ve learned that I’m not the most patient person.

Apparently I also stitch like a drunk, according to Ginny.

The bell hanging over the door jangles and my stomach tightens just a little. I automatically shift my stance and shake my hair forward. I do this anytime someone walks into the shop. That’s the problem with having a long scar line running down the length of your face. The concealer provides marginal help, but it can’t hide the creases when I smile. At least I don’t have a giant gap in my teeth anymore.

“Dakota Howard. Well, I’ll be damned. Look at you!” the tall dark-haired guy who just walked in announces, straightening the collar of his black coveralls, a tag that reads “Fanshaw Electrical” sewn into the breast pocket. “When Dad told me you called for some wiring issues, I had to take the job.”

Her face pinches up with recognition. “Chuck?”

He grins. “You bet! How long has it been?”

“You were a couple of years ahead of me in school, so . . . maybe eight years, I guess?”