fewer than the number of rodent-size dogs you can spy on a stroll down Rodeo Drive. In other words, a lot. I’ve made it my goal to mail my brother a postcard from each and every one.
He ambles past the woman, who turns to watch him as he reaches for the door handle.
INT. POST OFFICE—DAY
Inside the narrow space, a short wooden counter is directly ahead. The left and right walls are covered with old-fashioned post office boxes, their glass faces painted with gold numbers edged in black that look Western in design. Behind the counter is twenty-four-year-old CHARLOTTE “CHARLIE” WALKER, her head with its pixie-cut of flaxen hair lowered as she organizes something on the shelf below. When the door opens, she looks up with a smile. It fades as LINUS crosses the threshold.
CHARLIE
Are you lost?
Staring at CHARLIE, LINUS’s hand creeps up to his chest. Then he shakes himself a little, pulls in a breath and beams out another trademark grin.
LINUS
I think I just found exactly what this summer’s been lacking.
* * *
THE COLD BROOK, California, post office provided counter service for its small community from 3:00 p.m. until 5:00 p.m. in the afternoon, Monday through Friday. Charlotte Walker passed a book of stamps over the scarred wooden surface and flashed a farewell smile for her friend Janelle, who clerked in the deli/grocery next door. It was Monday, which meant Charlie hoped to be seeing the other woman again a couple of evenings from now in Blue Arrow Lake. The two of them and some other girlfriends had a standing date in the bigger town twelve winding miles down the highway—weather permitting. A fierce March storm had been raging on and off but if it let up, then Charlie was going to have a relaxing couple of glasses of wine with her friends later this week.
A girl, even a born-and-bred mountain girl, had to get out and see a little more of the world sometimes.
Charlie took a peek at the wall clock. Fifteen more minutes then she’d slide and lock the metal grille that secured the counter area and back room. She expected one or two of Cold Brook’s eight hundred residents would rush through at 4:58 p.m. with the urgent need to get a package weighed or a letter sent off, so she occupied herself by tidying the carousel of postcards that sat next to her station. Hardly anyone ever gave them a glance, so it was a bit anal of her to double-check they were properly organized, but she was studying online for a degree in accounting and details mattered to Charlie.
The customary squeak of the front door came at 4:57 p.m. A bit early, she thought, glancing up to see Walt Eustace bustle through, a box of pamphlets in his arms. Brochure-mailing day, she guessed. It was the time of year when he sent out reminders to previous renters of Cold Brook properties in anticipation of the summer season. We wish you were here!
Walt’s big belly had yet to make it halfway to her when the door swung open again and twelve-year-old Erin Frye walked through, a letter clutched in her hand. She had a pen pal across the country, someone she’d linked up with through Scouting, and Erin enjoyed perusing the binder of stamp choices to pick just the right one to paste in the right-hand corner of the envelope intended for her buddy in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Charlie stifled a little sigh. Stamp-shopping could take the middle-schooler past closing time.
Oh, well. Given that Erin’s pen pal was a Boy Scout, Charlie got a little kick out of imagining an innocent romance was blooming in the mailbags that crossed the country. It spiced up the mundane routine of her days as the winter doldrums had yet to be replaced by spring fancies.
She was reaching for Walt’s carton of glossy leaflets when the door squeaked a third time, bringing with it another cool draft of moist air. The small hairs on Charlie’s exposed nape stood up, an instant before her gaze lifted to take in the newcomer.
Her palms went damp.
Charlie’s rite of passage had returned.
In haste, she refocused on the pamphlets and pasted on a smile for Walt. “Hey, you just made it in under the wire,” she said, raising her voice. “Don’t know that I’ll be able to take care of all the customers before closing time.”
Behind Walt, Erin let out a little bleat of distress. Feeling guilty, Charlie looked around Walt’s rotund form to meet the girl’s eyes. “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “Your letter will go out today.”
The man still loitering by the entrance didn’t get any of her attention. Why, oh, why, was Linus here? She’d never expected to see him again; had made it clear that theirs had been a short-term summer romance. No way was she onboard with a replay.
Walt was his usual jovial self. She would have chatted him up longer, hoping that Linus might get bored and leave, but Erin was shuffling her feet and appearing anxious. So Charlie finished business with her current customer, then dragged out the fat binder of loose stamps as Erin stepped up to the counter. From the periphery of her vision, she saw Linus hold open the door and say “Good day” to Walt.
Why couldn’t he follow the other man out?
Her gaze returned to the plastic sleeves that displayed the available offerings. The young girl studied them with deep concentration. “Can I choose more than one—as many as I like as long as it adds up to first class postage?”
“No problem,” Charlie assured the girl. “I’ll hand-cancel them myself.”
Erin turned the page to inspect the next sleeve’s contents. Her fingernails were painted a glittery purple and she had a unicorn-embossed elastic bandage wound around one knuckle—both accessories seemed at odds with her almost-grown-up demeanor.
Had she been so serious at twelve? Charlie wondered. Maybe it took a love interest from far away to turn a girl solemn. Though Charlie’s out-of-towner hadn’t shown up for over a decade, the instant the tall, charming flatlander had strolled into her post office last August she’d recognized the momentous occasion.
Many young mountain women went through the ritual event of a summer fling with one of the area’s wealthy visitors. Opposite attraction was clearly a potent force. By the age of nineteen or twenty, females who grew up in the small, insular communities surrounded by peaks and pines had usually dated all the local guys they found attractive. Working as waitresses or shop clerks, in the high tourist season they often came in contact with So-Cal men who came from a higher social strata. Dates were made, fun was had.
Sometimes hearts were irrevocably lost.
But she’d been clear with him, with herself, that hers wouldn’t be one of them.
“These,” Erin said, stabbing at two different stamps. Her coins clacked on the countertop.
Aware of Linus leaning against a row of post office boxes six feet away, Charlie slowly completed the transaction. With Erin just turning from the counter, Charlie reached high and grabbed the grilled security screen. As Linus stepped up, she slammed it into place.
His head jerked back at the loud clang. Through the metal bars he peered at her. “Uh, Charlie?”
Last summer, he’d often called her “Sal,” in a tone of casual affection. Sure, the Peanuts characters Linus and Charlie Brown had been buds, he’d told her early on, but it was Charlie’s little sister, Sally, who’d carried a torch for her brother’s striped-shirted best friend. When she’d inquired where was his blanket and why wasn’t he