Before starting to drive again, I went into another discount store, just to browse. They had a good price on driving gloves, so I picked up a pair to use in Moose County next winter—that is, if I'm still in Moose County next winter. Time will tell. I may be in Alaska. Or the Canary Islands.
THURSDAY EVENING . . . Tonight I paid for two rooms at the Mountain Charm Motel, which would be improved by better plumbing and mattresses and fewer ruffles and knickknacks. When I put on my new slippers, I found out that the one I had tried on in the store was size twelve, all right, but the other was size eleven. That led me to inspect the driving gloves. They were both for the right hand! There's one thing I like about Moose County: Everyone's honest . . . Tomorrow we arrive in Potatoland.
FRIDAY . . . Last leg of our journey. Koko and Yum Yum have just had their first experience with a tunnel through a mountain. They raised holy hell until we emerged into the sunlight . . . They're getting excited. They know we're almost there.
Directional signs are beginning to assure me that Spuds-boro really exists. The purplish ridges in the distance are turning into rounded mountains of misty blue, and the highway is heading toward a gap between them. Now and then it runs close to the Yellyhoo River . . . Just caught a strong whiff of pine scent from a truckload of logs coming out of the mountains . . . It's been raining here; there's a rainbow . . . We're passing a well-kept golf course, a new hospital, three fast-food palaces, a large mall. Judging by the number of car dealers, Spudsboro is booming! . . . Here we are at the city limits—time to stop talking and concentrate on my driving.
Upon arriving in the small but thriving metropolis of Spudsboro, Qwilleran found it to be a strip-city, a few blocks wide and a few miles long, wedged between two mountain ranges. Three or four winding but roughly parallel streets and a railroad track were built on a series of elevations—like shelves—following the course of the river. On one shelf a locomotive and some hopper-bottom cars were threatening to topple over on the buildings below. Qwilleran imagined the whole town might wash away downstream if hit by a hard rain.
At the residential end of Center Street a conglomeration of Victorian cottages, contemporary split-levels, and middle-aged bungalows coexisted peaceably—with the usual hanging flower baskets on porches, tricycles on lawns, and basketball hoops on garage fronts. Next came the commercial strip: stores, bars, gas stations, small office buildings, barbers, two banks, and one traffic light.
Naturally Qwilleran's eye was quick to spot the newspaper office, the animal clinic, and the public library. In the center of town a miniature park was surrounded by the city hall, fire hall, police department, county courthouse, and post office. Pickets were parading in front of the courthouse, which had a golden dome too grandiose for a building of its modest size, and a police officer was issuing a parking ticket. Altogether it was a familiar smalltown scene to Qwilleran, except for the mountains looming on each side of the valley.
Somewhere up there, he kept telling himself, was the hideaway where he would be living and meditating for three months. It was comforting to know that he could rely on police and fire protection; that he could take his cats to the veterinarian and his car to the garage; that he could have his hair cut and his moustache trimmed. Although he wanted to get away from it all, he was reluctant to get too far away.
At the Lessmore & Lessmore office on Center Street he angle-parked and locked all four doors, having rolled down the windows two inches with confidence that he would find no bent coat hanger on his return.
There were two enterprises sharing the building: a real estate agency and an investment counseling service. In the realty office a woman with a husky voice was talking on two telephones at once. She was on the young side of middle age, short and rather pudgy, dressed in bright green, and coiffed with an abundance of fluffy hair. On her desk was a sign that destroyed Qwilleran's preconceived notion of Dolly Lessmore: THANKS FOR NOT SMOKING.
"Ms. Lessmore?" he inquired when she had finished phoning. "I'm Jim Qwilleran."
She jumped up and trotted around the desk with bubbling energy and outstretched hand. "Welcome to Spudsboro! How was the trip? Have a chair? Where are the cats?"
"The trip was fine. The Siamese are in the car. When did you give up smoking?"
She darted a puzzled glance at her client. "How did you know? Last March a charming young doctor at the hospital gave a class in not-smoking."
"Spudsboro seems to be a lively town," he said approvingly, "and right up to the minute."
"You'll love it! And you'll love your mountain retreat! I'm sure you're anxious to see it and move in, so as soon as I make one more phone call, I'll take you up there."
"No need. You're busy. Just tell me where it is."
"Are you sure?"
