Page 72 of A Little Luck
“About four years. Since I got out of the Navy.” I drag another flat of produce out the back. This time it’s packaged fruit, which will last a bit longer.
“Will you be here all day?”
Wiping my forehead against my shoulder, I stop and inspect the near-empty vehicle. “I could probably take a break. You need help with something?”
“Thought you might show me around town. Give me the grand tour.”
Dusting my hands off, I decide they’ve got enough kids, and the vans are almost empty. “Technically, I’m still on vacation, but I know this is a busy day for them. Figured I’d come and help out.”
“You’re a real do-gooder.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing.” I grab a paper napkin off the lunch table and wave to the pastor’s wife to let her know I’m leaving. “You don’t have to be a do-gooder to help out in your community. You just have to care.”
“Don’t know a lot of guys your age with the time or the inclination is all.”
“Technically, it’s my job.” I wipe the sweat from my face and toss the paper in the trash. “And I spent enough time doing bad. Let’s say I’m trying to balance the scales.”
“Tell me something bad you’ve done.” He stops at my car, but I wave for him to follow me.
“We don’t have to drive. The town was designed to be walkable.” I point past the storefronts lining the grassy, rectangular park. “The courthouse and the church anchor the main square, and the neighborhoods form an arch behind them.”
“Very French.”
“It’s not a wheel, but it’s similar.”
We take off in the direction of the oldest neighborhood in town, where my family has always lived. It’s directly behind the courthouse, which stands at the west end of the square facing east, towards the ocean.
Crepe myrtle trees line the sidewalks, along with black, wrought-iron street lights. The trees are tall with thick trunks, and it’s clear they’ve been around a while. In the autumn, the afternoon sunlight is more golden, and I realize as beautiful as Moloka’i is, I like living in Eureka.
“My great-grandparents on both sides were town founders. The distillery was my grandfather’s hobby, and when he died, Alex took it over and turned it into what it is today.”
“Stone Cold.” He nods, lighting the cigar. “Did that have something to do with your troubled past?”
“Nah, Alex was still in California when I was fucking up.” We’re walking in the direction of my parents’ large house. “When my dad died, I didn’t practice ‘healthy coping strategies’ to quote our family therapist, and our mom wasn’t emotionally prepared to deal with me.”
“Understandable.”
“This is where I grew up.” I gesture to my mom’s house.
It’s a sprawling white farmhouse surrounded by flowering bushes and trees. An ancient live oak with thick branches reaching all the way to the ground is where we took all our prom, homecoming, you-name-it photos growing up.
A bright red hibiscus bush brought all the way from Hawaii grows at one corner of the wraparound porch. Palmettos and Yucca plants grow in front of the lattice covering the crawl space beneath the porch, and the scent of sweet olive laces the air.
“So what, you spray-painted houses? Tipped cows? Stole cars?”
Wincing, I look down at my feet as we continue walking, following the road further away from the town center.
“It was mostly alcohol and drugs. The problem is, when you mix the two, you don’t always make good choices, and I made a lot of bad choices.” We’re approaching another large house; this one is more of an antebellum style with a porch clearly added later. “This is Britt’s mom’s home.”
That gets his attention. “Gwen Bailey? She was married to the escape artist who died.”
“Lars,” I answer. “My dad worked that case for years. He never felt right about it, and Gwen was determined he didn’t take it seriously. It caused a lot of bad blood between our families.”
“Why wouldn’t your father have taken it seriously?”
“Dad was never a fan of Lars’s stunts, and Gwen thought he blamed Lars for what happened.” I think about our family history. “He almost resigned when Edna was elected mayor.”
“But he changed his mind?” He says it like he already knows the story.