I’ve felt the looks—in this casual sea of flannel and jeans and angler- and hunter-branded baseball caps, I stick out. Some glances are merely curious. Others are leering.
And Jonah seems intent on marking his territory.
“You good here?” he leans in to kiss my lips.
“Of course she’s fine!” Muriel answers for me, then shoos him away with a flick of her hand. “These men … It’s like he thinks you can’t handle yourself!”
And, if I didn’t know better, that would sound like a compliment coming from her.
“This one’s on me.” Toby sets a pint in front of Jonah.
With a murmured thanks, Jonah collects it and heads off.
Muriel’s gaze trails after Jonah, as if needing to witness this introduction. The guy I assume is Jack Thomas stands and shakes Jonah’s hand, then gestures toward the empty seat, which Jonah settles into in his signature legs-splayed way.
“Good. Yes, that’ll work out just right.” Muriel nods with satisfaction, as if making a check mark on her to-do list. With that, she turns her attention to me. “I’m the chair for the Winter Carnival planning committee, and I think you’d be a good addition to it. I’ve already mentioned it to the group. We meet the second Thursday of every month, at the community center.”
“Oh … I … Okay,” I stammer, unsure if that’s a suggestion or demand. In the end, I likely have little choice, if Muriel deems it so. “What kinds of things would you need help with?” It better not be something insane, like dumping me into an outdoor dunk tank in the middle of an Alaskan winter.
“We’ll think of something. Paige moved to Kansas with her new beau, so the outhouse race is up for grabs. You’d be perfect for that.”
“I’m sorry, did you say the outhouse race? Why would I be perfect for that?”
“Because you like makin’ things look pretty,” she says, as if that’s an obvious answer.
“Muriel!” Teddy hollers from the long buffet table stretched out at the far end of the room, where six slow-cookers simmer and a small horde eagerly awaits their next paper-cup sample. He waves a frantic “come here” hand at her.
“I swear, that man can’t wipe his own ass without me standing around the corner to coach him through it. We’ll talk more about the carnival later.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter as she bulldozes through the crowd, moving fast to get to his side. Suddenly a winter dunk tank sounds appealing.
Toby leans over the bar counter on his elbows, watching his parents. “If he doesn’t call her over, she’ll chew him out because she should be there. If he calls her over, he can’t do anything without her.”
“It’s a no-win situation for him,” I agree grimly.
Toby flashes that wide, dimpled smile, even more noticeable on a clean face. “What can I get ya?”
“Something strong, so I’m drunk when your mother comes back.”
He chuckles. “All I’ve got are these on tap,” he says, pointing to the branded handles, “and those in the bottle.” A small chalkboard behind him lists five beers. I recognize Muriel’s scrawl from the garden schematics she drew up. All capital letters. Even her handwriting demands you listen to her.
“Really? No vodka hidden anywhere?”
He drops two coasters in front of me, one advertising Bud, and the other the local Trapper’s Crossing IPA.
“What kind of ale house is this?” I let out a dramatic sigh. “A bottle of Corona, I guess.” It’s the only name I recognize, besides Budweiser.
“Comin’ right up.”
I study the large, crowded room while he fetches my beer from the white kitchen fridge in the corner. The energy here tonight is casual but charged. It feels like a family reunion of sorts, where everyone is a familiar face.
And most of those faces are Caucasian, I note. Much like the population of this area. It’s a vast difference from Bangor, where at least half the population is Alaska Native—a mixture of Yupik, Athabascan, and Aleut.
“A bit busier than that first time you came in here, huh?” Toby asks.
“A bit,” I agree with a laugh. “Who are all these people?”
He pops the cap and slides the beer across the counter. No lime, I note. Based on the price of them at the grocery store, I can’t say I blame them. “A lot are locals, but we’ve got more of the seasonal crowd coming around now, too.”
“Yeah. I noticed them on our way in.” Cabins showing signs of life—chains down, cars parked. One woman was nailing a new wooden Welcome sign to a tree at the end of her driveway.
“The rest are from the resort. Most of our cabins are rented out for the weekend. There’s even a bunch of campers in.”
I shudder at the thought. It was barely above freezing last night.
“We’ll have them straight through until snow. Just wait until peak salmon season in July, when the resort is booked up and all the cabins are in use. It gets busy around here. They’ll be fishing shoulder to shoulder. You fish, right? I can’t remember …”
I give Toby a cockeyed look that makes him laugh.
He drags a rag over the counter, though there doesn’t appear to be anything spilled. “So, how’s the garden coming?”
“You know what? Surprisingly … okay.”
“Mom said you’re so bored, you’ve started decorating out there, too.”
I can only imagine Muriel’s tone when she said that. “I put in new plant markers.” The recycled orange-juice-jug tags that Muriel made to identify the vegetables were small and unappealing. I replaced them with bigger, nicer ones I designed using old paint stir sticks I found in the workshop—an idea I came up with after seeing something similar on Pinterest.
I also painted Calla’s Garden in white across a rusty shovel that I found in the dilapidated greenhouse and propped it at the gate, to give the old tool purpose and to give me cute Instagram content. It was so simple and yet followers loved it enough that Diana has been texting me once a day to start doing a weekly Alaskan garden post. Of course, Muriel noted, with a frown, the shovel is still functional, and the white markers will get dirty every time it rains.
Toby’s gaze wanders over to where Muriel stands, having nudged Teddy away with an elbow to take over doling out samples. “I know she can be a bit opinionated. Pushy, too.”
“No way,” I say with mock surprise, but I add a smile to let him know I don’t harbor any ill will toward her.
He laughs. “She likes you, though. Talks about you all the time.”
“Really?” This time, my shock is genuine. “I’m convinced she thinks I’m an idiot.”
“Yeah, I get that. Happens to me, too, and I’m her son. But do you think she’d bother with you if that were true?”
“Honestly? I don’t think she can help herself, no matter what.” Muriel’s the type of person who likes to be the one holding all the answers.
A wiry man three seats down waves his empty bottle in the air, and Toby swiftly and wordlessly replaces it. “She likes to keep busy with tasks and projects, is all. She’s always been like that. And then after Deacon died …”
My attention veers toward the two faces surrounded by the gilded frame.
Toby shakes his head. “Let’s just say she sometimes bites off more than she can chew, not that she’d ever admit to it.”
“I guess I’m her latest project?”
“Guess so.” He pauses a beat. “She’s definitely bitten off too much there.”
“Funny guy!” I grab a coaster and throw it at him.
He smoothly catches it. “Our family has been here for over a hundred years, and she thinks it’s up to her to make it feel like a real community. It’s why she’s the chairman of the town council and has her hands in almost every committee there is to sign up for. It’s why we have nights like these, to draw people out. It’s hard, when the winters are long and half the population is seasonal, and the residents have to leave town to shop and work. Anyway, she doesn’t think you’re an idiot, Calla. She
was impressed with how hard you worked out there. Said you never complained once.”
“Not out loud.” Again, I’m shocked by my own interpretation of Muriel’s frowns and comments compared to what her son is telling me. “It’s important to her to see that garden go on, isn’t it?”
He nods. “She’s loyal to a fault, and Colette was a good friend to her. One of the few people willing to call her on her bullshit.” His watches his parents for a moment. “Plus, she’s convinced you and Jonah are going to starve to death before the winter’s through.”
I laugh. “Because there aren’t any grocery stores around here?”
“Exactly.” He chuckles. “She’s got her way of doing things, and she won’t back down until she’s convinced you that her way is right, but …” He shrugs. “Her heart’s in the right place.”
“I know it is.” Which is probably why I’m tolerating her more than I thought I’d be capable. I observe Muriel for a moment, her broad smile infectious as she ladles from the pot marked #2 and hands a paper cup sample to a woman, before her gaze seeks the next recipient. I’ll bet she knows every name and address in here and, if she doesn’t, she’ll make sure to by the end of the night. “You know she’s going to be a nightmare for any girl you bring home, right?”
“Why do you think I’m single?” His cheeks flush as he collects an empty draft glass from a man who approached the bar and refills it from a tap. I guess fresh glasses for each drink are a luxury around here.
“You know who else is single?” I wait for his eyes to flicker to me. “Marie, the veterinarian.”
Toby grins, his face turning a deeper red. “She seemed nice.”
“And smart, and pretty …” And maybe if she starts dating someone else, she’ll stop playing the dear, considerate friend to Jonah while waiting for our relationship to run its course. That’s what I’ve convinced myself her angle is. I mean, that’s what I would do, if I were in love with a good friend and didn’t think the woman he was with was right for him.
As much as Jonah might value their relationship, after last week’s ordeal, I’ll never entirely trust her around him, whether her intentions toward me are insidious or not.
Thankfully, I trust him.
Jonah’s boisterous laugh carries over the crowd. I know him well enough to know he can’t fake that. Not that he can fake any laugh. The guy has the worst poker face when he doesn’t like someone.
It means he’s enjoying himself with his new acquaintances.
“So, do you think Jonah’ll fly for Jack?” Toby asks, pouring a round of pints for a guy who could be Teddy’s doppelganger—another rotund, Santa-bearded man.
“I’m not sure yet. What’s this Big Game Alaska thing? Hunting, right?”
“Yeah. People pay serious cash to use Jack. I’m talking twenty, thirty grand for a fly-in, a full camp, and a guide.”
A low whistle escapes my lips. “For how many people?”
He gives me a look. “That’s per person.”
“Holy shit.” I automatically do the Canadian currency configuration in my head. I wonder how long it’ll be before I stop doing that math.
“Yeah. And he just lost one of his pilots to an airline down south somewhere. Mom mentioned Jonah to him. The guy’s got a good reputation because Jack already knew about him.”
My pride swells, hearing that.
“So …” Toby leans forward again to rest his elbows on the counter. “If Jonah can get in with Jack, that’s some good, solid cash coming in every September, before the season starts to die down.”
“I don’t know if he wants to do it.” Why wouldn’t he, though? Having work that pays well every September is exactly what Jonah is interested in.
“No offense, but he’d be crazy not to for what Jack pays. But I get it … Some people aren’t keen on being up in McGrath for that long.”
“McGrath?” I don’t recall where that is on the map.
“Yeah. Of course, they’d put him up at the lodge there. It’s not the greatest, but it works.”
“A lodge. So, he’d be away for the month.” As in, I’d be alone at home for an entire month. The conversation I overheard between Jonah and Marie is starting to make sense.
Jonah doesn’t think he can take it because of the promise he made to me. But he told Marie about it, and if he’s talking about it with her, then he must be interested, despite what he said to me.
Another loud burst of laughter comes from Jonah, along with the other men at the table. I don’t think I’ve heard him laugh like that since … Well, since he was joking around with my father.
Guilt pricks me as Marie’s words come to mind. Are you happy turning down jobs because you’re afraid to leave your girlfriend alone?
How long will she hold you to that?
I’m holding Jonah back from doing something he wants to do, and for what? Because I—an almost twenty-seven-year-old woman—don’t want to be home alone. And of course he’ll keep his word, because that’s who Jonah is. But are my reasons justified?
I’ve noticed that on the days Jonah’s grounded because of the weather, he’s irritable and restless, scowling at the clouds as if trying to scare them away. He hates being held back from doing things. Agnes says he’s always been like that—like a high-strung toddler who needs his daily dose of outdoor exercise to regulate his mood. I laughed when she made that comparison, but I’m realizing she’s not wrong.
How long before he begins resenting me?
“Ah, shit …” Toby bows his head, his hand working a cloth over the counter.
“What’s wrong?”
His gray eyes dart to the door and I see rare annoyance on his face. “Don’t look now, but the woman who walked in—I said don’t look!”
“Sorry! It’s a natural reaction.” I wince sheepishly. “The one in the leopard-print crop top?”
“Yeah. If you mean the short shirt.” He leans closer. “That’s Jessie Winslow. Her husband works on the north slope.”
“What’s that? Like a ski slope?”
“Nah. It’s what we call the northern tip of Alaska. A lot of people from around here go up there to work on the oil rigs. Anyway, he’s gone for, like, two weeks at a time, and every time he’s on shift, she goes on a bender. Ends up coming in here and getting smashed, and then my father makes me drive her home. She gropes me every time!”
I peer over my shoulder again to catch a better look at the woman. I’d put her in her midforties—a good decade older than Toby. “She’s pretty.” She’s certainly put a lot of effort into her appearance, though her jeans are suctioned to her body and the crop top isn’t the most flattering for her figure, but if she’s looking for attention, she’ll certainly get it in this room.
“You know who’s not pretty? Her six-four, two-hundred-seventy-pound husband.”
I burst out laughing.
“It’s not funny!” Toby declares, but he’s struggling not to smile.
“You’re right, it’s not.” But seeing him so flustered is.
“I’m not driving her home tonight. She can take a cab,” he says with firm resolution, but something tells me he’s made that declaration before, too.
I steal another look at the married vixen who has sidled up to a tall, rugged man with a crooked nose, the kind that’s been broken more than once. With her rosy cheeks and the lazy swagger of her hips, I’d bet she’s already tipsy, which begs the question of how she got here in the first place. “Maybe she’ll find a ride from someone else tonight,” I offer.
The telltale creak of the door sounds—it’s become background music to the noise in the Ale House tonight—and Toby’s eyebrows arch. “Huh. I think this is a first.”
I check over my shoulder to see who stepped in.
And balk at the sight of Roy Donovan standing in the doorway, sizing up the crowd.
“What is he doing here?” I eye the wide-rimmed cowboy hat atop his head, his crisp-collared and clean blue-and-red flannel shirt, blue jeans tha
t look new, cowboy boots that look like they’ve been polished.
“No idea.” Toby glances at the chili table, and his mother, who is too busy gabbing to notice their new guest.
Others have noticed, though. Several heads swivel to the door, curious expressions on their faces.
Roy’s sharp gaze meets mine and, slipping his hat off, he strolls toward me.
“Ah, crap,” I mutter under my breath, turning back around to face the bar and seek refuge in Toby’s kind face. Unfortunately, he’s abandoned me to serve someone on the other end of the bar.
“Anyone sittin’ here?” Roy asks in that now-familiar Texas accent, his hand on the stool Jonah vacated.
Not only is Roy Donovan here, he’s looking to sit next to me.
“Uh …” I turn to catch Jonah’s attention, hoping he’ll see my predicament, but he’s occupied in an animated conversation with Jack. I admit reluctantly. “No. It’s free.”
“Don’t sound too excited on my account.” Roy hangs his cowboy hat on a wall peg beside him before settling onto the stool. He hooks the heel of his cowboy boot on the foot rail. “Was wondering if you’d be here.”
Really? Why? I take a long swig of my beer, mainly to avoid having to respond.
“You look cleaner than the last time I saw you.”
“So do you,” I throw back.
Toby returns, saving me from Roy’s retort. “What can I get ya?”
“A bottle of beer. Don’t care what kind, but make it cheap.”
“All right. One Coors comin’ right up.”
I shoot Toby a panicked “help me” look.
“So, how’s your dog doin’, Roy?” Toby asks as he fishes a bottle from the fridge.
“Pretty good. He’s up and walkin’ around again.”
“Thanks to Calla.”
Roy grunts.
Toby sets the bottle of Coors in front of Roy, and a fresh Corona in front of me, winking. “You look like you’re ready for another one.”
I’m guessing I’ll need twenty more before the night is through, if this conversation goes much longer.
Wild At Heart: A Novel Page 23
