by Ellen Parker
His hook weighed a hundred pounds on his lap. Words refused to line up right, but the silence started to grow thick as pine pitch. He swallowed a mouthful of coffee and took the risk. “Flames and I … well, they bring back my worst days.”
“Marines?”
“Army. Infantry.”
“Afghanistan?”
“Affirmative. Twenty-six months ago next week.” He answered before she could ask the second portion. A study of her face found more curiosity and concern than pity. Friendship, not sympathy, was what he needed at the moment from his blonde “summer girl” all grown up.
“Tell me.” Her expression, without a hint of judgment, encouraged him.
“Are you saying you haven’t pried the details out of your relatives?”
“They claim it’s a story best told by you. And I understand the importance of primary sources.”
“Okay.” He chewed a roll and studied her posture. According to her shoulders that earlier defeat had vanished in the past few minutes. The tall and proud girl — correction, woman — with the golden hair waited for him to speak. “I was in the wrong place when a dozen fuel barrels went up. The surgeons declared the arm beyond hope in Germany. The rest of me came back to Brooke Army Medical Center.”
With an index finger she traced the rim of her mug three times around. “That’s all?”
“The condensed version is all most people want to hear.” How many people really cared about another’s surgeries or demons? It took months for him to give more than hints to his family. And they witnessed bits and pieces.
“I’m not most people.”
His grin formed without permission from his brain. “I’m aware of that.”
“Do you have time to talk?” Her sky blue eyes continued to inspect his face. “Or should I rephrase that to energy?”
The cuckoo bird announced the hour, breaking the stretching silence.
“Half an hour. I need to work in town later this morning.” Brad reached an internal compromise by moving work on the Carlstead missing person case down a priority notch.
“I’ll try to be polite. Let me know if I cross into forbidden territory.”
He stood, brought in the carafe, and topped off both coffee cups. If he survived her questions, he’d ask a few of his own.
• • •
“I understand why you returned to Crystal Springs after the army discharged you.” Laura gestured for Brad to take the final breakfast roll. His half-hour deadline was nearing. “But what prompted the real estate license? Why not use your journalism degree from Madison? Isn’t the web insatiable for material?”
“Who’s spreading the rumor that I’m not?”
“Another point for you.” Conversation with the adult Brad this morning flowed from one topic to another with nothing she’d brought up declared off-bounds. His face reflected genuine interest as he described the variety of his army postings. A confident man sat across from her this morning; she needed to look quick to catch glimpses of the boy full of contradictions.
It was a stark contrast to their exchange while picking raspberries during her last summer visit. At fifteen, Brad paused long enough between sentences to make jam of the berries he dropped in his plastic bucket. She’d not put him at ease with her short replies and open scorn of a high school that didn’t offer advanced placement classes, either.
At the moment, the changes in her own maturity level came up cloudy in her internal mirror. Would this be smoother or more difficult without their childhood acquaintance?
“Where could I find an example of your writing?”
“Last year, I managed to get a piece into a conservation newsletter. A couple other articles float around out in cyberspace. Sorry, left my complete credentials in the other suit.” He eased back his chair as the cuckoo announced the half hour. “I should go. Come over to our place. I promise not to cook.”
“Is your cooking that bad?” She reached to stack dishes and tried to conceal a startle as music broke out in his pocket. A march. I’ve heard it before, but the name escapes me.
“Good morning, this is Brad Asher.” He began to speak after the briefest of glances at the incoming number. “Yes, the reception is good. What time do you suggest?”
She took a portion of the dirty dishes to the kitchen. The house floor plan offered minimal opportunity for private conversation. From the steady volume of his voice, he didn’t appear to be particularly concerned if she overheard. Still, it wasn’t her business to eavesdrop on his life. It could be one of those journalism ventures he’d hinted at paying off. Or a girlfriend. He’d be a handsome part of a couple.
“Yes, if any of that changes I’ll call you back. Take care, Mrs. Schmitt.” He tucked his phone away and brought his coffee mug to the kitchen. “That was your prospective landlady. She wants to meet with both of us and discuss the lease. Will Monday at ten work for you?”
“Sounds perfect.” A widow older than my mother. She replayed his description of the owner from yesterday.
“Good.” He plucked a pen from the jar by the phone and began to write an address plus phone number on the message pad.
“Fancy ring tone. Is it something from the army?”
“Not exactly.” He continued to the back porch and began to dress for the cold. “My phone reflects my status as a loyal Badger alum. I use On Wisconsin for all but family.”
“No wonder it seemed familiar. Does the high school still use it for their fight song?”
“Absolutely.” He shrugged into the coveralls. “I meant the invitation for a supper. And unless you want pasta with sauce from a jar, I’ll let my mother do the cooking.”
Laura leaned against the open kitchen door. “I’m sure it will be better than flaming potholder. I’m really sorry about the excitement and fright.”
“Serve it with a sharp knife and call it Goldilocks’s revenge.”
“With a rating of three campfires?” She toyed with the end of her single braid resting on her shoulder. “Tell me, Mr. Park Ranger, when did you name me Goldilocks?”
He stood from the bench and pulled the ski mask out of his pocket.
She thought he would ignore her foolish question, but halfway through the door he turned his head and tossed an answer over his shoulder.
“Yesterday. Before that you were ‘summer girl.’”
• • •
Laura placed the fresh wiped dish on the shelf and closed the cabinet door. Barking dogs preceded the distinctive sound of an arriving vehicle and drew her attention to the window.
A dark Jeep pulled straight in and stopped at the small walkway between the house and garage. The driver opened his door, ignored the circling collies, and approached the back porch. She moved to meet him.
“Howdy. Registered letter for a Laura Tanner.” The mail carrier gripped a clipboard and several envelopes in his left hand.
“That’s me.”
“Sign the green card at the mark. Shaping up to be a fine day.” He stood still, allowing Taffy and Cocoa to inspect his legs. “Are you the niece?”
She debated which of his comments needed a response. “No secrets in this town.”
“I like to think we watch out for each other. You take care, now.” He started toward his car. “By the way, name’s Harold. I’m running a little late today. If you need to mail anything best to have it in the box half an hour ago.”
“I’ll remember that.” She stood on the enclosed porch while he turned around and resumed his route on the road before reading the return address on the letter. Data Diagnostics. Why would her employer send a letter when she was on vacation?
Formal, impersonal language blurred before Laura’s eyes. She sat stiff on the daybed for a full ten minutes reading and rereading a letter full of legal citations. The purpose stayed the sa
me each time through. Data Diagnostics, the information technology service she’d worked at four years and ten months, was officially out of business. I should have seen it coming. What blinded me?
She released the paper and let it drop to the carpet. Cheerful noon sunlight flooded in through the window mocking her fresh defeat.
“No wonder it was easy to get time off.” The quiet house absorbed her words. She stood, scooped up the letter and put the entire handful of mail on the formal dining table for later. That door she’d just heard slam shut in her mind required physical activity.
A little later, Laura stepped onto the snowshoes, dropped to one knee, and puzzled over the straps. Taffy poked her narrow nose at her hand, pleading for another bit of attention.
“Patience, girl. I’m new at this. Best you stay back unless you know which one of these to fasten first.” She secured one snowshoe and started on the other. The nature videos made it look easy. If she could believe even half of the information, she’d be walking steady on top of the fresh snow within five minutes. Yeah. Sure.
“Cocoa, bring that back. Here.” She pushed herself upright for the second time in a dozen awkward steps. One ski pole aided the process while the brown and white dog dragged the second pole to the edge of the narrow service road. “That’s not funny, girl. Do you want me to start subtracting kibble each time you steal from me?”
The collie gave her a puzzled look for a few seconds then turned away to follow some critter trail.
Laura squatted to carefully retrieve the abandoned pole before continuing down the snow-covered tractor width path to the end of the pumpkin patch. White pine marched parallel on her right in rows that stretched to the turn along the gulley. She’d walked in that field the other day. Today she maneuvered left into the smaller field of balsams chanting; lift, swing, forward. It almost kept her feet untangled. She’d only fallen twice — in less than ten minutes. Progress.
The collies returned from their side trips by the time she halted two rows into the field. She dug into her pockets to toss them each a dog biscuit, and found energy to laugh as they boggled the catch and ended up to their ears in snow.
Find something good in the day. Ever the list maker, she voiced one recent negative thing and tromped around in the field until she recalled a positive to balance it.
“My safety net of a job with some telecommuting during the next few months has vanished.” A few paces later she told the nearest balsam, “Monday we meet with Mrs. Schmitt.”
Difficult tasks like preparing her house for sale balanced with free room and board at the farm. Myles Wilcox drifted into her mind and sent a shiver under her layered clothing. Brad’s smile as he said “Goldilocks” settled in like a blue-sky afternoon.
Bam!
Her foot stalled in the middle of a “swing.” Gunshot. Her heart shifted into double time as she concentrated on moving her feet in careful, steady arcs toward the service road. “This is rural Wisconsin. All sorts of people set up targets and practice.”
Chapter Five
“I apologize again for keeping you past closing.” Laura extended her hand to Marge, the Crystal Springs librarian. What she’d envisioned as a short, get-acquainted visit had expanded into two hours of facility tour, village history lesson, and discussion of the various bestseller lists.
“Not a problem. Since my hubby retired last year, Friday isn’t my night to cook.” Marge selected a key from her bright-coiled bracelet to lock the front entrance. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
“Same here,” Laura stepped into darkness with soft streetlight punctuation. “I’ll be trying Jack’s Village Tavern for my own supper.”
“Good choice. Their Friday fish fry draws a crowd from the entire area.”
Laura gave the older lady a wave as she unlocked her car. This spur-of-the-moment visit to the library answered several of her questions. The emails they’d exchanged during the previous two months contained such formal language, she’d feared the village librarian was the stereotypical nineteenth century ogre. Instead, Marge proved to be open and friendly under a thin coating of old-fashioned manners. The lady was also overwhelmed with the response to an adult reading challenge issued for the new year.
A few minutes later, she pulled open the door of Jack’s. Warm noise wrapped around her in invitation. A few round, tall tables clustered near the end of the long bar where half a dozen taps speared the air. A chalkboard covered with daily food specials dominated the space behind the polished barrier. The remainder of the dining area featured square tables with simple wooden chairs. She chose to claim a space under a large window with a gaudy beer sign and view of Front Street.
Muted light escaped from the upper windows of one twenty-four Front Street. Downstairs a single fixture glowed near the door. She made a mental note to check about timers for security lights if she got the lease. A lot depended on the commercial space in her view.
Monday morning. She and Brad would be meeting at the landlady’s home in Wagoner to discuss details of the lease. The weekend remained to meet other people and learn nuances of local business customs.
“Evening. What would you like to drink?”
Laura pulled her thoughts away from business dreams. “What goes good with the fish fry?”
The twenty-something server pulled a cardboard coaster from her apron pocket and emitted a mixture of laughter and sigh. “We carry six beers on tap, another twenty in bottles, Coke products, and Bear Country Root Beer. Then we have the fixings for cocktails and several nice California wines. Am I hitting any possibilities here?”
Laura exposed her palms to the waitress as if to halt the onslaught of beverages. “Bring me the root beer. And I’ll have the regular size fish dinner with slaw and fries.”
“Coming right up. Name’s Tiffany if you need to give a holler.” She scribbled on her order pad and moved on to a table of new arrivals, her auburn ponytail waving with every step.
Now what word in Jack’s Village Tavern missed my brain? She glanced out the window again and this time took note of the red and white beer sign above her head. With deliberate motions, she shed her coat and gathered her nerves closer together. The longer she studied the room, the more comfortable the mixture of voices and scent of deep fried fish became. The atmosphere fell somewhere between family dining and rowdy sports bar.
One closed captioned large screen showed sports highlights from the week. A pair of men at the single pool table seemed practiced at ignoring advice from half a dozen onlookers. On the other side of the entrance, two women tended four small children.
Her hand went to the hidden rings as she tried to picture Scott across the table. The image didn’t clarify. A city man, he’d be restless, unable to adjust to the slower pace.
Yet, she imagined him in the shop across the street. During her actual inspection and almost on demand, she could call up his lean body reaching for a book on a high shelf or resting his arm on that former serving counter discussing the merits of various biographies with a customer. The space suited their business model better than any of the vacancies they’d considered a year ago last November.
Yes, Scott would enjoy a visit. Living here? He’d feel confined and would soon be uneasy. A person didn’t just drop into Wal-Mart in the wee hours on impulse when a thirty-mile drive was involved. She smiled at the memory of one of their visits he’d prompted. It was so natural and comfortable to stand side-by-side, reading food labels and exchanging comments. Scott was unique — a relationship to be savored.
She took her first sip of rich root beer and considered the positive side of things. Memories of Scott should be rare here. They’d only visited once, at the height of the fall colors three years ago. Three years. Daryl still worked for the Secret Service then. Roger was struggling with a new crop management computer program. And Brad, he was taking orders in the army with both
arms intact.
“Are you the Starr girl?”
Laura looked up from her hot fish fillets into the weathered face of a man with sparse gray hair. “Guilty. My father was Richard.”
“Pegged you right off. You favor him. I rode the school bus with both of those boys way back when. It was a sad day when Roger told me he’d died. Cancer?”
She nodded. “Leukemia.”
“Well, you hang in there, young lady. I got to go. We’ve got the grandson with us tonight and he’s in a hurry for his fish. You tell Roger that Lloyd Carlstead is alive and well.”
“I’ll do that.” She repeated his name, wiped her fingers, and went digging in her coat pocket for pen and pad.
Three out of four tables were occupied and the sounds of conversation, laughter, and snap of play at the pool table hummed in the room by the time Laura finished eating and stood to put on her coat.
“Allow me, ma’am.”
She sealed her lips before an exclamation escaped. Myles Wilcox worked and lived in the community. It should be no surprise he patronized a local business. She slipped one arm into her parka and then the other. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Did you enjoy your supper?” He stood on the edge of her personal space between her and the exit.
“Excellent. I recommend the beer battered fish.” She forced her gaze to sweep over him without turning away in rudeness. His fresh haircut matched Scott’s favorite and forced her breathing to pause. A slow parade of melted ice slid down her spine.
“Spoken like a native.”
She reached back and lifted her single, long braid free of her collar. “I’ve a long way to go before I’ll attempt that claim. But I do have ties to the area. I’m thinking the grapevine has kept you well informed.”
“I’m not a gossip. You should tell me your story one of these days.”
“Not tonight.” She took a small step toward the door, paused when he touched her arm and spoke low near her ear.
