Once around the corner, Braden stopped and turned, giving his other shoulder a chance to get polka-dotted in the soft rain.
Amber shivered. “My present is here?” He better not give her some stupid piece of wood because she spent a long time making that—
Without warning, Braden leaned down and kissed her. A jolt ran down her as his warm lips found hers. She was so stunned she almost fell back, but he held her tight.
When he pulled back, her lips tingled with his lingering warmth.
He smiled a crooked smile. “I know it’s not really a gift, but I’ve wanted to give it to you for a while.”
“Well, feel free to give me,” she paused, feeling wonderfully breathless and giddy, “that present anytime.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Then he leaned down and kissed her again.
* * * * *
Greg headed over cornfields, an old golf course, and deserted woods on the trail into Shelton. The rain fell in slow, lazy drops, chilling him in his thin t-shirt. Served him right for trusting the morning sunshine. Illinois weather was part woman. Unpredictable. Temperamental. Anxious to punish him.
He sped up to make it before the worst of the storm hit.
As he neared town, he hung back under a large pine to study his surroundings. Citizenship card or not, open civilization still made him nervous. Too many years hiding. Technically, if a patrolman stopped him, he could flash his new yellow card and go on his merry way. But patrolmen didn’t like people wandering around in the open, not even legals. Under President Rigsby’s ‘emergency laws,’ they could detain Greg for no other reason than he sneezed wrong.
He stayed low and out of sight, wondering how many legals were left in the small town of Shelton. The downtown area looked abandoned. Shop after shop had been boarded up, and trash blew down the street with the stiff wind. The only things that looked alive were the township office, the adjoining patrol station, and dozens of flowering trees lining Main Street. The cheerful white blossoms clashed with the rest of the town, unaware that the world had come to a screeching halt years ago.
Carrie would love them. He knew that right away.
Rubbing the cold rain from his goose-bumped arms, he procrastinated the reason for his trip and scanned Main Street. Then he spotted it, a small, abandoned flower shop on the corner. Carrie’s life dream, Buds and Roses, sat a stone’s throw away.
Awhile back, Greg had the crazy idea to fix it up and turn it into a farmers’ market—his attempt to generate income for the clan. Now that he, his mom, his grandparents, and Richard were taxable, legal citizens, his grandpa’s cash was flying out the window. At the current rate, they’d be broke in fourteen months, and that’s if they continued to barter on the black market for supplies and didn’t use an ounce of electricity. Forget taking his mom to a government doctor. Once the cash ran dry, not only would they lose their citizenship, the clan would lose their safety net. No more house to hide in during government raids. No more yard for crops or chickens. They had to generate income somehow, and thus his idea.
As far as he knew, starting a business was as illegal as squatting on government property, but maybe the mayor would make an exception. After all, Greg’s idea could generate money for Shelton Township, too. The black market had thrived in this area, so why not make trading legal again?
The wind picked up. His damp clothes made him crave warm North Carolina. He should renew his citizenship card before it was an all-out downpour, but he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from that faded flower shop.
Carrie was the only one who knew his plan. He needed somebody like her to pull it off. Two years of business and finance classes at UNC, and he could get things rolling. But Carrie understood vegetables, chickens, and more importantly, people. She could be the warm smile behind the counter, the welcoming presence to help ease people back into the idea of free commerce.
At first, she thought his idea was ridiculous—which it was—but somehow he sold her on it. That is, until he proposed marriage. Though it was for business purposes only, his proposal went over like a lead balloon. He was a citizen now. If he married Carrie, in theory, she could be, too. She had to be legal to traipse around in the open, plus she was half in love with him anyway. Marriage seemed only logical. So her rejection came out of nowhere. When he suggested she marry Oliver instead—anything to get her legal—she about punched him.
Women, he cursed.
And yet…
He couldn’t tear his eyes away from that old shop. Checking for any signs of life, Greg sprinted across Main Street and slid around the wet corner. He tried the back door to the flower shop.
Locked.
Wiping the rain from his eyes, he peered inside a broken window. The inside looked trashed. The counter was destroyed, the tiled ceiling hung low from leaks, and plants grew within the walls that hadn’t been part of the original merchandise. He couldn’t see a single redeeming thing in there, but Carrie would. She always found the good in the bad, the sunshine in the storm. After seeing the miracle she had performed on his house, he knew she could work miracles here.
He pictured her behind that counter, eyes bright as she explained a certain type of tomato plant to a customer, how they should only plant it under specific conditions. The customer wouldn’t understand a word she said, but they’d smile anyway. Not because of the tomato. Because of Carrie.
They could do it.
They could pull it off.
He stopped the thought cold. It didn’t matter what Carrie could do if she refused to get citizenship.
After everything with Jeff and Jenna, maybe it was for the best anyway. Things were strained enough in the clan. A marriage to Carrie—even a fake one—would only cause a bigger rift.
Who was he kidding anyway? Even with her legal, it was a one in a million chance the mayor would agree to capitalism on any scale. The whole idea was a joke.
Giving up, he checked down Main Street. The rows of white flowering trees really were stunning. Tiny white petals broke free of the branches and blew along with the wet trash.
Cold, damp, and not really sure why, Greg pulled his knife from his pocket and cut off a small branch from the closest tree. The white blossoms clung together in small clusters. He lifted them to smell, and then lurched back. They smelled vile. How could something so beautiful reek of rotting—
“Hey!” somebody shouted. “What are you doing?”
Greg froze. Two patrolmen in uniform ran down the street toward him, guns pointed at his chest.
“Hands in the air! Up! All the way up!”
Greg raised the knife in one hand and the tree branch in the other. Neither patrolman looked older than him which meant they were new recruits. New recruits were dangerous. Jumpy. Trigger happy.
“Drop the knife!” the younger one yelled. “Drop it!”
Cursing, Greg obeyed.
The older of the two patrolmen, maybe early twenties, stepped forward and frisked Greg, while the younger kept his gun aimed at Greg’s chest. After confirming Greg wasn’t armed, the older guy picked up the knife and shoved it in his own pocket. That was his good knife. The guy was lucky Greg had left his slingshot home. If they’d stolen his slingshot, there’d be war.
“Card!” the patrolman demanded.
Carefully, with cold rain sliding down his face, Greg reached into his jean’s pocket and withdrew his yellow citizenship card. He had two back there, his and his mom’s, but luckily he grabbed the right one.
The younger patrolman snatched it up and swiped it through a small device. He waited until a light turned green before handing it back.
“He’s clear.”
“What are you doing in town?” the older one barked. The guy was shorter than Greg, skinnier, too, and his voice came off sounding like a frightened Chihuahua. Greg might have laughed if he didn’t have two semi-automatics trained on him.
“Monthly check-in,” Greg said evenly.
“Then why are you snooping around, destroy
ing government property?”
It was a small tree branch—a smelly one at that—but Greg dropped the blossoms and zipped his mouth shut.
The older one waved his gun toward the street. “March!”
“Come again?” Greg said.
“You heard me. We order you to go to the township office and then directly home. If we catch you anywhere else, we’ll…we’ll arrest you.” The patrolman’s eyes flickered to his younger partner who nodded in support.
Stupid new recruits.
The government ought to work on the whole commanding-presence thing. Greg was ready to jump them just to get his knife back. He even thought about pointing out the “FREE RANGE” notice on top of his yellow card. Of all legal citizens, yellow cardies should have had the most freedom. They were the only group not receiving government handouts. But apparently “FREE RANGE” meant marching wherever the government deemed acceptable.
“Move!” the older one shouted.
Taking his own sweet time, Greg crossed the street through the soft rain. The patrolmen waited by their car until he opened the glass doors of the township office. Still, Greg dragged his feet, dreading what waited for him inside.
He was met with the familiar blue standard carpet and buzzing fluorescent lights. It unnerved him to come inside a place with electricity and forced heat. If those patrolmen weren’t still watching, he might have turned right back around because an attractive blonde stood behind the counter, picking at her bright red fingernails. She wore heavy eyeliner and obnoxious blush, flaunting the fact that she was rich enough to wear makeup.
Greg let the glass door swing shut.
The blonde looked up and broke into a broad smile. “Mr. Pierce! Oh my goodness, it’s been so long!”
He sighed. This just wasn’t his day.
“Hello, Ashlee.”
four
ASHLEE BEAMED WITH PLEASURE. “You remembered my name. May I call you Greg? I’m not supposed to, but”—her smile widened—“I’d really like to.”
After picturing Carrie behind the counter of the flower shop, seeing this fake blonde behind another counter jarred his brain. Carrie was all softness and warmth. You-can-just-call-me-Ashlee was all noise.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “You’re wet.”
She was bright.
He didn’t respond.
In all fairness, Ashlee was the type of girl he used to chase back in his college days, but now he had no patience for her.
“May I see your card, Greg?” She held out her hand. “Sorry. It’s protocol.”
Of all people, she should know he was a valid citizen since she had issued his card. Still, he pulled it out.
“This is a great photo of you, by the way. You have such a great face. Illinois has been good to you.” Her mascara-ridden eyes grazed over him, taking in his arms, shoulders, and chest. “Really good.”
It was a horrible photo when he’d been twenty pounds lighter and nearly starved to death, Illinois was about to dump buckets of rain on him, and he wasn’t in the mood for flirting from anybody, least of all You-can-just-call-me-Ashlee. He grunted an answer.
She swiped his card through a machine, waited for the light to turn green, and handed it back. “What can I help you with today, Greg?”
“I’m here for my monthly check-in.”
“Is that all?” She ran a finger over her collar bone to draw attention to her green uniform that was missing the top two buttons.
He gritted his teeth. “I wanna beat the worst of the storm. Do I need to sign anything or is showin’ my face good enough?”
“Oh, showing your face is a great place to start.” Smiling, she leaned over the counter to give him more view of her curves.
“So, I’m done?” he said.
Realizing he wasn’t buying whatever she was selling, she sighed and stood back. “No. Give me a minute to find your file.”
As he waited, he heard soft patters behind him. The all-out downpour began, making his light blue UNC shirt seem pathetically thin. He’d worn it nearly every day for six years, and it was down to threads. He’d freeze on the two-mile trip home.
When Ashlee came back, her lips were bright red with lipstick that screamed, Pay attention to me!
“Here’s your copy of this month’s New Day Times,” she said. “I hope you’re enjoying your subscription.”
Out of obligation, he took the pamphlet. Tall and regal, President Rigsby stood in front of an American flag that looked different from the one Greg had grown up with. Instead of fifty white stars in the blue corner, there was only one star. A headline perched over the president’s perfectly sculpted hair and read, “United We Stand.” This, from the guy who singlehandedly brought the class system back to America: green, yellow, and blue. Technically there were four types of citizens if Greg counted the millions of American-born “illegals” who had refused to bend to Rigsby’s emergency laws.
Greg studied that single white star on the flag. The nerve of that guy. The United States could more accurately be deemed The Divided States. Greg wouldn’t be reading Rigsby’s propaganda anytime soon.
“Where should I sign?” he asked.
“Here,” Ashlee said, pointing. “When your mom comes in, let her know she won’t receive another copy of the New Day Times. Just one per family.”
Greg paused mid-signature. “Actually, I’m here to check in for the both of us.”
“Oh, you can’t. Your mom has to be here to sign herself. Plus, I need to swipe her card.”
“Wait, hold on. Here.” He whipped out his mom’s card from his back pocket. “I brought it just in case. I’m real good at her signature, so I’ll just sign for her.”
Ashlee stared at him like he’d whipped out a dead body. “You took her card? What if she’s stopped by someone?”
“She won’t ‘cause she’s home sick—real sick. That’s why she couldn’t come today.”
Ashlee gave a fake pouty frown that intensified the obnoxiousness of her lipstick—and personality. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear she’s sick. Wasn’t she recently married? To a Mr. O’Brien or something?”
He tensed, hating that she’d pieced his family together. Richard had come into town after the wedding to get his yellow card. He would start regular check-ins soon. He’d already paid his first tax payment.
“Mr. O’Brien seems so nice,” Ashlee said, handing back his mom’s card. “But don’t worry. Your mom still has a week to renew her citizenship.”
Greg should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. In a way he did, which is why he came to town early.
The anger built inside him. His mom could hardly walk across the room anymore, let alone make a four-mile round trip.
“I don’t think she’s gonna be better next week. As I said, she’s real sick, so”—he scanned the paper—“where should I sign for her?”
Ashlee snatched the paper back. “You can’t. It’s not allowed, Greg.”
He leaned an elbow on the counter. Though he couldn’t bring himself to smile, he looked her directly in the eyes and softened his voice. “I know, but I figured you could overlook somethin’ like that. Just this once.”
He hadn’t flirted with anybody in so long he wasn’t sure he even remembered how. And maybe it was beneath him, but desperate men had done worse things.
Her eyes widened, but not in appreciation. Worried, she glanced up to the corner of the room where a small, black camera hung suspended from the ceiling. Greg wanted to kick himself. How had he missed that? He assumed a small town like Shelton didn’t have money for surveillance. A camera meant he couldn’t sweet talk his way out of this.
Still, he tried.
“Please,” he said in a whisper. “She’s real sick.” So sick she’d hardly gotten out of bed when he had shown up that morning. Whatever cancer she had was eating her alive from the inside out.
“I’m sorry, Greg. Maybe she can come in with your grandparents.”
“My grandparents?”
“Yes.” Ashlee straightened his file. “As long as it’s before your mom’s check-in time, she’s welcome to come with them or Mr. O’Brien.”
Great. His grandparents had never been required to check in monthly before. Nobody knew why, but Greg figured it was some loophole Oliver had set up long ago. Now he would have to drag his dying mother into town along with his aged grandparents. Thankfully Richard could help, but still. What would they do in the winter when they had to trudge through snow?
“Well,” he said bitterly, “I guess I can carry my mom on my back.”
Ashlee laughed until she realized he wasn’t joking. Her fake smile faded. “I’m sorry, but rules are rules.”
“Speaking of which, I need to exchange the last of my grandpa’s money for the new currency.”
“Of course,” she said, perking right back up. “Let me grab the register. The exchange rate is seventy cents on the dollar.”
Seventy cents?
Unbelievable.
She noticed his frown. “Switching to a new currency has been expensive for our leaders. I’m sure you understand.”
Yeah, he understood. Green cardies, like Oliver and Ashlee, were paid for their government positions, and blue cardies lived in welfare municipalities as virtual slaves. But yellow cardies had been financially independent before the banks collapsed. They had places to live and enough money stashed away to ride out the times. In other words, they didn’t have to bow down and worship the President of the United States, so President Rigsby devised a way to steal the rest of their money and force them back under his control. Seventy cents on the dollar cut Greg’s timing down. Now they only had ten months before his grandpa’s wallet ran dry and the bottom fell out from under them.
Ten freaking months!
Ashlee gave him crisp red bills in exchange for his worn-out green ones. President Rigsby’s face looked up from the new bills, mocking him.
“Say,” Greg said, “did they ever repeal those emergency laws?” The one that turned Rigsby into a dictator overnight.
Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set Page 43
