Chapter 19 #2
“You really oughta do something about those hoodlums, Officer,” Zeke says, standing before our table. “Always moochin’ the Wi-Fi, never buying nothin’. Not even a doggone cookie. It’s unconscionable. At their age I had two jobs.”
“Now, Zeke,” Wyatt says, “I hear your frustration, and—”
“Darn straight.” For emphasis, Zeke punches the air with the to-go cup he’s carrying, launching a dribble of foam.
“That my latte?” Wyatt asks.
“Oh. Right. Hope that ain’t all you’re havin’, Sheriff. My daughter-in-law busted her be-hind this morning makin’ all them scones.”
“Well, I—”
But already Zeke has departed like a roving tornado bound to touch down elsewhere.
Wyatt leans close and whispers. “Kids these days.”
I bite my lip to hold back the laughter burbling up. Too late.
You’d think we were still two middle school kids ourselves the way we descend into snickers.
“Hoo-o-o . . .” Wyatt’s laughter ends on a sigh.
How is it that this man is so easy to be with? I have a friend. A new old friend. Also, where did Awkward Lucy disappear to?
Wyatt stands. “I’d best go purchase one of those scones.” He takes a step, scans the place, then turns back. “Watch yourself. My gut tells me we’re under surveillance.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, clearing laughter from my throat. “You would know. But—” I flip over my cell and check the time. “Actually, Sheriff . . .”
Wyatt rolls his eyes at this.
“I have to leave pretty quick.”
To pick up my son. I should have said to pick up my son.
Wyatt drops his shoulders and frowns overdramatically. My stomach does that elevator-drop thing. Gracious. Down girl. Drink your tea.
Momentarily alone, I can only shake my head in wonder at the total reversal of my angst. This turned out okay. Better than okay.
Wyatt returns with two forks and a plump golden pastry. “It’s our lucky day. Pumpkin spice.”
“Ahhh, you’re one of those people.”
“Obsessed.”
“You and my son.”
He savors a bite and chases it with a swig of coffee before sliding the plate to me. “We’re in this together, so don’t even think of not helping.” He pats his solid belly. “Got to watch my delicate figure.”
I chuckle, because there’s nothing delicate whatsoever about Wyatt’s figure, and also to shake off my awareness that his voice carries the kind of warm rasp that would be my undoing if I were a woman looking to be undone.
The scone flakes beautifully when I slice off a corner.
“So,” Wyatt says after a pause. “I just learned something here today. Lucy Montgomery has a son.”
I welcome the subject. This ought to forever secure us in the friend zone. “I have an amazing son.”
“No doubt.”
“No, really. He’s amazing.”
Wyatt grins. “Tell me about him.”
“Chase is . . . well, he’s not like other kids. Let’s just say, for the Candy Crawl—it’s a Halloween parade through the downtown—he plans to go as H.J. Andrews.” I pause, awaiting the inevitable blank look. “Who is H.J. Andrews, you ask?”
Wyatt squints. “Is that the hijacker dude who parachuted out of a jet somewhere around here, got away with a load of cash?”
“You’re thinking of D. B. Cooper. A fair guess!”
“I feel pretty ignorant right now. H.J. . . . is he a rapper?”
I laugh. “Ready for it? Horace Justin Andrews was a forestry expert.”
Wyatt angles his head. His eyes hold a touch of amusement, but I sense he’s sincerely intrigued. “That’s oddly specific.”
“Chase is fascinated with trees. A while back, he and I drove over the mountain to the hot springs. Wherever we go, he begs to stop at all the historic markers. Anyway, it turns out there’s this place along the McKenzie River called the H.J.
Andrews Experimental Forest. Chase did some research, learned all about the guy it was named for, and wrote a paper about him for school. ”
“Wait. I happen to know you’re too young to have a child in high school.”
“What? Oh, no, my son is eight. He’s in third grade.”
“They’re writing papers in third grade now?”
I shrug. “Mmm, not so much. But Chase can’t be stopped. His teacher keeps calling it extra credit.”
Wyatt laughs softly.
“So, yeah. That should tell you all you need to know about him.”
“I think I get the picture. So he’s, like, amazing amazing.”
“Now you’ve got it. And now it’s time for me to retrieve Mr. Amazing from school.”
“Ah. So you’re switching into your taxi-driver hat.”
“Exactly. Luckily my neighbor Nina and I share carpool duty, not to mention kid-sitting duty. That’s how I’m able to attend the highly esteemed Thursday night Sweet Reads word nerd society.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm, what?”
“Hmm, I bet you’re a great mom.”
I swallow. “I pray so.” I slip my stack of books into my canvas bag. “Welp. Better go fire up the taxi.”
I’m surprised when Wyatt stands to see me off. I didn’t realize such gallantness was still alive and well this side of the Mississippi.
“Here, take the rest of the scone.” Before I can refuse, he’s wrapped up the last two inches of pastry in a napkin.
“You’re pretty good at sharing.”
“I have three sisters.”
“That’s right. Three Sisters. Like our mountains.”
Our mountains. Wyatt and I both call this place home now.
“Any chance you’ll read this time?” he says. “At writers group?”
Will I? Amy Carmichael’s words return. From a more zoomed-out perspective, reading some little bit of something I’ve written really is a silly little nothing.
A test, perhaps. The tests are always unexpected things, not great things that can be written up .
. . Will I allow fear—of failure, of judgment, of not living up to the sparkling standard one might logically expect from the offspring of Carly Montgomery—to rule over me?
“Thinking about it,” I say.
Although, attending tomorrow night also means facing Ian. Did he space out? Or was I ghosted? Either way, ouch.
“By the way,” I say, hoisting my book bag onto my shoulder, “you’re quite the wordsmith.
Sam’s always been the one to finesse the ‘Sheriff’s Calls’ and keep them entertaining.
But, for the first time, now that you’re the one furnishing the content, he says they’re already fit to print.
You do know that readers say that column alone is worth the price of the paper, right? ”
“Isn’t the paper free to residents?”
“That’s beside the point,” I quip.
Wyatt flicks the air dismissively. “Thanks. I have to look for the humor in some of them,” he says, “but truthfully, it isn’t that hard to do.” And there it is, plain as day. Humility.
Along with an annoyingly cute chin dimple.