Letters to Molly: Maysen Jar Series - Book 2

by Devney Perry

I wouldn’t change it for a thing. Jamie was the piece of our family we hadn’t realized had been missing. And Poppy was over the moon that we’d asked to name him after our departed friend.

  As Finn turned off the main road and into the tree-lined drive at the cemetery, my irritation with today amplified. “This is so stupid.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you,” Finn muttered. “But let’s just get it over with.”

  We pulled up next to a curb and parked behind a short line of familiar vehicles. I wasn’t used to packing up a baby, so we were the last ones to get here. Our friends and family members stood under the shade of a tree to avoid the scorching August sun. It was only eleven in the morning, but as soon as I stepped out of the Jeep, my sweat glands opened.

  Finn hooked one arm through the handle of Jamie’s car seat and put the other around my shoulders. “You look beautiful.”

  “I look awful.” I looked up at him and smiled. “But thanks for lying to me.”

  “We’ll get through today. The kids will be gone at camp tomorrow. And you, Jamie and I are going to get some fucking sleep.”

  I was taking a few weeks off from the restaurant, just managing the books from my laptop at home, and Poppy and Rayna had the rest covered. Finn had taken on a few freelance landscape-design jobs this spring but didn’t have any looming deadlines.

  “You won’t hear me argue.” Tears welled in my eyes and I leaned into his side, sniffing them away. “I’m so, so tired, Finn. I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “I’m right here.” He held me tight and kissed my hair. “I’m right here.”

  I nodded, blinking the tears away as we got close enough for everyone to converge.

  MacKenna and Brady approached first, wanting to see their new cousin again. One of the cutest pictures I had from this past week was of me in the middle of the hospital bed, holding Jamie, and all the kids piled around me, staring at his button nose.

  “Hi. How are you today?” Poppy asked.

  “I’m good.”

  She frowned. “You’re dead on your feet.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted, still using Finn as a crutch. “But we’ll get through today and then I can take it easy.”

  “We’re making this short,” she declared. “It’s stupid anyway.”

  “Hey,” Jimmy snapped. He’d been hovering over the kids to get a look at Jamie. “Let’s be respectful. Randall wanted this as his memorial service. We owe it to him to carry out his wishes.”

  A chorus of groans filled the air. Every one of the adults rolled their eyes.

  “Let’s get started,” Cole said. “Then we can get out of the heat.”

  “I hope this isn’t the attitude you’ll have at my memorial service,” Jimmy grumbled as he led the way to the newest tombstone in this section of the cemetery.

  He was the only one wearing all black today.

  As we circled the tombstone, Jimmy pulled out some reading glasses from his shirt pocket. After they were perched on his nose, he unfolded a piece of paper that had been in his pants pocket.

  “Thank you all for coming here today,” he read. “We are here to celebrate the life of Randall Michael James, a beloved friend.”

  Jimmy went on to read about Randall. He recited a list of Randall’s accomplishments. He talked about those qualities we all loved most about our dear friend. And at the end, he dried a tear from his eye.

  “Randall and I, well . . . I couldn’t have asked for a better friend at this stage in my life. The fights. The competitions. They were all in good humor. I’ll miss you, friend.”

  The air was silent as his words echoed across the green grass. We all stared at the grave’s marker, until finally, MacKenna broke the silence.

  “Mommy?” She looked up at Poppy. “Why is Great Grandpa going to miss Grandpa Randall? Isn’t he standing over there?”

  Bless her little heart.

  MacKenna pointed past us to a tree on the far side of the cemetery. A tree Randall was doing a poor job hiding behind.

  Cole was the first one to start laughing. Finn, David and Rayna joined in next. Poppy broke last, causing Jimmy to toss the piece of paper in the air and mutter, “I give up.”

  I tried to stifle my laughter but only because it hurt. Unfortunately, it was no use. I clutched my stomach and the medical band wrapped around me to keep the stitches contained.

  Poppy laughed. “I’m going to pee my pants.”

  “My stitches are going to split.” Still, I couldn’t stop. Even the kids had lost it.

  “It’s good to see you’re all taking my death so seriously,” Randall said as he joined our group. “You’re all standing on my grave. Laughing.”

  “You’re alive!” Poppy cried, throwing up her hands. “You wanted us to have a memorial service for you while you’re still alive. Of course we aren’t taking this seriously. It’s a million degrees outside. We’re standing over a tombstone that isn’t even complete because—again, you’re alive. And we’re not standing on your grave. Because, I repeat, you are alive.”

  The laughter turned to howls that lasted much longer than the speech Jimmy had tried to give. Finally, we all pulled ourselves together, drying eyes and letting the muscles in our cheeks relax.

  “I was doing this for you,” Randall told Poppy. “So you wouldn’t have to sit through a memorial service after I’m gone. I don’t want you all crying over me.”

  And that was why we loved him so much. That was why we’d miss him so terribly when his time did come. Randall had the biggest heart of any person I knew, even when he hid it deep.

  Poppy and I shared a look then went to him and pulled him into a three-person hug. Really, it was more of us hugging each other with Randall in the middle because he was still pouting.

  “I love you,” I told him.

  “I love you too,” Poppy echoed.

  He sighed. “I know.”

  We stood there for a few moments until it was too hot to share the body heat.

  “Let’s go get some lunch.” Poppy looped her arm with Randall’s. “You can have as many desserts as you want today.”

  That perked him up. “Jimmy, did you hear that? No dessert limit today. Bet I can eat more apple pies than you.”

  Jimmy scoffed. “We’ll see about that.”

  The two of them set off toward the cars, the kids and Finn’s parents following, which left Poppy, Cole, Finn and me. In unison, we turned our gazes to the far end of the cemetery.

  To where Jamie was buried.

  Poppy looked away first, smiling as she took Cole’s hand. “Today is the first time I’ve been here and laughed. Maybe Randall’s crazy scheme wasn’t so crazy after all.”

  “Maybe not.” Cole bent and placed a kiss on her cheek. Then he led her toward the cars, to where their children were laughing.

  I didn’t look away from the opposite end of the cemetery. Jamie would have loved having a nephew with his name. He would have loved teaching him bad habits and how best to prank his older siblings. He would have loved to know that his wife was so cherished.

  He would have loved to know that Finn and I had made it back together.

  “He would have been so proud.” Tears spilled from my eyes again. “Ugh. I’m so emotional.”

  Finn simply smiled and took me under his arm once more as I fought to suck in the tears. Then he led me and our baby across the grass.

  “Jamie,” Finn said quietly to our son, still asleep in his seat. It was a miracle he hadn’t woken up during all the ruckus. “One day, I’m going to tell you the story of how in college, your mom and your uncle Jamie locked themselves in a trunk.”

  “Oh my God.” I smacked Finn’s stomach, my tears disappearing into a happy smile. “You can’t tell him that. It’s humiliating.”

  “Maybe not tomorrow. But someday. Someday, I’m going to tell him all the funny stories. The ones about you and me. About Poppy and Cole. About Jamie. I want him and Max and Kali to know how blessed we’ve been and how much I
love you. Because that’s our story.”

  It wasn’t perfect. But it was ours.

  True to his word, Finn told the kids our story. He waited until our twentieth wedding anniversary, when Kali and Max had families of their own. When Jamie had grown into a young man.

  That was when he shared our love story with them.

  One letter at a time.

  Preview to Gypsy King

  Enjoy this preview from Gypsy King, book one in the Tin Gypsy series.

  BRYCE

  “Morning, Art.” I saluted him with my coffee as I walked through the glass front door.

  He returned the gesture with his own mug. “Hiya, Bryce. How are you today?”

  “Fantastic.” I shimmied my shoulders, still feeling the dance party I’d had in my car on my way in to work. “The sun is shining. The flowers are blooming. It’s going to be a great day. I can feel it.”

  “I hope you’re right. All I can feel at the moment is heartburn.” Art chuckled and his protruding belly jiggled. Even in a pair of cargo pants and a light blue button-up, he reminded me of Santa Claus.

  “Is Dad here?”

  He nodded. “Been here since before I showed up at six. I think he’s trying to fix one of the presses.”

  “Damn. I’d better go make sure he hasn’t gotten pissed and dismantled the whole thing. See ya, Art.”

  “Bye, girlie.”

  At the Clifton Forge Tribune, I was girlie, dear and the occasional sweetheart, because at thirty-five, I was the youngest employee by thirteen years. Even as part owner, I was still seen as the boss’s kid.

  I cruised past Art at the reception desk and pushed through the interior door that opened to the office’s bullpen. The smell of fresh coffee and newspaper filled my nose. Paradise. I’d fallen in love with this smell as a five-year-old girl when I’d gone to work with Dad on a Bring-Your-Daughter-to-Work Day, and nothing had topped it since.

  I walked the length of the empty bullpen, past the desks on each side of the center aisle to the door at the back that opened to the pressroom.

  “Dad?” My voice echoed in the open room, bouncing off the cinder-block walls.

  “Under the Goss!”

  The ceilings extended high above me, the ductwork and pipes exposed. The unique, musky smell of newspaper was stronger in here, where we kept the giant paper rolls and drums of black ink. I savored the walk across the room, inhaling the mix of paper and solvents and machinery oil as my wedge heels clicked on the cement floor.

  My childhood crush hadn’t been on a boy, it had been on the feel of a freshly printed newspaper in my hands. It was a mystery to my parents why I’d gone into TV and not newspaper after college. There’d been a lot of reasons, none of which mattered now.

  Because here I was, working at my dad’s newspaper, returning to my roots.

  The Goss printer was our largest and main press. Positioned along the far wall, it extended from one side of the building to the other. Dad’s jean-clad legs and brown boots were sticking out from beneath the first of four towers.

  “What’s wrong today?” I asked.

  He scooted himself free and stood, swatting at his jeans and leaving black streaks of grease and ink on his thighs. “Damn thing. There’s something wrong with the paper feed. It hitches about every tenth rotation and screws up whatever page it’s on. But it all looks fine under there so I don’t know what the hell I’m trying to fix.”

  “Sorry. Anything I can do?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. We’ll have to call in a specialist to get it fixed. God knows how long that will take and how much it’ll cost. For right now, all we can do is print extra to make up for it.”

  “At least it still works and we’re not using the manual press.” I shot a glare at the ancient machine in the far corner. I’d only used it once, just to learn how it worked, and my arm had hurt for a week afterward from all the cranking.

  “You’d better budget for a new press, or a serious mechanical overhaul on this one, in the near future.”

  I tapped my temple. “Got it.”

  Dad had been talking about future budgets and future plans since I’d moved to Clifton Forge six months ago. At the moment, we shared ownership equally—I bought half the business when I’d moved to town. Eventually I’d buy the rest of the Tribune from my parents, but we had no firm transition date in mind, which was fine by me. I wasn’t ready to take over and Dad wasn’t ready to let it go.

  I was perfectly happy having Bryce Ryan, Journalist stamped after my stories. Dad could keep the Editor in Chief title for a few more years.

  “What are you up to today?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing much.” Besides investigating the former motorcycle gang in town.

  Dad’s eyes narrowed. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing.” I’d forgotten how easily he could spot a lie. I held up a hand and snuck another behind my back, crossing my fingers. “I swear.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up. “You can fool most people, but not me. I know that smirk. You’re about to cause some trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Trouble sounds so juvenile and malicious. I’m just going to pop down to the police station and say hello to Chief Wagner. I haven’t talked to him in a couple weeks. Then I’m going to get the oil changed in my car.”

  Dad rolled his eyes. “First of all, Marcus is no idiot. He isn’t going to buy your innocent act either. The paper can’t afford to be at odds with the chief, so be nice. He’ll never throw us a bone if he’s pissed. And second, I know exactly why you’re getting your ‘oil changed.’ Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been digging up old articles about the Tin Gypsies.”

  “I, uh . . .” Shit. I’d asked Art to pull some from the archives, and I guess he’d told Dad, even though I’d brought him Tums and homemade cinnamon rolls to keep quiet. Traitor.

  “Stay away from them, Bryce.”

  “But there’s a story there. Don’t tell me you can’t feel it. This could be huge for us.”

  “Huge?” He shook his head. “If you want huge, you’d better go back to Seattle. I thought you came here to slow down. To enjoy life. Weren’t those your words?”

  “Yes, they were. And I am slowing down.” I wasn’t waking up at three a.m. to make it to the TV station for the morning show. I wasn’t cutting my hair to appease my producer or constantly watching my diet. I wasn’t reporting someone else’s stories on camera. Instead, I was writing my own.

  It was wonderful, but after two months of small-town Montana life, I was going a bit stir-crazy. Calling the hospital for birth announcements and the funeral home for obituaries wasn’t enough of a mental challenge. I needed some excitement. I needed a decent story.

  And the Clifton Forge garage had story written all over it.

  About a year ago, the Tin Gypsy Motorcycle Club had disbanded. They’d been one of the more prominent and lucrative gangs in Montana and had closed down without an explanation.

  The former members claimed they were focusing on running the garage here in town. Their shop had become renowned in certain wealthy and celebrity circles for classic car restorations and custom motorcycle builds.

  But men like them—men like Kingston “Dash” Slater with his striking good looks, cocky swagger and devilish grin—thrived on power. They craved danger and a life on the edge, without limits. As a gang, the Gypsies had power and money, in spades.

  So why had they given it up?

  No one knew. And if they did, they weren’t talking.

  “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that in the past year, there hasn’t been any news about them? And no explanation as to why they shut down their ‘club’? They went from notorious gang members to upstanding citizens overnight. I don’t buy it. It’s too quiet. Too clean.”

  “That’s because they are clean,” Dad said.

  “Sure. Squeaky,” I deadpanned.

  “You make it sound like we’re all covering things up for them.” He frowned. “Come on.
Don’t you think if there were a story there, I’d tell it? Or do you think so little of me as a reporter?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. Of course you’d tell the story.”

  But would he dig for it? I didn’t doubt Dad’s ability to investigate. He’d been a star reporter in his prime. But since he and Mom had moved to Clifton Forge and bought the Tribune years ago, he’d slowed down. He wasn’t as eager as he’d once been. He wasn’t as hungry.

  Me? I was starved.

  “If there’s no story, there’s no story,” I said. “The only thing I’m out is my time, right?”

  “I’m going on the record as your father and your partner: I don’t like it. They might not be a gang anymore, but those guys have an edge. I don’t want you crossing them.”

  “Understood. I’ll ask my questions and stay away.” Or away-ish.

  “Bryce,” he warned.

  I held up my hands, feigning innocence. “What?”

  “Be. Careful.”

  “I’m careful. Always.” Okay, sometimes. Dad’s definition of careful was a little different than mine.

  I stood on my toes to kiss his cheek, then I waved and hurried out of the pressroom before he assigned me something that would keep me trapped at my desk all day.

  The police station was on the opposite end of town from the newspaper. It sat on the banks of the Missouri River along a busy street crowded with restaurants and offices. The river was running fast and high from the melting mountain snow. The June sun reflected off the water’s rippled surface in golden flickers. The Montana air was clean and fresh, a close second to my beloved newspaper scent.

  It was another smell from my youth, one I’d missed in Seattle.

  I parked my car and went inside the station, making small talk with the officer up front. Then I thanked my lucky stars when she waved me through without any hassle. The first three times I’d come here to visit the chief, I’d been put through the paces. Fingerprints. Background check. A photo.

  Maybe it was protocol.

  Or maybe they didn’t like reporters.

  The station was quiet this morning. A few officers sat at their desks, heads bent over keyboards and ballpoint pens as they did paperwork while the others on shift were patrolling the streets. The chief’s office sat along the rear wall of the building. The window behind his desk had a beautiful view of the river.