Page 3 of A Sister's Secret
"Did you see Daniel's somersault?" Oliver leaned in, his voice thick with pride.
"And Abby's spell-casting? She's a natural!" Lisa beamed.
Ethan caught sight of them from the stage, his grin wide and victorious. They met backstage, enveloped in the chaos of excited children and proud parents, yet their family felt like the only people in the world.
"Did I do good?" Daniel's eyes sparkled up at Lisa.
"You were amazing, sweetheart," she said, lifting him into a hug that spoke volumes of love and reassurance. She wasn’t his biological mother, but he felt closer to her with every day that passed.
"Best night ever!" Abigail declared, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
"Let's celebrate," Oliver suggested, and the idea was met with ecstatic nods.
“I have hot chocolate and cinnamon buns ready at the café,” Lisa said.
As they left the auditorium, Lisa glanced at the stars beginning to pepper the night sky. Challenges would come and go, but these moments—these victories both on stage and within the walls of their home—were the true measure of their lives. Together, they walked toward the café, the children chattering excitedly, their future as bright as the constellations above.
Chapter Two
The door to the Seabreeze Café swung open with a purpose that matched the brisk Alaskan morning breeze, causing the chime above to sing its metallic greeting. Heads turned almost in unison toward the entrance as Sheriff James "Jim" Coleman stepped inside. The hum of conversation dwindled into a suspenseful silence, punctuated only by the gentle clinking of coffee cups being set down mid-sip and the soft scrape of chair legs against the wooden floor.
Oliver Thompson, his hands steady from years of coaxing shapes out of wood, felt a tremor run through them as he caught sight of the sheriff. The man's silhouette was all too familiar—a harbinger of order and, occasionally, bearer of bad tidings in their close-knit community. Oliver's pulse thudded at his temples, his heart drumming a rhythm that spoke of both anticipation and dread.
The cafe's cozy warmth did little to ease the sudden chill that seemed to coil around Oliver's spine. He stood frozen behind the counter, his fingers tightening involuntarily around the handle of the coffee pot he'd been about to refill. His blue eyes, usually warm with laughter shared with his woodworking students or love for his family, now mirrored the stormy gray of the sea during a squall.
Sheriff Coleman's boots echoed on the hardwood floor, a staccato beat that commanded attention and respect. As he navigated through the maze of tables, the locals watched, their expressions a blend of curiosity and concern. They knew, just as Oliver did, that the sheriff's presence here was no social call. It was as if the room itself held its breath, bracing for the unknown.
Oliver's grip on the coffee pot slackened, and he placed it back onto the warmer with a care that belied the turmoil brewing within him. He swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the knot that had formed in his throat. Each step the sheriff took toward him felt like a countdown, a tick-tock toward a revelation he wasn't sure he was ready to face.
"Morning, Sheriff," Oliver managed to say, his voice betraying none of the unease that swarmed like bees in his stomach. The forced smile he offered was one he had mastered over the years—a mask to hide the scars left by a family history that always seemed to loom over him like a shadow.
Sheriff Coleman nodded in acknowledgment; his stern expression softened ever so slightly by the lines of genuine concern etched around his eyes. The air was thick with unspoken words, and the café, once abuzz with the day's gossip and laughter, was now a silent witness to the palpable tension that enveloped both men.
The sheriff's boots thudded against the faded linoleum floor, a steady drum that matched the racing of Oliver's heart. He watched the man weave through the scattered chairs and tables, his towering frame cutting a path straight to the counter where Oliver stood, trapped by expectation and dread.
"Oliver," Sheriff Coleman's voice was low, the timbre barely rising above the hum of the refrigerators in the corner. “We need to talk. Privately."
Every pair of eyes in the café seemed to burn into Oliver's back, igniting the anxiety that simmered beneath his skin. His hands gripped the edge of the counter until his knuckles blanched. There was no mistaking the seriousness etched into the lines of the sheriff's face, no escaping the urgency that laced his words.
"Of course, Sheriff," Oliver replied, his tone steadier than he felt. With a glance at the curious onlookers, he wiped his palms on his apron and rounded the counter. The familiar weight of responsibility, a constant companion since his youth, settled heavily on his shoulders as he followed the sheriff's lead.
They moved together through the narrow hallway that ran like an artery behind the cafe's public facade. Each step reverberated off the tight walls, a solemn echo to their silent procession. Oliver felt the space around him shrink, compressing the air until it became something thick and tangible.
The small office at the end of the hall was a cramped room cluttered with old filing cabinets and stacks of paperwork.
Sheriff Coleman stepped inside first, his presence dominating the confined space. Oliver entered hesitantly, the door clicking shut behind him with an ominous finality. Alone now, cut off from the outside world, the two men faced each other—each braced for the impact of words yet unspoken, each aware that whatever came next would irrevocably alter the course of the day.
Sheriff Coleman's hand reached up, pausing momentarily before grasping the brim of his hat. He pulled it off slowly, revealing a furrowed brow and a scalp dusted with gray. The air seemed to still in that cramped office as if it, too, anticipated the weight of what was to come.
"Oliver," he began, his voice uncharacteristically gentle yet laden with an unmistakable sorrow. "I'm afraid I've got some bad news about your sister, Michelle."
The words hung there, suspended in the stale office air. Oliver's heart, already pounding against the walls of his chest, threatened to break free.
"My sister?" His voice sounded foreign to him, distant and hollow. "What about her?"
"It's… she's passed away, Oliver." The sheriff's eyes, usually so steady, flickered with emotion. "I am so very sorry."
A cold tide of shock washed over Oliver's senses, dousing the embers of hope that always burned for reconciliation, for another chance to see Michelle and mend the fractures of the past. His sister was a part of his life that had been absent yet omnipresent like the shadow of a dream long forgotten upon waking.