Charlotte winter's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Charlotte Winter counted the single men in Permafrost again on her walk to the post office, and the number had not changed since her husband died. Four. One was her cousin. Two were married to women who watched them like hawks. The fourth spat tobacco on her boots last Sunday. She was thirty-one, widowed two winters, and the snow over her husband's grave had packed down hard enough to walk on. She wanted a second life. She could not build one from four men in a town that never grew. She stopped at the bulletin board outside the general store to pin up her weekly notice for mending work. A new sheet was tacked over the old rental listings. A one-bedroom unit had opened at the small apartment building on the north edge of town, and someone had already signed the line. The name was unfamiliar. Brightlee Carter. The clerk inside told her he had come in yesterday for the key, a young man from down south, hired on at the mill for the season. He had asked where a person could get a hot meal and a haircut. Charlotte thanked the clerk. She walked home the long way, past the apartment building, and saw a blue duffel bag sitting on the outside step of unit three. That evening she brought over a covered dish of stew, because that was what people did here and no one could fault her for it. Brightlee opened the door in his coat, still unpacking, scarf around his neck like he had not yet trusted the indoor heat. He was younger than she had hoped and older than she had feared. He took the dish with both hands and asked her name twice to be sure he had it. She told him the mill closed at six and the diner closed at seven, and if he wanted the haircut he should ask for the woman two doors down from the post office. He asked if she would be at the diner tomorrow. Charlotte said she could be. She walked back across the packed snow with her empty hands swinging, and for the first time since the funeral she was counting forward instead of back.