Something of a Kind - By Miranda Wheeler Page 0,7

she accumulated three hours before his muffled shouts from the bottom of the stairs roused her at six.

Throughout her childhood, her mother had always crooned from the doorway. Vanessa had a gentle way of waking Aly during the summer, singing of the sunrise hours after dawn.

A thought that at one time could bring a smile to her face was now embittering. To rely on anyone else for the trivial task felt wrong. Greg was no exception.

Aly labored to concentrate on the greenery flying past the windows. It was hardly an escape from thinking, but it battled the lulling baritone of a ballad as it struggled through static.

Once losing hope in the station’s clari ty, her father silenced the radio. A relaxed hand sent the Chevy rolling across the lane. Alarmed horns and the squeal of a passing truck snapped her attention to the road. Greg veered left, pulling into a sloping driveway.

He glared at the intersection; the only remnant of the other vehicle was the exhaust cloud. After a moment of indecision, he slid an overstuffed binder from his lap to his feet. From the dirt caked across the cover, she assumed the careless discard was habitual.

He shuffled out of the vehicle with a lack of ease and lingered by the hood as she caught up. Gesturing across the street, Greg pointed at their destination.

A grand porch spanned the front of the building. Stippled with woodcarvings of bears and black-tailed deer, a rusting bench and neon welcome mat became peculiar outliers. Imitating a log cabin, the arrangement embraced the faux rustic theme of the town.

Having been raised in a lakeside Adirondack city, Aly had little difficulty recognizing tourist traps. From an understanding based on curious web searches, there weren’t many. Despite the flourishing fishing docks, the undeveloped bay made the area inaccessible to large fairies. Even the most unconventional vacationers avoided the archipelago’s mainland, preferring Prince of Wales and other islands.

Climbing the steps and crossing the threshold, tinkering bells announced her entrance. The art indoors was a far cry from the backwoods paraphernalia strung across the storefront. The space seemed limited for all its adornments.

Miniature totem poles flanked the sides of the shelves like bookends. Though the taxidermy lining the walls turned her stomach, Alyson admired the masks mounted between. A closer look revealed wheedled wood and visible brushstrokes, suggesting the region’s renowned native talent.

As she meandered through the space, she realized most of the store resembled her father’s cabinets. The thought of instant coffee, assorted jerky, or an iced slab of marked-down salmon was nauseating.

Aly sighed. She never thought of herself as difficult to please.

Maybe I just left this all up to Mom.

Nourishing was an undertaking her mother enjoyed. Between full-time waitressing, third-shift baking at Martha’s, and eventual culinary school, Vanessa seldom required kitchen assistance. She offered lessons, but detested assigning the maternal chore to her only daughter. Even as the cancer progressed, she preferred to orderin rather than send Aly to the cafeteria. Wrapped in a homemade afghan and sipping Ginger Ale, Vanessa religiously followed cooking networks well into the worst of her condition.

Until nausea forbade it.

Aly’s stomach rolled. Having thoroughly scavenged for alternatives, she settled with the basics. Frozen vegetables, overpriced berries, fundamentals. While and sparkling water were time-honored perusing the scattered aisles, she avoided

ominous flavorings and regional delicacies.

Leaving Kingsley is plenty adventurous for one week.

With the low shelving, a quick glance across the room revealed Greg’s absence. Swallowing the treachery of being left alone in a strange place, Aly located the checkout. She wasn’t overly fond of her father’s company, but it was almost becoming familiar.

Ashland suddenly seemed far too foreign.

Thumbing a card from her pocket, she heaved the basket onto a sticky countertop. Behind the cash register, a portly woman clad in khakis rummaged through bins, knocking stacks of paper across the floor.

Politely feigning patience, Aly skimmed the underwhelming displays of postcards and lighters. Prints of bears and wolves mimicked the gift shops laced throughout the mountains of upstate New York.

Jams from neighborhood canners and stacks of books describing native legends and local wildlife sat within a fiberglass case. Aly smiled at Alaska’s Hairy Man in Ketchikan. As she waited, she observed the sketch of what appeared to be a pot-bellied Ewok embossed on the cover.

The cashier jostled to the counter, dumping the contents of the crate between them. After dragging the items across a scanner, she scribbled onto a strip of pink paper. Stuffing round fingers into a canister labeled “.99” she dropped a