Page 10 of Jack
Him too. “You can do it, sweetheart. Just fifty more miles.”
He pulled out, watched the heat, and kept it under sixty as the sun sank into the snowy hills, turning the blanket of snow to fire. The landscape merged into forest as he drove through river country, the maple and oak stripped, brightened with snow, the tall paper birch white against the green fir.
Aggie coughed and he eased up even as he started to roll into the outskirts of Duck Lake. The facelift after the great tornado of ’18 had revitalized the town. New storefronts, updated to look like a Hallmark movie scape, with tall lampposts flanking Main Street like the Gates of Argonath. (Maybe he’d watched theLord of the Ringstrilogy too much as a child). Still, the town seemed buzzing, even at the height of January, and maybe Brontë and Oaken’s wedding had brought in a few gawkers.
He braked for a couple of women who ran out between cars, wearing UGGs and pom-pom hats and holding pink bags from, if he could read right, Elle’s Secret Garden Boutique.
So much for the Ben Franklin.
He spotted other newer joints—a gift shop called Maple Treasures, and Frost and Feather Outdoor Gear, the Tipsy Canoe—a craft brewery—as well as an upscale restaurant called the Paddle House. At least the Lumberjack’s Table still sat at the end of the street, but losing the attached bowling alley had upscaled the establishment—no more neon lights in the windows.
Jack hardly recognized the place, really.
A Sip and Paint place, Serenity Spa, and a coffee shop caught his eye—Echoes Vinyl Café.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t a terrible overhaul. Thankfully, the King’s Inn hadn’t been hit by the tornado. He couldn’t wait to climb into his old bed, listen to the wind off the lake, smell his mother’s cinnamon rolls.
Apparently, he was eighteen again.
No. If he were eighteen, that would make Harper Malone twelve, and that was just Not. Right. At best, maybe he could be twenty-four again, but even then . . .
Please, let her not be at the wedding.
Aggie crept all the way to the parking lot of the Duck Lake Market, two blocks off Main, then settled there as if she might be an old dog, finding its final resting place.
He got out to a pillow of steam and didn’t bother opening the hood. Instead, he headed inside the market, looking for the manager.
A woman sat at the desk.
Huh.He walked to the counter. The woman, in her midtwenties, sat on a stool, wore a blue smock, her name—Anna—pinned to her shirt. “I need to speak to the manager.”
“He’s out.”
“I just need to ask if I can leave my bus here while I get a tow.”
She shrugged.
Great. He grabbed one of the nearby community cards—this one for a late-night transportation for parties, weddings, etc.—and wrote his name and number on the back. Held it out to Anna.
She looked at it. Then picked up a card and handed it to him. “Call him yourself.”
Oh.He pocketed his card and took hers. “Gordo Martin. Thanks.”
He turned to leave?—
“Jack Kingston.”
He found the source of the caller and smiled. Okay, so maybe coming home didn’t have to be a failure. “Hey, Mr. Harrison.”
His former history teacher leaned hard on a cane, wearing black galoshes, an oversized canvas jacket, and a plaid wool hat, and held warmth in his eyes. “You’re back for the wedding.”
He shouldn’t be surprised. When your sister was marrying an international country-music star, your little town, population 1,200, might know about it. “Yep.”
Mr. Harrison held a basket, and Jack wanted to carry it for him, but Harrison had always been a tough old codger, so he held back the urge. “You okay?” the man asked then, glanced outside, maybe at the old bus.
“Yeah.”
“Tan.”