One day, we just stopped trying. We stopped having sex altogether. Until three months ago. Hell, she left three years ago to find herself—or so she said. Now, she’s been calling me every other day, asking about us again. I’m not sure what to tell her. There will always be a love for Grace. Always. She’s had my past since we were ten years old.
I wonder if life puts us through trials to test our character, our integrity. I also wonder if fate plays an even bigger part. People are put in our path at certain times to teach us to be better people. Or to prove we were shitty people to begin with or maybe to redeem ourselves.
My father always says, “Integrity is a lifelong pursuit.”
He raised us to be honest, kind, self-sufficient. I think Merit took self-sufficiency to the extreme when she moved out to California to go to college and then became a marine biologist for a marine sanctuary. But truth be told, I think she was running. Running from herself. Running from here.
When our mother died, she took it hard. Felt that she had to fill Mom’s shoes. Cooking dinners, laundry, cleaning. She didn’t have to do it. She felt a sense of obligation, I guess. Pop didn’t seem to mind. I think he was too much in his own grief to see how much Merit was doing for us. She was only fucking eleven. Part of me feels like I should have said something. Stepped up. Maybe that was a contributing factor to why she left after high school.
We’re still close. She pushes a lot of her grief down. Gets lost in her work. I think that’s how she copes.
My phone buzzes. It’s Ryan.
“Yeah?” I say.
“It’s not just five raccoons. There are seven. A trail of them. This is one sick fuck.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Fucking seven.”
My adrenaline picks up, my heart begins to race, and my hands begin to sweat. “I’m a minute out.”
That’s one thing Grace always said about me. “Your job always comes first, Eli. It will always come first.”
I couldn’t explain to her the rush. I couldn’t explain how much I loved being a warden. Maybe it isn’t about me loving my job so much as it was the person I was with. Maybe I just haven’t found the right person yet, the one to make the sacrifice for. Don’t get me wrong; I was there for Grace every step of the way. Especially after the miscarriage. In my own way though, I grieved. Perhaps I wasn’t far off from how my sister coped. Maybe we are more alike than I think.
Six
Alex
October 12, 2017
“Hey, Mom.”
I’m staring out the big bay windows at the Atlantic. It’s just after nine a.m., Maine time.
Meredith Fisher, just like her daughter, has always been an early riser. She always says, “I can get more done before the sun comes up than I can get done in an entire day. All I need is coffee.”
“How’s Dad?”
“Hey, baby girl. He’s fine. How’s the trip so far? What’s it like in Maine?”
“Beautiful. The colors are so vibrant here. Granite Harbor is small, like Belle’s. People seem great. It’s colder than home.”
There’s a long silence on the other end.
“Have you found Eli?”
I laugh a wholehearted laugh as I think about the coffee incident.
“Oh, Alex.” I hear the strain in her voice. “I haven’t heard you laugh like that in an awful long time.”
I want to tell her I haven’t felt like this in a long time, but I don’t. I don’t want her to feel left out, though I know she won’t. But I just don’t have power in me, not this morning. I go on to tell her about the coffee incident at Hello, Good-Pie. I tell her about an Eli I met. I tell her about Clay and Randall. A bolt of excitement shoots through me again as I start to tell her about the book series I’m going to start.
Again, silence.
I hear her breath hitch on the other end.
“Mom? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Panic constricts my throat. “Is Dad all right?”
“Yes,” she sighs. “I just hear joy from you, honey. Pure joy. That’s all. And it’s really good to hear.”
My dad picks up the other line. “Hey, Gidget. Did you catch the Warriors game last night? Curry was on fire.”
“Hey, Dad.” I know what my mom means now, finding peace in someone else’s words. A feeling that only comes when everything seems to be okay with the world. “I taped it, Dad”—I smile—“so don’t tell me the score.”
Mom tells me that she and Tracy Stone went to lunch the other day. That her daughter, Livia, is doing better now after Jasper’s death. Got a full ride to college. Wrote a book even.
“I told Tracy to have Liv call you if she needs any help,” my mom says.
We hang up, and I head down to the bakery, hoping to see Eli to explain why I made an ass out of myself last night by barging up to him and then walking away with a, “Never mind.”
I blame it on the alcohol. Clay and Randall warned me about talking to Eli when I was drunk. Said I should wait until the next day. Sleep on it. But, no, I had to do things my way.
The sunlight peeks through the clouds, catching my wedding ring just so, as I drive, creating a rainbow of colors against the window. In these moments, I know Kyle is with me. The day that Kyle promised his life to me seems like a lifetime ago. Something inside me tells me to take it off. Or make it into a necklace. Maybe I will soon. Today isn’t the day. Maybe it’s a comfort, a layer of protection, my armor I wear to ward off a heartache.
As I drive down Main Street, I see Ethan and Aaron surrounding a car, one on each side.
Where’s Eli? I think to myself. Why are they surrounding a car?
Just as I leave the Stop sign, a woodchuck tries to quickly run across the road in front of me. I ease on my brakes and watch as he makes his way to the other side. I look back at Ethan and Aaron. Hands on hips, they wave. I roll down my window.
“Hey, Alex,” Aaron says.
Ethan gives me a nod.
“Was that a woodchuck?” I ask.
“Indeed. Fastest woodchuck in the state of Maine. Trying to get him out of town before he gets hit.” Aaron rolls his eyes.
The woodchuck waddles his way down Main Street. This is where you can tell a stark difference between the locals and the tourists. The locals move over for the woodchuck and keep on their way. The tourists gasp and take pictures.
“Good luck with that,” I tell Aaron.
Staying a safe distance behind the woodchuck, Ethan and Aaron make sure he makes it back up into the woods.
I park in front of the bakery, hoping to see Eli’s truck but I don’t. All I’d like to do is apologize.
The bell on the door chimes as I walk into the bakery.
“Just in time!” Clay squeals. “Randall’s homemade pecan pie just came out of the oven.”
I glance at my watch. “But it’s nine fifty-two in the morning, Clay. Pie this early?” I grab my seat by the window and glance outside again for Eli’s truck. I set my laptop down and walk to the counter.
A slice of the pecan pie is already waiting for me along with a glass coffee mug that reads, I brake for wildlife. Huh, fitting. I love how all the coffee mugs are actual mugs, not Styrofoam cups.
“We need to fatten you up for winter, or you won’t survive if you stay that thin.” Clay walks to the display case, putting a newly made pecan pie in.
I bite my lip, unsure of how to proceed. I don’t want to sound overly eager, but at the same time, I need to know if Eli’s already made his morning stop by the bakery.
“Why are Ethan and Aaron chasing a woodchuck through town? I thought this was Eli’s jurisdiction.”
“Oh, you didn’t hear. It’s disgusting, Alex. They found a trail of dead raccoons early this morning, five of them, mutilated. Dissected. Each one was pregnant.” Clay shakes his head.
Randall rolls his eyes and looks at me. “And this is how small-town rumors blow up. It was seven raccoons, and one was pregnant.”
Clay shrugs. “That’s not what M
s. Ida said when she came in this morning.”
Randall places a hand on his hip, his mouth agape. “Ms. Ida is legally deaf, Clay.”
“At any rate, Eli is working the case. He hasn’t been in yet.”
“Can I use the window seat for a workspace for the afternoon?”
“It’s all yours, sugar. One condition: you be Randall’s taste-tester for a few recipes that he’s working on.” Clay touches his stomach. “I have enough fat on my bones for winter. I can’t maintain my figure with this guy feeding me butter and sugar all day.”
Randall kisses the side of Clay’s head. “Yes, dear.”
I take my pecan pie from the counter and fill up my coffee mug with French roast. I add some half-and-half and take my seat by the window.
I open my laptop, my screen saver a jump shot from Stephen Curry in game three of the championship series last year. It doesn’t matter which jump shot because every jump shot he takes looks so fluid, so effortless. As if way beyond the three-point arch doesn’t bother him. Like that’s his comfort zone.
My mind drifts to the countless nights my dad would come to my house to watch the Warriors play. In the past, he’d come to ours to watch the games with Kyle and me. Somewhere along the way, I’d become a huge Warriors fan. Not the paint-your-face-for-games fan, but a huge quiet fan nonetheless, and my dad was a close second, so much so that I surprised my dad with season tickets two Christmases ago.
I start a new file called Maine Warden Service and dive in to the research. There’s only so much research I can do online, but it’s enough to fill two hours’ worth of time. I put the cup of coffee to my lips, and somewhere between the topics of special operations and districts, the bell on the door chimes.
I look up just in time to catch Eli’s eye.
I prepared what I’d say to Eli, but now, he has a case. Who wants a writer tagging along with them in their quest to protect the wildlife and the public? Who wants a writer tagging along with them with nosy questions?
My stomach drops, and droves of butterflies float freely from it. It’s the line that forms around his mouth that does this to me. I try to nod like I’ve lived here all my life, watching Eli Young come in and out of the bakery every morning since we were kids. Like it’s nothing new for my body to respond like this.
I sense relief when he sees me. As if I’m the person he needs to see.
I need to redeem myself from the embarrassment I caused myself last night.
He turns to face Clay to place his order, but before he starts, I say, “Warden Young, a minute of your time when you’re done?”
Eli nods, not so tired as ten seconds ago.
The butterflies are no help, so I busy myself by shutting my laptop, and I pretend to think as I glance out the window at the wind that has kicked up.
I’ve been practicing the lines in my head since last night. I need this book series. I need the one-on-one research. I promised myself, when Kyle died, I’d never fall for another man in uniform again. Because with a uniform comes a level of commitment that those who wear it uphold before their own lives. It’s a price I don’t think I can afford to pay again.
Stay the course, Alex. Keep it professional.
Eli walks to my table, carrot cake and coffee in hand, and sits across the table from me. The tables at Hello, Good-Pie are small, too small in fact because Eli and I have just bumped knees. I make a note to mention bigger tables to Randall, who seems to be the more practical one.
My heart begins to pound out of my chest as he sits.
Eli’s green eyes burrow into mine. His elbows rest on the table as he waits.
He looks tired.
In two seconds’ time, I try to backtrack, try to convince myself that this isn’t a good time to ask him for the favor. Nobody thinks well when they’re tired.
Ask him, I hear my own voice say.
“Sorry about last night.” I hesitate. “What I wanted to tell you last night is that I’m working on a project, and I need some on-the-job training with a Maine warden.” This is coming out quicker than I planned. I was going to start with a story about a girl who had always loved to write. “I was wondering if I could job shadow you. Spend time with you.” I did not just say that. I try to redeem myself. “Spend time on the job. Working cases. Doing what game wardens do.” Oh my God, this is coming out all wrong.
Eli leans back in his chair. “How long do you have to spend with me?”
Breathe, Alex.
“As long as it takes. My return flight isn’t until November 7.”
Eli looks down at my wedding ring. “Is your husband here or in California?”
Oh.
I’ve been wearing the ring so long, and everyone in Belle’s knows, so I’ve never had to explain my husband’s death. Does Eli think I’m some sort of slut? Slutting my way across America without my husband?
Kyle was the only one I’d ever given my body to. He was the only one I allowed to do things and touch places I’d never dreamed of. He was the only person I thought I’d be with for the rest of my life.
I put the coffee to my lips, but before I take a sip, I say, “He died. Three years ago.” I glance down at my ring. “I haven’t found a reason to take it off.”
Every inch of Eli tenses. I see it start in his arms, then his shoulders, and his face. “I’m sorry.” But he says it in a way that’s far too kind. It’s genuine.
I nod, taking a sip of my coffee.
The bell rings, signifying someone’s walked into the bakery, but he doesn’t break eye contact with me, as if I’m the most important person in the room. I bet that’s how he makes the public feel. Listening to their issues. Making their concerns feel warranted. He’s someone who will always make the right decision, even when his back is against the wall.
Eli leans forward, placing his elbows on our far-too-small table. “I’ll agree to the ride-along for as long as you’re here—on two conditions.”
“What are those?”
“One, the calls I deem you can’t go on, I’ll drop you home first.”
“What if—”
Eli shakes his head. “If I think that your safety is in jeopardy, you will go home. That’s a deal-breaker if you can’t agree to that one.” He leans back. Cool. Casual.
I bite my lip. “Agreed.”
“And two, if you are anything but a Boston Celtics fan, I’m afraid the deal is off.”
He knows. He saw my Golden State Warriors sticker on the outside of my Mac. Well played, Warden Young.
I counter as a small smile creeps across my face, “Celtics? That’s your team? Eli, they haven’t won a national championship since they lost Paul Pierce in 2013.”
Eli tries his hardest not to smile.
I do the same.
He mulls over my comment in his head, like it’s a compliment because this is our banter. Our newly established protocol of how we’ll interact. Eli rubs his hands together, as if he’s done with the conversation, and acts as though he’s ready to stand.
“Wait. I can’t pretend to be something I’m not, but maybe I’ll open my eyes to the new prospects that the Boston Celtics have gained.” I shrug, playing his game. “I do enjoy watching Kyrie Irving.”
“Deal. Also, no snide comments about the lack of championships and the slump we’ve been in for the past nine years.” He holds out his hand for me to take. A handshake. An agreement.
“Agreed.”
My hand slides into his, as if we’d been doing this since we were kids. I try not to allow the butterflies to escape my stomach as his hand collapses around mine. I take refuge in this feeling he gives me. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve never felt the need to be protected by a man, but giving in to Eli’s handshake makes me feel as though a piece of the old me is back and that I might have a new friend.
“You start tomorrow morning. I will pick you up at seven a.m.”
“What should I wear?”
Eli has his coffee to his lips, and it’s as if he stops breathing. F
reezes. Life on pause. Slowly, he swallows his coffee. He coughs into his hand. His Adam’s apple moves, protrudes for a moment, and then goes back to its rightful spot. “You-you can wear something comfortable.” He coughs again. “Something you can get dirty.” He bites his bottom lip. “Running shoes probably. And socks.”
“Fantastic.” I make a mental note to pick up some running shoes somewhere in town today. “Is there a place to get running shoes?”
“Annie’s Shoes. At the end of town. I should go.” Eli stands. “See you tomorrow morning.”
“Eli?”
“Yeah?” He turns, flustered.
“Can I get your phone number in case I need to reach you? In case I get sick or something?”
“Yeah.” He takes out his phone.
We exchange numbers, and he leaves.
The rest of the afternoon is spent doing warden service research.
Then, I stop by Rain All Day Books, which also doubles as a souvenir shop. I buy a few sweatshirts, including a pink one that says, MAINE, in gigantic white letters; a dark blue one with a moose head on front and the butt on the back that reads, We will moose you. Come back again soon; and another one that reads, Granite Harbor, Maine. Rich in rock. The bookstore has a dedicated section to local authors. I pick up two Paul Doiron books, knowing he writes fiction books about the Maine Warden Service.
With my finds, feeling lighter than I’ve felt in years, I almost skip back to the Tahoe. I feel a piece of the old me slipping through the cracks of the shell I’ve lived in for the past three years, just existing.
I pull my down jacket a little tighter and look up at the sky. The weather has changed to cold, angry, as the clouds twist and turn with the wind off the Atlantic.
“There’s a storm moving in. You’d best hunker down, build a fire, and stay warm, Alex,” an elderly lady says as she shuffles by.
I stop. “How do you know my name?”
She stops shuffling, turns her head back in my direction, and winks. “Google. Retired librarian. Name’s Ida.” She extends her hand. It’s soft, cold, and inviting, all at the same time. Her name sounds familiar. “You write some hot stuff, dear.”
Peony Red (The Granite Harbor Series Book 1) Page 6
