by A. Gardner
The Jayes’ family home oozed with southern charm. The golden yellow walls reminded me of a hot croissant fresh out of the oven, and most of them were covered with family photos and pictures of Patrick’s various snowboarding competitions. He had proud parents, and there wasn’t a newspaper article or magazine cover that his mother hadn’t tracked down and framed.
“You made it.” Patrick grinned when he saw me. The subtle scent of his cologne filled my stomach with butterflies. He wrapped his arms around me and gently ran his fingers through my hair. It was a simple gesture, but my thoughts went haywire whenever he held me. My brain filled up with wedding gowns, place settings, and romantic trips to the coast. “Good. Mom has been looking forward to your visit. She had a rough morning.”
Patrick led me to the kitchen, his thick hand completely intertwined in mine. The table was set, and a light pink tablecloth covered the dings and the water stains, some of which I’d contributed in elementary school. Patrick’s mother placed the last cup on the table. It was part of a monogrammed set. Her face lit up when she saw me. And despite her fragile frame, she took a giant step forward just to touch my arm and welcome me to her home.
“I see my son has managed to keep you around,” she teased. Anne, or Annie Mae as her sister still called her, was a ball of sunshine despite the rigorous cancer treatments that had stolen her strength. I owed a lot to her. She was the reason Patrick retired moved back to Bison Creek. She was the reason we’d crossed paths again over ten years later—the reason we’d reconnected.
Patrick and I had gotten a second chance to be together because of her.
“You raised him right, Anne. What can I say?”
“Oh, I hope I get the chance to meet some grandbabies before I go,” she responded.
“Honey,” Buford Jaye interrupted. “You’re making her uncomfortable.” He reached out and shook my hand. “Good to see you, Essie. How are the folks?”
“Somewhere between better and best.” I watched for a grin, but Buford didn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve—or on his face, for that matter. He was a tall man, an ex-lawyer with similar facial features as his son, and he was impossible to read.
“Your shirt reminds me of that snowstorm we got last winter,” Anne continued. I was pleased to see her in such a talkative mood. “You know, the one when that older fellow who likes to tee-tee in the street bought all the batteries at the corner market and tried to sell them door-to-door for fifty dollars a pack. Do you remember that, Buford?”
“Remember it? I called the police.”
“I’m done with the snow for a while,” Anne went on. “I can never seem to moisturize my hands enough.” She paused and took a deep breath, as if talking was as straining as lifting weights at the gym.
“Honey.” Patrick's dad pulled out a chair and helped his wife sit down. “Let me get you some water.”
Patrick’s hand brushed against mine. I’d never forgotten the look on his face when he’d first told me about his mother’s illness. I doubted I ever would. The whirlwind of emotions—pain, sorrow, anger—had been enough to drive any man to tears. I knew it was hard for him to see Anne so frail. Especially since Patrick knew there was nothing he could do about it. He had to sit back, watch, and hope that he wouldn’t be awakened with the call every night before bed.
I squeezed his hand.
“Daisy!” Clementine cleared her throat. “Daisy Marie, get in here, sweet pea!”
The way Clementine had talked about her daughter, I’d expected to see a little girl in pigtails stroll up to the kitchen counter for her juice. The woman who joined us in the kitchen looked to be in her mid-twenties. She had some resemblance to the Jayes—blonde hair and a sharp jawline. But she wore a gray T-shirt which contrasted with the brightness of her mother’s attire.
A little boy with dark hair and tan skin trailed behind her.
“Yes, I’m here.” Daisy patiently stood next to her assigned seat and touched the bridge of her leopard print glasses.
“There’s my little grandson.” Clementine scooped up the little boy and held him tight. “Your mommy gives you way too much screen time. We’ll have to change that.”
Daisy rolled her eyes.
“Gavin, come sit over here, buddy.” Daisy seemed to reserve most of her cheeriness for her son. “And you must be Essie. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Love the glasses,” I responded. She carefully touched the sides of her frames.
“I have lots more. One for every day of the week.”
“Wear those pink ones I bought you tomorrow,” Clementine suggested. “Those are perfect for your first day at the Hummingbird Inn.”
Clementine had mentioned needing help in the kitchen, but I didn’t think she’d been hoping to give the position to her daughter. For one thing, it would require Daisy to uproot her life and move across the country. She would also have to get used to mountain winters. Clementine still hadn’t gotten used to salted sidewalks and scraping ice off her windshield.
“You’re staying here?” I was met with a wave of silence that rushed through the kitchen. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Yes, I’m staying,” Daisy said. “For the time being, anyway.”
Clementine clapped her hands and began directing everyone to their seats. Patrick sat by me, and his parents sat at either end of the table. Daisy made a plate of food for her son as Clementine carried a platter of roast chicken to the table. The chicken was followed by a bowl of peas and a casserole dish of mac and cheese.
“Hope you don’t mind my cooking,” Clementine said as she passed out napkins. “I’ve been trying to cut down on the oils and fats. I baked the chicken instead of frying it. Oh, Annie Mae, I have a chicken breast for you with less seasoning.”
“Always so thoughtful,” Anne responded with a smile. “I wish you were that thoughtful in high school.”
“Maybe if we hadn’t shared a room during the puberty years,” she commented.
“Ma, not at the dinner table,” Daisy snapped. “No one needs to hear about the first time you shaved your legs.”
“You thought it was interesting.” She raised her eyebrows.
“Patrick,” Anne interjected. “I saw a picture of you today on the nets.”
“She means the Internet,” Mr. Jaye muttered.
“Mayor Millbreck posted it,” she explained. “He called it a selfie or something. Someone needs to show that man his birth certificate. Maybe then he’ll start acting his age.”
Mr. Jaye chuckled and helped himself to some chicken and a generous serving of peas.
“That was kind of a spur of the moment thing,” Patrick said, passing me the mac and cheese. Sometimes you’ve got to shred the gnar a few times to calm it down.”
“Shred the what?” Daisy stared at him like he was covered in gravy.
“I was humoring him so he’d leave Canyon Street and let the police do their job,” he clarified.
“Police?” Anne rested her feeble hands on the table.
Clementine jumped up and brought dessert back to the table.
Mr. Jaye set down his fork and glared at his son.
“Uh, did I say police?” he corrected himself. “I meant . . . the Polish. Yes. This gnarly group of Polish tourists.”
“Good one.” Daisy concentrated on getting her toddler to try another pea.
“Buford, you know how much I hate it when you keep things from me.” Anne pushed aside her plate of untouched food and crossed her arms.
“You don’t need the extra stress, Anne. How many times do I have to tell you? Small-town gossip is detrimental to your health.”
“I have a right to know what’s going on in my own yard,” she argued. “Why were the police on Canyon Street?”
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I touched my jeans pocket until my cell phone stopped buzzing.
“Maybe we should discuss this after dinner?” A twisted smile crossed Clementine’s face as she dished her sister a gener
ous helping of mac and cheese. “You enjoy those noodles. Lord knows I can’t anymore.”
“Clementine.” Anne drummed her fingers on the tablecloth.
“Oh, all right.” Clementine dropped her fork. “I’m sorry, Buford.” She avoided making eye contact with her brother-in-law and grabbed Anne’s hand. “They did one of those shootouts, and a man was shot for real.”
Anne placed a hand on her heart. “Do they know what happened?”
“It was an accident,” Mr. Jaye said. “It was all one big horrible accident.”
“Who was shot?” Anne looked around the table.
“A bartender who worked at the Grizzly,” Patrick replied.
Dalton Dillweed.
“Well, bless his heart.” Anne nodded, a strand of hair brushing across her face. Part of me wondered if it was a wig. “Let us pray that it never happens again.”
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Anne spent the next few minutes forming the perfect bite on her fork—her special chicken, a piece of cheesy macaroni, and a few peas. She chewed it slowly, giving her sister a thumbs-up. Clementine eyed her flourless chocolate cake as she ate. Her intense focus on dessert dissipated when her grandson tossed a handful of macaroni onto the floor.
“How are things at the gym, Essie?” Anne looked me up and down with a giant smile on her face. “Is Mr. Kentworth keeping you busy with new clients?”
“Actually, he gave her a raise,” Patrick proudly responded in my behalf.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
“A raise?” The tone of Anne’s voice went up a notch. “Oh, that’s wonderful. I hope you two went out to celebrate.”
“Perhaps this occasion calls for dessert?” Clementine stared at the chocolaty dish in front of her.
“I plan on celebrating in the form of a new car,” I said. Finally. I’d been driving the same car since college, and it had broken down on me so many times that I’d lost count. The last time I got stranded in the snow, Wade had told me to put my hunk of junk out of its misery.
“That’s exciting.” Anne raised her eyebrows, taking a delicate sip of water.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I pulled out my phone to silence it until dinner was over, but my eyes jumped to the notifications on the top of my screen. I’d missed three calls from Joy. My heart sank as I opened a text she’d sent me just seconds ago. I read and reread it a few times before taking a deep breath and thinking through what to say to Patrick. I didn’t want to leave, but I needed to. There was no telling what my sister might do when she was in one of her moods.
Joy: I’m leaving Bison Creek and I’m not coming back.
Chapter 6
“How did you get into my apartment?”
I opened my front door and found Joy sitting on my couch stroking Miso’s back. I clenched my jaw. She looked fine. She wasn’t bloody or bruised. She wasn’t even crying. I might have left Sunday night dinner at the Jayes’ for nothing. My nails dug into the palm of my hand as I swore a few times in my head.
“Mrs. Tankle let me in,” Joy replied.
“Liar.”
“I still have a key,” she admitted. “I know you made me give it back when I moved out, but I made a copy, so . . .” Joy shrugged.
The two of us were sisters but the only thing we had in common was our darker shade of hair and our love of the mountains. Joy was much taller with the statuesque physique of a Roman goddess. She had a temper as fiery as Mount Vesuvius and she tended to overreact to just about everything. Sometimes I found it comical that my parents had named her Joy because she usually embodied the exact opposite.
“I’m supposed to be at Sunday dinner.” Miso jumped off the couch and sat by my feet.
“Furry little traitor,” Joy muttered.
“I take it you talked to Wade?” I placed my hands on my hips, trying not to get mad at her prematurely. Despite the fact that she radiated with negativity, she did have some good qualities. For one, even though we weren’t blood sisters, I knew I could trust her.
“Yes, I talked to Wade.” She stood up and began pacing the same way her husband had. “By the way, you’re out of chocolate.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are now,” she confessed, sporting an apologetic grin. “By the way, who buys ninety percent cacao dark chocolate? What’s wrong with a good old-fashioned sugar rush?”
“That sugar rushes straight to my thighs, hon.” I tossed my keys on the counter and headed to the kitchen for a glass of water, stepping over Joy’s black high heels on my way. It didn’t surprise me that Joy had raided my cupboards. It was an old habit just like the nail-biting. But I was surprised that she tried my organic dark chocolate with flakes of coconut and had decided to keep chewing.
“Essie, I don’t know what to do anymore. Do you know how many times I’ve told Wade to grow up and quit it with the pranks and the bar fights?” Joy leaned over the counter and rolled up the sleeves of her blouse. She’d been working at the resort. It was the only reason she was still wearing a pencil skirt and modest earrings.
“I’ll make an educated guess.”
“Thousands,” she continued. “Maybe more.” She rubbed a patch of skin on her forearm that she’d inked with tattoos when we were in high school. “He did this to himself. If the police come knocking on our door, it’s his own dang fault.”
“Until then, focus on other things,” I suggested. “And quit it with the threats. You’re not leaving Bison Creek. You would have to quit your job, and you worked your butt off for the Head Event Coordinator position.”
“I could transfer to that ski resort in Silverwood.”
“The one that wouldn’t let Patrick practice there for the Winter X Games?” I responded. “No, you will not.”
“You’re right. I won’t.” Joy grabbed a handful of hair and examined the ends. “That reminds me. I’m going to need your help for this event I’m putting on. It’s a charity fun run thing.”
“I love fun runs,” I said, “because—”
“Don’t say they’re super fun,” Joy cut me off, tilting her head from side to side. “I get enough bubbliness from the brides that come in wanting a winter wonderland–themed wedding.” She stuck out her tongue. “Gag me.”
“I guess not everyone is down with a random ceremony in Crystal City next to a bunch of slot machines.” I poured my glass of water and sat at the table. I didn’t know how many more family emergencies—Joy emergencies—I had left in me. I was going to have to set weekly limits.
“When I bring it up during consultations, people think I’m joking.”
“Does this mean the camping trip is off?” I asked.
Joy sighed, studying another section of her hair. “Probably not. Wade never shuts up about it. He says the peace and quiet will be good for me. He thinks I’m a ticking time bomb. He actually said that.”
“The nerve,” I murmured, looking down at Miso.
“I’ve got it.” Joy smacked her hand on the counter. The sudden bang made my heart jump. “It’s time for a change. What do you think, Essie?”
“What sort of change are we talking about here?” I narrowed my eyes. “Like an I’m getting a new tattoo sort of change or an I’m not wearing a bra the rest of the year kind of thing?”
“I did that once in college. Chill out.”
“Then what did you have in mind?” I took another sip of water, concentrating on the cool liquid coating my throat. One of my many techniques to stay calm around my sister.
“Besides, mine are a lot smaller than yours. When I wear baggy shirts, no one even notices.” She glared at my chest like it was an algebra equation she couldn’t crack. “Yours, on the other hand, would go bobbing down the street like a scene from a porno. Patrick is a lucky guy.”
“Sorry, are we still on bras?” If anyone else had been in the room, I would have blushed. Unlike Joy, I spoke with a filter.
“I’m going blonde,” Joy stated. “I’ll let you know if blondes have more fun.”
“Yeah.” She nodded, grinning from ear to ear at her brilliant plan. “And I’m not talking about lightening my hair a few shades. I’m talking platinum. The blondest of the blonde. What do you think?” She ran her fingers through her hair a few times and struck a sassy pose.
It wasn’t her worst idea. She could always dye her hair brown again.
“I think you won’t be recognized,” I said.
“I think you should dye your hair too,” she added.
I almost choked on my water.
“Me?”
“Yeah. Your hair has been the same shade of brown for like fifteen years. You’re in your thirties now. It’s time to spice things up.” Joy grabbed a strand of my hair and held it up to the light. “The color of your hair reminds me of a russet potato.”
“That makes me feel better,” I responded.
“It’s settled then. I’ll make us an appointment.”
“I’m really busy at the gym this week,” I said.
“Uh-huh.” She rolled her eyes. “Fine. But the least you could do is walk down to the bakery and buy me something with chocolate. Hell, I’ll settle for a coffee.”
“I’ll walk with you,” I agreed. “But I draw the line at pistachio macaroons. Those things are like crack.”
“Stop comparing things to crack.” She grabbed her high heels and her purse. “You’ve never done crack.”
The second Joy put her hand on the doorknob Miso lost it. He jumped up and down, making me spill water on my blouse. I grabbed my keys and Miso’s leash. When it was just he and I, he wasn’t so hyper. Maybe he did need some obedience training after all. Then he might stop loosening the latch on his kennel and weaseling his way out.
I held tight to Miso’s leash as we strolled down Canyon Street. A magnificent view of Pinecliffe Mountain stood right in front of us. Lights from all of the storefronts made the sidewalks glow, and clusters of multicolored wildflowers had sprung up on random patches of grass. I loved Bison Creek in the spring and early days of summer as much as I loved it when it was covered with a fresh coat of sparkly mountain powder.
