by Katie Powner
They turned south on Town Road and exchanged the hard-packed dirt for a sidewalk. Town Road was the best-kept road in Moose Creek since it was part of Highway 288.
“Where does everyone work?” Jeremy asked.
“At the school mostly, but jobs are scarce. There are a few small businesses. Some people drive the canyon to Ponderosa every day.”
“How far is that?”
“About forty-five minutes when the roads are good.”
Bea glanced to her left at the mountain. It rose above the town with an air of authority, every peak and crevice distinct today.
Jeremy smiled. “And Ponderosa is where all the buildings are?”
She smiled back. “Yep.”
“We’ll have to drive over there and check it out sometime this week.”
“Sure. It’s easy to get there now.”
“Not easy when it snows?”
“Well, there’s an arm on I-90 that goes down and closes the road when the weather is really bad. The crosswind can blow strong enough to tip a semi. Then you have to go the long way through the canyon.”
“And that’s not as easy?”
“No.” She shrugged. “But that’s just how it is.”
She thought back to the horror stories Dad used to tell her when she first got her license. He’d wanted to discourage her from ever attempting the long way to Ponderosa by herself and gave her the “people die ten feet from their front doors in a blizzard” lecture more times than she could count. Drivers needed to be careful in the snow, of course, but his stories had been exaggerated for her benefit, she was sure. Leftover tales from Montana’s untamed pioneer days. He’d never been able to tell her exactly who these people were who couldn’t find their own houses in a storm.
They reached Main Street, and she looked left, then right. Had the storefronts always been so grimy? When had the old video-rental store been boarded up? The store had been out of business for years, but now the windows were all broken. Nothing seemed as cheery as she remembered.
She linked arms with Jeremy, suddenly needing something solid to hold on to. “What do you want to see first?”
He gestured west, away from the mountain. They walked slowly.
“These buildings are old.” Jeremy pointed with his chin. “When was this town founded?”
“I’m not sure . . . 1897, I think? But they look older than they are. Things wear down fast out here.”
Including people. She thought of Grandpa Rand and the toll the ranch had taken on him. When she’d seen him last night, she was surprised at how old he looked for only seventy-one years. Old and tired. And his eyes had seemed sunken and troubled. She wished she could talk to her mom about how it bothered her.
She wished she could talk to her mom about a lot of things.
“Ms. Beatrice Jensen, is that you?”
Bea tightened her hold on Jeremy’s arm. She knew that voice. Spinning to face its source, she pasted on a smile. “Hey, Mr. Jamison. Why aren’t you in class?”
He wore his signature gray newsboy cap and matching tweed jacket. The same cap and jacket he’d been wearing to teach history at Moose Creek High for decades.
“I figured I had made sufficient contributions to society, and I retired.”
“Oh.” Bea’s eyebrows rose. It had seemed like he would be at the high school forever.
She glanced over at Jeremy and waved a hand in his direction. “Mr. Jamison, this is my husband, Jeremy.”
The old man reluctantly grabbed Jeremy’s hand but kept his eyes on Bea. “I heard a rumor you got married, but I didn’t want to believe it. I thought surely you were too smart to drop out of school for some boy. No offense, Mr. . . . ?”
Jeremy gave him an enigmatic look. “Michaels. And none taken.”
Bea felt her smile waver. Mr. Jamison had never been one to mince words. She stumbled over a response. “Well, I, uh, that’s not . . .”
“And now you’re back.” Mr. Jamison crossed his arms. “Temporarily, I hope?”
She knew he wasn’t saying that because he couldn’t wait to be rid of her again. It was just that he always encouraged his students to dream big. Shoot for the stars. Go away to college and make a name for themselves. Plus, he’d taken a special interest in her back then. All the teachers had felt sorry for her when her mom got sick.
“Yes. Temporarily.” The word sounded unconvincing in her own ears. She gave Jeremy a sidelong glance. “Mr. Jamison was one of my teachers.”
Jeremy nodded. “And what are you up to now that you’re retired?”
Mr. Jamison chuckled. “Causing trouble, mostly. My wife keeps shooing me out of the house because I drive her crazy when I’m bored. I go for a nice long walk every day about this time.”
Bea remembered all the long hours he’d put in at the high school, always going above and beyond the call of duty. Judging the Speech and Debate competitions, serving as senior-class adviser, administering PSAT practice tests. “I’m sure they miss you at the school.”
He’d been a great teacher, despite his blunt way with words. One of her favorites. Which made the feeling she’d let him down all the more overwhelming.
He shrugged. “Every era must come to an end. You’re headed to the Food Farm, I presume?”
Bea couldn’t help but chuckle at the shocked look on Jeremy’s face. He had a lot to learn about how fast news could travel in a small town.
“Yep.” She tugged on Jeremy’s arm. “My old stomping grounds. We better get going. It was nice to see you.”
“You too, Ms. Jensen.” Mr. Jamison gave Jeremy a pointed look. “I mean, Ms. Michaels. Don’t stick around, you hear?”
She felt his words all the way through her heart and down her spine and to her toes. She wanted to say I won’t or Why not? or It’s none of your business, but instead only managed, “We’ll see.”
She stared at the brown leather elbow patches on Mr. Jamison’s jacket as he turned away and wondered not for the first time how a man like him had ended up in Moose Creek. A man who’d never driven a truck or worn a pair of cowboy boots in his life.
“What was that all about?” Jeremy asked.
Mr. Jamison had gone left, so she turned right. “Don’t take it personally.”
Jeremy jogged to catch up. “I don’t. I mean, I don’t care what he says about me. But why would he talk to you like that?”
Bea slowed in front of an old brick building. “Every time a new freshman class arrived at his door, he would spend four years trying to convince them there was more to life than Moose Creek. I guess he thought . . .”
“What?”
“That I believed him.”
Jeremy reached for her hand and squeezed. “Just because you’re back for a little while doesn’t mean you’re settling.”
What if it did? She squeezed back, still amazed at how well her hand fit in his. What if they got stuck here? She’d seen it happen to a lot of people over the years. They would come back because they couldn’t find a job or needed to care for an ailing parent or wanted to save money for a new house and then never mustered the strength to free themselves a second time from the pull of small-town inertia.
Maybe that was what happened to Mr. Jamison.
“This is the fire station.” She looked up. “It’s the tallest building in town.”
It was a little crumbly around the edges but stately. The redbrick walls and leaded arched windows gave the impression that the first fire engine Moose Creek ever parked inside might’ve been pulled by horses. Jeremy dutifully admired it, and then they walked on.
“The post office and pharmacy.”
“Combined?”
“It’s a long story.” Bea chuckled to herself thinking about how she grew up believing it was normal for those two businesses to share a building. “And here’s the newspaper office.”
The Moose Creek Messenger went to print twice a week, every Tuesday and Friday.
“What do they—” Jeremy hesitated, like he wante
d to choose his words carefully—“write about?”
Bea laughed. “High school sports mostly. And local news.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know, police reports and community events and stuff. There was a whole exposé on Mr. Stuart’s goat one time.”
“Mr. Stuart has a goat?”
“Well, he did. It kept breaking out of his yard after dinner and coming back every night at nine, and no one could figure out why.”
Jeremy raised his eyebrows. “Don’t leave me hanging.”
“Someone at Peggy’s Place was taking the trash out to the alley every night at eight-thirty.” She paused for dramatic effect. “The goat would hide out until they went back inside, raid the garbage, then trot on home.”
She tried to interpret the look on Jeremy’s face. He was amused by the story, but there was something else, too. What did he really think of Moose Creek? It didn’t have all the bells and whistles of the city. It was a fishbowl she’d been eager to escape. But she’d learned quickly that a faster pace and greater population density didn’t make life better. Didn’t make you feel less alone.
Didn’t change your memories.
Jeremy caught her expression and grinned. “It’s charming, that’s all. It all feels so Mayberry. I wish I’d grown up in a place like this. You were lucky.”
Maybe that was true. Maybe she was fortunate to have belonged to a place like this. But things were different now. She wasn’t sure where she belonged anymore.
“Here’s the Food Farm.”
The market had a dozen fliers taped to the large front window. A handwritten one said a kid named Wyatt wanted to earn money doing yard work. One from the school said they were selling butter braids to raise money for new basketball uniforms for the junior high team. A neon orange one said HELP WANTED. Nothing had changed.
A bell jingled as they entered. A giant of a man with a bristly salt-and-pepper beard looked up from the cash register and gave a triumphant shout. “Bea! It’s about time.”
Mitch squinted at his phone in surprise. His dad never left a message. Ever. Something was wrong.
“I’m taking a break, Ralph.” He checked the time as he loped to his truck. Dad had called a couple of hours ago, but it had been a busy morning, and Mitch hadn’t noticed the voicemail notification until now.
He slid into his seat and slammed the door shut as he pressed the callback button, not wanting to waste time listening to the message.
“Pick up, Dad.” He drummed the steering wheel with one hand. “Come on, pick up.”
“Mitch?” Rand’s voice was thin. Tired.
“Hey, what’s going on? I saw you called.”
A muffled thump, then the sound of a door shutting.
“Is it Mom?”
“She’s poorly, son.”
Mitch pressed the phone tightly to his ear. “She was fine last night. Did something happen?”
“I don’t know. When it gets dark, she . . .”
Mitch eyeballed his keys as he waited, wondering if he should head out there. He could take an early lunch and be at his parents’ house in twenty-five minutes.
“She what?”
“She isn’t herself.”
The raw way he said it gave Mitch pause. “Maybe I should—”
“Don’t come by.” His dad read his mind through the phone. “It’ll upset her.”
Mitch’s brow furrowed. Was she mad at him? “Is this about the pies?”
Rand cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “If she hears us talking about going to the doctor, she’ll pitch a fit.”
Mitch rubbed his forehead. They were back to this. It had been years since his mom had seen a doctor, but she appeared to be fit as a fiddle, as she would say. “What kind of doctor?”
Silence. Mitch fought to keep his frustration in check, the suspicion that his father was the one who needed a checkup growing more with every passing minute.
“Dad?”
“A head doctor.”
Mitch sat back. “Like a shrink?”
“No.”
A neurologist? But that would be for . . . Realization struck Mitch like a southwest wind ripping through the canyon. “She isn’t herself.” His father was worried about dementia or something. But his mom was way too young for that. She was only sixty-three.
“Dad.”
“Please.” Rand’s tone leaned over the edge of desperation. “I don’t know what to do.”
Mitch couldn’t ignore the tremble in his father’s voice. Randall Jensen had never been the kind of man to exaggerate. Or see things that weren’t there. Or be afraid. There must be something Mitch was missing. Even if his dad was way off, and Mitch was ninety-nine percent sure he was, it wouldn’t hurt anything to make an appointment so he could put both their minds at ease. He’d need a referral, but Ruth Anne from the clinic would fax one to Ponderosa if he explained the situation.
“Okay.” Mitch’s shoulders slumped. He leaned his head back and stared at the mountain filling his windshield like impending doom. “I’ll call tomorrow.”
EIGHT
It was Thursday morning before Mitch had the chance to look up the nearest neurologist. He and Ralph had been scrambling to grade all the unpaved roads and clear all the drainage ditches before the freezing rain expected over the weekend. They’d worked long days, knowing the mess they’d be in for if they didn’t. He loved working for the town, but he didn’t relish being blamed when a road flooded or a car popped a tire in a pothole.
It took four minutes of scrolling through websites and three phone calls before confirming the hospital in Ponderosa did not have a neurologist on staff. Fortunately, two neurologists from Billings took turns driving the almost two hours to Ponderosa every Friday to meet with local patients. Unfortunately, this Friday was already booked up.
“Okay.” He drummed his fingers on the counter. “How about next week?”
“Let me check.”
The woman on the other end of the line was kind, if not apologetic. She put him on hold, and he watched for Bea and Jeremy out the window while he waited. Bea didn’t start her new job until Monday. Where had they run off to?
The fridge made a suspicious sound, and he glared at it.
The on-hold music clicked off, and the friendly woman returned. “We have one opening next Friday at one-thirty. Would you like me to put you down?”
“Yes. Thank you.” He kicked himself for not calling sooner. Hopefully, his dad wouldn’t be too disappointed at having to wait another week. “We’ll be there.”
As he hung up the phone, he imagined Dad telling his mom about the appointment. Consultation, technically. She would be livid. Maybe they wouldn’t tell her until they were already in the truck.
Then he imagined telling Bea. He had a feeling she wouldn’t take it any better than his mother. Surely this was all for nothing.
The fridge made that sound again, catching his attention. What was the deal with that thing? When Mitch walked closer to listen, he nearly tripped over a cat.
“Watch it, Steve.”
The cat scooted off to a safe distance and sat with his eyes fixed on Mitch. Mitch still couldn’t believe there was a real live cat in his house. It was mind-boggling. But it hadn’t been so bad. Steve mostly kept to himself, and Mitch had other things to worry about.
Like the fridge.
It didn’t take long to diagnose the problem. Something was wrong with the ice machine. He’d never liked fridges with frills like ice and water in the door, but Caroline had talked him into it when they got married. “Just think how convenient it would be,” she had said. He smiled to himself, remembering the funny way she’d said the word convenient, holding out the middle e sound. She was always doing cute stuff like that.
As he pulled open the freezer-side door to inspect the ice machine, he sang softly to himself. “‘Sweet Caroline . . .’”
“Dad?”
He jumped and spun toward the hall, where Bea and Jeremy we
re standing. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I heard you singing.” The look on Bea’s face was unreadable.
Mitch swallowed. Did it bother her to hear him singing her mother’s song? “I was just trying to fix the ice machine.”
Jeremy gave Bea a knowing look—what did he know that Mitch didn’t?—and held up a large plastic bag. “I’ll go put these clothes away.”
Bea nodded but kept her eyes on Mitch as Jeremy walked away. “We went over to Ponderosa. Jeremy wanted to check it out.”
He heard her words, but she seemed to be saying something else. He closed the freezer door slowly and took a couple of steps closer to his daughter. Her face seemed pale. “Orange Julius?”
She nodded. They always stopped at the mall for an Orange Julius when they went to Ponderosa. It was a Jensen family tradition.
Mitch leaned against the table and crossed his arms. “I haven’t seen much of you this week. What have you guys been up to?”
Her expression softened slightly. “Not much. Jeremy’s been spending a lot of time on his computer.”
Mitch wrestled his face into a neutral expression. That kid was far too attached to his computer. It was like a third arm. And now he was going to sit around cruising the internet, or whatever they called it, while Bea worked her tail off at the Food Farm?
“Looking for work?”
“Sort of.” Bea knelt to pet Steve on the head. “He wants to start his own company. Work for himself.”
“What kind of company?”
She hesitated. “Consulting, I think.”
“You think?”
“He doesn’t know exactly yet. This is all new to us, Dad.”
Mitch bit back a sarcastic reply. This was dangerous territory. Better to change the subject. “I’ve never heard of a cat named Steve before.”
“He’s named after Steve Jobs.”
The name sounded familiar . . .
She stood. “The Apple computers guy?”
Ah yes. Of course. Mitch nodded. “I guess that makes sense with you living in Santa Clara. Was it nice there?”
