It was the kind of day she used to love and maybe, just maybe, take for granted.
But now, as she rested her elbows on the worn wooden countertop that had no doubt supported generations of postal workers before her, Darla could only silently acknowledge that another day had come. It was sure to feel as endless as the one before it, and would no doubt be exactly like the rest of the week.
It was another day to get through. A way to pass ten hours of expected productivity before she could retreat to her bedroom and collapse on her bed. Only then would she feel any sense of peace. Because only then would she be able to wait for oblivion. She’d close her eyes, fall into a peaceful slumber, and, hopefully, forget her reality for eight hours.
It had been ninety-nine days since her father died. Tomorrow would bring the one hundredth. It was a benchmark she’d never intended to look forward to. Wearily, she wondered if anyone else in Charm was anticipating the milestone as well.
Undoubtedly some were.
After all, her father hadn’t been the only man to die in the December fire at Kinsinger Lumber Mill. No, he was one of five. And though it wasn’t as if she’d ever forget that fact, there were many in Charm who took care to remind her constantly.
Just then, Mary Troyer pushed open the door to the post office. Darla braced herself.
“You have a lot of nerve, Darletta Kurtz, getting a job here,” Mary said as she slapped a ten dollar bill on the counter. “It’s bad enough that your family stayed in town. Most folks would have left in shame after what your father did. Yet, here you are, thriving.”
Each word hurt, as Mary no doubt intended for them to. Darla thought she would have been used to the verbal abuse by now, but it still felt as jarring as it had the first time. Mary’s son Bryan had died in the same accident as Darla’s father, and she took every opportunity to make sure everyone in town was aware of her pain.
Just as she had two days before, Darla did her best to keep her voice even and her expression impassive. “What is it you’ll be needing today, Mary?”
Mary’s cheeks puffed up before replying. “One book of stamps. The flags.”
Quickly she gave Mary the stamps and her change, taking care to set the money on the counter so their fingers wouldn’t have to touch. “Here you go.” Then—though she would have rather said something, anything else—she added the words she’d heard her boss say dozens of times: “Danke for coming in.”
Mary narrowed her eyes. “That is all you’re gonna say?”
It was obvious that Mary was itching for a fight. But no way was Darla going to give it to her. She’d learned at least a couple of things in the ninety-nine days since the accident at the mill.
And even though she might be wishing Mary to perdition in her darkest moments, she knew it was always best to turn the other cheek. “There’s nothing to say. Your mind is made up to be angry with me.”
“My ‘mind’ has nothing to do with the facts. Everyone in Charm knows that your father caused the fire at the mill. That fire killed my Bryan, Clyde Fisher, Paul Beachy, and Stephen Kinsinger.”
Standing as straight as her five-foot-two-inch frame allowed her to do, Darla added quietly, “You forgot John Kurtz, Mary. My father died too, you know.”
“All of us are struggling with our losses. Struggling to make ends meet with our men gone. But here you are almost every morning, standing behind this counter with a smile on your face.”
Though Mary wasn’t the first person to say such a thing to her—she wasn’t even the twenty-first—Darla still didn’t understand why she should bear the weight of her father’s guilt.
Especially since it had been proven that it hadn’t been just her father’s negligence that had started the fire in the Dumpster. A variety of circumstances had taken place, which, when combined, had created a powerful explosion.
A rag, dampened by a flammable liquid, had been tossed into a Dumpster filled with wood scraps and hot metal that had been left heating over the course of the day. In no time at all, the rag had burst into flames, igniting the pine kindling. Before anyone was truly aware of the fire, the Dumpster had exploded, causing the nearby wood stacks in the back warehouse to catch fire, too. Though the emergency sprinklers had come on and the fire department and ambulances had been called, five people had died and scores of others had been injured.
Without a doubt, it had been the worst disaster to ever occur at Kinsinger Lumber Mill, and everyone who’d been there was marked by the terrible tragedy.
After the accident, fire marshals had investigated and declared that it had been caused by a series of unlikely events: a rare sunny day in December, hot metal in the Dumpster, and a pile of pine that someone had discarded instead of turning into wood shavings—all set ablaze by one rag.