Overwinter

1: the leaf-peepers

October painted the hills of northwestern Connecticut in shades of fire that waxed and waned with the sun. Every morning, Talisha Carter threw a sweater over her shoulders and took the dog out back to pee behind the shed. As Jake's golden snout investigated the passing of rabbits and raccoons from dusky hours past, Talisha would find peace in the sun-touched sway above. And every morning, after Jake had lifted his leg to tell the nocturnal denizens to piss off, Tali would turn back towards the road and sigh. Every morning, especially in those first two weeks when the dying leaves bleed brightest—every morning, as far as the eye could see, stretched an endless line of honking vehicles. 

The leaf-peepers.

Every October, give or take a week depending on the latest foliage forecast, the leaf-peepers would load up in their waspy cars, abandon the hive life of a buzzing city, and descend upon the rural towns in a self-entitled swarm.

Rules did not apply to leaf-peepers, especially rules involving vehicles. No parking? Please. You don't need access to your driveway. 45 mph speed limit? How are we supposed to take pictures of stunning fall foliage if we can't soak it all in going 5mph? Tali couldn't even take her own son for pancakes because the Maple Barn was booked solid with obnoxious, unfriendly tourists.

All because people wanted to witness a biochemical reaction in leaves. Most of 'em hailed from Connecticut's sister state of New York, where they had plenty of their own leaves.

Still, when those first frost warnings went out, Mother Earth in these hills belonged to the leaf-peepers, and it was their money that kept this town fat and happy through the winter. Or so they'd have you believe, if you had them wandering into your pottery shop every day for about two months out of the year.

Worse, they reminded Tali about how unlucky she was to still be living in a 96-soul town after a failed marriage with a man who couldn't stand to have one woman, let alone live in a town where they all knew each other.

Tali hated the leaf peepers and she hated what they reminded her of, but business was booming. Business from peepers took her name out of town and brought it to cities like New York and Boston. Recently her custom, lace-pressed serving bowls had earned her a front cover in the September issue of Taste of Home magazine. Last year, she'd been able to afford a workshop expansion. She'd just finished renovations this August. The bottom floor of the former post office was her studio and retail store, while the upstairs belonged to her and her son, Dante*.

*And Jake.

The nosy yellow lab yawned loudly and sat beside his food bowl, rudder-like tail swishing across the tile. When Tali didn't immediately scoop his breakfast, he padded up to her and set his snout on her lap.

*

When Tali woke this morning and looked out her rain-drizzled window, the only thing different about today was the number of cars parked at the Bed and Breakfast next door. It being a Monday morning, there was actually an empty spot in the gravel lot next to her car. Hollering at Dante for feeding his crust to the dog for the umpteenth time, she'd slipped a sweater over her shoulders, hooked Jake onto his leash, and tromped down the back deck to the shed.

Voices echoed from the shared parking lot. A stream of tourists slammed through Molly's old porch door. Armed with cameras and cups of coffee, they looked prepared for yet another day of owning the small town.

"Grey skies really make the colors pop! How lucky you are to wake up to this every day!"

Yes, how terribly lucky, Talisha thought. Rain shivered off orange leaves above her.