by Jacquie Gee
“Yeah, well…”
“Though, you’re right. The sign in the front of your establishment kills all that.”
“Back to the sign.”
“It’s really gotta go. Mixed messages, there’s your problem.”
“Who says I have a problem?”
“No one,” I sing, scouring the menu again. “I’m sure the food bank quite likes your fare.”
He cuffs me with his menu as I giggle, then laughs along with me too.
“Why don’t you ever lose the cap, anyway?” I change the subject. I need to know; that cap drives me nuts.
“Because.”
“Because, what?” I look up to find him staring back at me oddly serious.
“It’s a hair thing.” He scratches his head.
“What do you mean, a hair thing?” I thought only girls had hair problems. “What sort of hair thing?”
“An unruly, needs-to-be-covered-by-a-cap-at-all-times, kind of hair thing.” He glances at me from under his lashes.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
“Oh, come, on. It can’t be that bad.”
He glares out at me from under its brim.
"So, what? You've got some serious bedlam going on under there." I reach for his cap, and he swats away my hand. “Come, on, let me see.” I reach again, and he dodges defensively. My fingers are left to rake the air.
“Nope.”
“Okay, now I’ve got to see what’s under there.” I lean over and swing to knock his hat off his head, but he catches my wrist mid-air.
“Oh, come on,” I say. “How bad could it be?”
“Jeff Spicoli in Fast Times At Ridgemont High kind-of-bad. That’s how bad.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously?”
“Every day?”
“All day. Twice on Sundays.”
I laugh, which distracts him just enough time for me to break free of his grasp and succeed in knocking off his hat.
“Oh, my,” I gasp, falling back, my hand flying up to my face.
A thick helmet of every-which-way, dark curls spring out in every which way direction. He wasn’t kidding. This is some serious unruly hair issues. “Wow!”
“Yeah, wow. Told you.” He reaches up to try to smooth his curls down, his cheeks turning a dark shade of red.
“Maybe, if you just…” I try my hand at taming his curls. They spring straight back up.
“Yeah, you see? No point. Been my nemesis since the day I popped out of the kanga-womb.”
“Kanga-womb?”
“So me Mum said.” He scowls. “I’ve tried everything from shellacking ‘em down, to hackin’ ’em off. The shorter I cut them, the worse they get. I look like a poorly made brush.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I run a hand crazily through his hair. “I think they’re cute.”
“You do?”
“Um-hum. In a manic sort of way.” I particularly like the one that falls haphazardly down over his one eye, all unmanaged and sexy-like.
“You and my mother. That’s it.” He snaps back from my hand. “Short of shavin’ me head bald, I don’t think there’s much else can be done about it.”
“Hmmm, bald.” I scratch my chin. “You know what,” I lean over, scooping up his hat. “I don’t think the cap’s such a bad idea.” I plop it back on his head and turn my eyes back to the menu. “Maybe we just need an array of caps.” I smile, and he smiles harder. “Where is the waitress? I am starving.” I sit up tall and search the place.
He looks at me from beneath lowered lashes, and the next thing you know I’m in his arms, my chest rolling breathlessly, his face hovering inches from my face. “Perhaps it is time for some new ones if you’ll help me pick them out,” he says in a chic sort of dreamboat way. That accent of his is freakin’ killer up close. His breath smells of coffee and mint.
“Sure, I can do that,” I lamely say, knowing this conversation is just filler before the big event. Come on, just kiss me, for the love of licorice, kiss me. He moves his hand up my back, and I flinch, arcing my body slightly toward him, my breasts grazing his chest. The buttons at the front of my blouse scream. Deep, warm, wondrous parts of me soften. He parts his lips and draws in a breath—
“So, what are we havin’?” The waitress shows up.
Trent and I spring apart.
“Aaahhh,” I stammer. “I-I’ll have the Reuben. On rye. Without any mustard.” I scramble to hand her the menu.
“The same.” Trent flushes, passing her back his menu.
“With fries or salad.” The waitress licks the end of her pen.
“Fries!”
“Salad!” We shout together.
“Gotcha!” The waitress shouts back and swirls from the table off across the greasy floor with our orders.
I don’t know what to say, and neither does he, so we just kind of sit there, breathing.
My phone dings in my purse.
Text message. Savior. I dig my phone and read it. “Oh, no.” I pop to a sudden stand.
“What? What is it?”
“Aunt Penny,” I say, grabbing for my jacket and tossing my purse over my shoulder quick.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t stay. I’ll pay you later for the Reuben?”
“No, don’t worry about it. Why what’s wrong?”
“The buses have shown up. All three of them. At once.”
“What?”
“Apparently, so. They’re slammed, and Mom's malfunctioning. Aunt Penny's all alone."
“You’ll never make it back in time.”
“I have to try.”
“Here. Let me go with you. I know some back roads!”
I fly away from the table, dropping my phone, and slam into the wall that is Trent’s chest. He’s risen to come with me at the very same moment, and his arms have ended up around me again. We stand, slammed together, breathing heavily, our chests rising and falling, his once playful gaze now a serious one, looking down on me through his oh-so-hot-looking lenses.
“Shall we?” he says.
“Uh-huh.” I breathe.
Slowly, he unthreads his arms from my waist, and I step away, instantly missing his heat. You’ve got it bad, Becca-friend. Real, bad.
A brazen smile blooms across Trent's full lips. "You like me, don't you?"
“What?”
“Just a little bit.” He shows me with his fingers.
“We don’t have time for this.” I turn away.
“But, you do—” he catches me by the wrist. “Don’t you?” he teases in a singsong voice.
“I dunno, maybe.” I shrug.
“Hmm,” he tips his head. “I got a, maybe. That’s better than nothing.” He turns and struts out the door, stopping to pay the waitress on the way out.
This is not how this day was supposed to go. I scoop my phone up off the floor and chase him out.
Chapter 30
“How did this happen?” I shout to Aunt Penny as Trent and I race through the door. I peel off my jacket and toss it aside, exchanging it quickly for a shop smock. The room is already overflowing with customers.
Trent was right. He knew some serious backwoods, shortcuts, so we’ve managed to make it here in half the time, catching the tail end of the mad rush.
Aunt Penny riffles Mountie dolls into bags as fast as she talks. “Good news, the buses are still coming. Bad news, they all came at once.”
“I see that, but why?” I slide in, taking over cash.
“I dunno. They must not have gotten word the bridge was closed down and tried to sneak in one last tour.”
“Oh! Look who’s here!” Mom comes running. She hugs me hard, her face warm against my own. “Welcome home, darling. So, nice to see you. When did you get it?” She kisses my cheeks then pulls back looking confused, and completely oblivious to the chaos playing out around us.
I look to Trent who looks to me.
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“How about we get caught up later, okay, Mom? After the crowd leaves.” I look around.
She warily notices she’s surrounded by people. A lot of people. “Of course.” She pats my hand, trying to look like she knows this, then kisses me again, then runs off to get more bags.
I look hard at Aunt Penny, who frowns at me. “What did you want me to do? The buses were all here, and I needed help. Besides, I didn’t have any clean towels for her to fold.”
I read the subtle desperate message behind that statement and pat her shoulder.
“Do you have spoons?” A customer asks.
“I’ll get that.” Trent dives into action, leading her across the floor, as Mom returns with the bags and moves in behind the cash, furrow-browed, looking very confused. “Perhaps you’d liked to help Aunt Penny bag?” I offer gently. It’s more of a plea than a question.
“All right.” Mom gives up easy. Thank goodness.
“Thanks for coming,” Aunt Penn whispers in my ear and dashes back out onto the floor.
“Can I help you?” I greet the next customer, trying to sound welcoming and cheerful, and not half as flustered as I’m feeling.
“Oh, nope, sorry! That’s not for sale.” I see Trent snag the old photo of my great-grandfather, nailing the final planks down on the bridge in 1856, out of a shopper’s hand. The woman has plucked it from a nail on the wall thinking it’s for sale. “There are copies of it for sale over there though, if you’re interested.” He steers the customer toward them, handing the original off to me. “Better put this in a safe place.”
I glance down at his face through the glass. If only he could see this—see us—he’d be very proud.
“Becca!” My mother’s eye alight as she whirls around. “When did you get in?”
Chapter 31
I drop down into my favorite chair at Aunt Penny’s. She falls into the chair across from me, both of us exhausted. Trent’s gone off to man his restaurant.
“Well, that was the longest forty-five minutes of my life.” I brush the hair from my eyes.
“Do you think he planned that?” Aunt Penny asks.
“Who, Jebson?”
“Yeah. Do you think he alerted the buses all to come at once on purpose to drive your Mom and I into giving up and signing his danged papers?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.” I sigh. “Though I still think it’s more likely that the tour bus companies just found out about the bridge and tried to squeeze in one last visit— they probably got word the bridge is shutting down.”
“Has been shut down, officially, this morning.”
“Yes, but, perhaps they were on the road and didn’t get word of that yet.” I tap my chin. “Then again, if so, that would be the only piece of news in Heartland Cove that has ever traveled slowly.”
Aunt Penny laughs.
It does seem odd that they all came at once. It also seems odd that if happened right after I saw Jebson at his meeting. It could be another scheme. “See I told you they wouldn’t stop coming.” I make light of the moment when deep down, I’m worried.
“Whatever it was,” Aunt Penny sighs heavily. “The moment they stop coming is the moment we all go down.”
I hate that what Aunt Penny says is true—that they’re at the mercy of only one source of income now. That the welfare of every last person in Heartland Cove depends on the bus tours, and the tour buses alone. I hate that the tourists are so rushed and there're no carriage rides and that Mother and my Aunt have to work so hard just to survive. But most of all I hate that Trent is right. The town must preserve the past while embracing the future more than ever now. It’s the only card they have left to play.
Unless…
Thoughts of Jebson’s deal flutter through my mind.
“Would it really be so awful if the bridge were to come down?”
“Wash your mouth out with soap!” Aunt Penny snaps. “Don’t you dare call that fortune into our universe.” She looks angry. She’s never angry. I swallow. I’ve upset her. “I just meant— couldn’t Mom survive on the money she’s saved. I mean…if it came to that?”
Penny screws up her face. “Savings? What savings?” She flails her arms in the air. “Mark my words, Becca, that bridge goes down, and your mother and I, and everyone else in this town go down with it." "You really have been gone too long, haven’t you?” She looks away.
Clearly, I am missing something here. Since when does Mom have no savings at all? I mean, I know she’s not rich by any means, but at least the house is paid off, right? Has been paid off for years. I don’t dare ask.
“Coffee?” Aunt Penny stands and heads off to the kitchen to make some, and I feel horrible about what I’ve just said.
“Who knows,” I turn to her. “Maybe this is going to drive more business than ever, your way.”
“Don’t know we can stand that.” She blows out steam. “But that would piss Jebson right off, wouldn’t it?” She grins.
“It would.” I steeple my fingers, tapping them together.
“I feel so bad,” Penny whispers, placing two coffee mugs on the countertop.
“Why is that?”
I lift my gaze, and see hers is a solemn one. “When Jebson first came around spewing all that crap about your mother owing so-called back taxes, I told her that was preposterous and that she should just tell him to take a hike. Now I wish I’d advised her to take it more serious.” Her bottom lip trembles.
“Don’t blame yourself. You couldn’t possibly have known.” I sit back. “Trust me, if it wasn’t trumped up the back-taxes, it'd be something else. Jebson’s on a mission.”
“Still, I should have had her check with the authorities, I should have made her call the police, but your mother was so frightened. I’ve never seen her like that. She kept saying it was best to go along with him.”
“Why?”
"I don't know exactly." The kettle breaks into a whistle. Aunt Penny scurries over to it, shakily pouring hot water into the cups. “I’ll tell you what I do know. She doesn’t owe any back taxes. I know that for a fact.” She swings around, holding two cups of piping hot coffee, looking piping hot herself.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I do the books. Have for the last twenty years.” She hands me a cup and places hers down. “I have ledgers, dating back just as long.” She whirls into the back room and returns with them, dumping them down on the table between us. “You’re welcome to check it if you’d like.”
“No, no. I trust you, Aunt Penny.” I wave a hand in the air.
She takes a seat. “Unless it’s some new-fangled thing the governments just cooked up to try and force people into paying new taxes.” She huffs and folds her arms across her chest. “Gawd knows the government’s always changing the rules to suit themselves.”
“It can’t be that. They can’t just charge people back taxes on something that just came into existence.” I talk over my coffee. “It would have to be something old that was still owing.”
“Well, there’s nothing.” She leans forward showing me the ledgers. “You see.” I look at where she points. “Everything’s balanced.”
“These are taxes for the store. Not for the land, right?”
Aunt Penny’s brows pitch. “These are all the taxes, everything we pay.”
“So, Mom doesn’t pay separate taxes for the bridge?”
“No, why would she do that when it’s all attached?”
“Interesting.”
The subpoena said she owed separated taxes on the two parcels of land at either footing of the bridge. It claimed the land was severed in the seventies when the Ministry of Transportation paved the roadway leading into Heartland and the road became part of the Municipality’s responsibility. But here it is, still intact, according to this drawing. They severed the land around the base of the footings of the bridge into two separate parcels—to keep the bridge as part of our property, and not give it away to the province.
I frown
.
“It’s all right here,” Aunt Penny says. "In these books." She digs a ledger out from the bottom and flips it open to the right page. Running a finger over an old map, she shows me, indicating the land under the shop, the house, and the footings of the bridge all as ours, and a small amount on the opposite side of the bridge
“We own land on the opposite side?”
“Yeah. Always have. Bernie Bates is on it. He pays us rent. Though we haven't collected it from him in a number of years as he’s been hurting as much as we have."
“But that land is ours.”
She nods.
“For how long?
“As long as I can remember.”
This is starting to make a whole lot more sense.
“It’s an awful shame about the bridge,” Aunt Penny sighs. “This was going to be a banner year for Heartland." She closes the ledger.
“Why’s that?”
“It’s the year of the International Potato Festival.”
“The what?”
“The International Potato Festival. Heartland Cove’s been picked to host this year. We were gonna be featured in every Farmer’s circulation far and wide, not to mention, every tourist’s destination advertisement. The town stood to hugely benefit. Some were saying it was the ticket to our official comeback. Just get them here, show them a good time, and they’ll all wanna come back. Heck, even old Jack Stevens up the way was building extra cabins to accommodate all the visitors. Everyone was sure this was gonna be a money maker. The town’s salvation. We’re all pulling together to put on one heck of a show. But with the bridge closed and under threat, we might as well throw in the towel.”
“Why didn’t I know about this?”
Penny makes a face. “I’m sure your mother meant to tell you.”
A chord pulls deep in my heart, realizing how much I’ve been missing, how much she’s been missing, how much I really don’t know.
“She’s second chair of the committee under Trudy Swenson,” Aunt Penny says.
“Who is?”
“Your mother.”
“Seriously?”
Aunt Penny frowns. “She’s just a little confused. She’s not dead, you know.”
