Chapter 2 #2
“Not yet,” he told her. “But soon. When it’s close, you can sometimes taste it on the air.”
“Not really,” she said, laughing.
“Really,” he told her. “You’ll see. Now let’s fill that thing up.”
“You’re supposed to do the hose,” she told him, her eyes serious. “Kids can’t play with it. Mrs. Tailor said.”
“Oh, okay,” he said, trying to hide his smile at the idea of the hijinks he would have gotten up to with that hose when he was a kid, and wondering if Allie had also learned this one the hard way before she put her rule in place.
He turned on the hose, and Posey shoved the watering can underneath before he could adjust the pressure.
Before he could react, cold water splashed back up in her face, knocking her hat off and wetting her coat in the process.
Posey let out a little shriek.
“I’m so sorry,” Tripp said, dropping the hose immediately and turning to close the valve, bracing himself for her to start wailing.
Allie was going to be furious with him. It was one thing to let a kid get misted with hose spray, and another to practically submerge a little girl, especially in cold weather. And of course, everyone else at the school would roll their eyes and think he was making trouble on purpose.
That was the downside to staying in the same little town all your life—you made all your first impressions when you were just a stupid kid, and people never really changed their minds about you after that.
But as he turned back, Posey began to laugh. And he couldn’t help smiling himself at the sight of her.
She was wet as a seal from the neck up, her dark hair plastered to her head, green eyes dancing with mirth as she bent over laughing, the sound carrying far and wide in the crystalline air.
“You want me to do it again?” he joked, indicating the hose.
“Yes,” she crowed.
He was kind of impressed. She was a fearless little thing.
“How about you do me?” he offered instead. “A little revenge?”
Her eyes got big like she couldn’t believe he would really let her. But she nodded her head up and down, still giggling.
“Okay, then,” he told her. “But try not to get my boots, okay?”
He was kidding, of course, his boots were weatherproof, as they had to be, given his choice of careers.
She snatched the hose out of his hand and was spraying him down the instant he turned the valve.
Tripp liked to think of himself as a pretty tough guy, but that water was cold. He yelped in surprise and Posey let out a cackle.
Then he pretended he was having a nice shower for a minute, which predictably cracked her up more.
“What’s going on out here?” a lady’s voice carried across the meadow.
Tripp whirled around and turned off the valve before slipping the hose out of Posey’s hands and turning to the source of the voice.
He recognized the woman as one of the Horticultural Club volunteers, and said a silent prayer of thanksgiving that it wasn’t a school employee.
“Hey, Mrs. Holmes,” he called out to her. “Sorry we’re being so loud. I was having a little trouble with the hose.”
“I can see that,” Mrs. Holmes said, clearly trying to hide her smile. “Well, maybe just shut it off. Your hands look plenty clean to me.”
“Will do,” he said, waving and trying to give her a winning smile, though he was pretty sure he looked about as charming as a drowned rat.
Mrs. Holmes shook her head and headed back into the greenhouse, where she was hopefully not telling his sister all about his antics.
“Let’s get dried off,” he said to Posey. “We don’t want you catching cold.”
Thankfully, there were towels by the handwashing station and he was able to get her hair and coat more or less dry.
“My hat,” she said, grabbing it off the ground. “Hey, it’s not that wet.”
He took it from her and while she was right that it could have been wetter, he still didn’t like the idea of her putting it on her head.
“Here,” he told her. “Put that in your pocket and take my spare.”
She watched with big eyes as he pulled his spare knit-wool hat from his inside jacket pocket. It was still dry, and he smiled at the sight of it—moss green wool with a white snowflake pattern.
“Snowflakes,” Posey said with a smile.
“A friend of mine made it for me,” he told her. “Hopefully, it will be lucky for you and bring us some snow.”
He watched her eagerly pull it on. It was a little big on her, but when he rolled up the bottom once, it didn’t cover her eyes.
“That’s nice and warm,” she announced. “Now I’m ready for snow.”
He chuckled and grabbed the watering can himself, filling it carefully so that they wouldn’t get any wetter than they already were.
“Do you want to go water some lettuce?” he offered, pointing the way to the greenhouse.
“Yes,” she said. “Okay.”
But she glanced over at the hose, looking a little disappointed that they couldn’t keep playing in the water.
She was definitely a kid after his own heart.
Once they were back inside, he warmed up pretty fast. And even though he got some funny looks, no one exactly accused him of having a water fight with a child, which was a relief. Allie was on the other side of the greenhouse, and he hoped she wouldn’t spot him until he dried off a little.
Posey got right into watering the vegetables, her little face so serious as she tried to get the perfect amount without spilling. To be such a funny, energetic kid, she really knew how to focus, something Tripp had struggled with a lot at that age.
Before he knew it, Allie was telling the kids it was time to line up and wash their hands.
This time, there were no mishaps, and the last child was drying her hands just as the sound of the school bell carried across the meadow.
“Perfect timing,” Allie said to the kids. “And great work today, everyone. Say a big thank you to our volunteers, and then follow Mrs. Holmes back inside.”
“Thank you,” the kids all chorused.
The volunteers all smiled, looking really happy. It hit Tripp all over again what a good thing his sister had done here, and not just for the kids.
He headed out after them, letting the children get ahead, and was happy to see Allie dropping back to join him.
“Did you have fun?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s great to see them working with the vegetables and all. They really like it.”
“Did you have fun playing in the hose with Posey?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah,” he admitted. “How did you know?”
“Mrs. Holmes might have mentioned something,” she said. “Also, your jeans are still wet.”
“I squirted her by accident, so I let her squirt me back,” he admitted. “It was only fair. That one’s a pistol—got me good.”
“That’s Jillian Johnson’s little girl,” Allie said lightly.
The information hit him like a sledgehammer in the chest.
Jillian Johnson.
A vision of Jillian back in school flashed through his mind, soft blonde hair held back in a ponytail, serious green eyes always trained on some invisible but important future as she moved through the halls with the grace of a dancer and the determination of a general.
If he closed his eyes, he could hear her soft voice.
“Well, Jillian Price now,” Allie amended.
He glanced over, but Allie’s eyes were on the school building, as if she knew he might want space to react to this information.
But of course he already knew all about that.
Not every detail, of course, but Jillian was Coach’s granddaughter. That was how he’d first noticed her back in school, bundled in her coat and scarf at the rink during practices from time to time, her nose in a book.
He’d tried to impress her with his moves on the ice, but he was pretty sure she had never once looked up.
These days, he paid regular visits to Coach and Mrs. Johnson. They were neighbors, and he knew they didn’t have family close by. A month ago, when he stopped by to bleed the radiators, Coach had mentioned that their granddaughter was coming back to live with them.
Tripp hadn’t dared to hope that the granddaughter he meant was Jillian.
Since then, there had been more excitement each time he dropped in. Tripp learned that there would also be two great-granddaughters, and he wondered if there was a grandson-in-law who would be tending to the house.
He did as much to help out around the old place as Coach allowed, which wasn’t really a whole lot—mostly just a regular weekly “milk delivery” when Tripp stuffed the fridge as full of groceries as he could manage, and the occasional clearing of ice and snow, or removing fallen branches from the big trees lining the property.
The old man had relented when Tripp said the parking area and back porch steps were getting treacherous if a man wanted to pay a friend a visit in wintertime. So he’d been allowed to lay fresh gravel and repair and repaint the steps.
Coach had also allowed Tripp to surprise Mrs. Johnson with a fresh coat of paint in the kitchen for her birthday.
Otherwise, Tripp had to turn a blind eye to the state of the place if he didn’t want to offend Coach. He tried to just be glad the door was always open to him so he could keep an eye on the two people who had made his teen years special.
There was no reason for a tiny town like Sugarville Grove to have an above-average high school hockey team. But Coach Johnson had played in the minors in his youth, and he brought the Fighting Woodchucks to the state playoffs every single year of Tripp’s high school career.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Johnson sponsored parties and raised funds for special training and to cover uniforms and fees for the kids whose families couldn’t have afforded for them to participate otherwise.
Generations of kids had benefited from their generosity. Tripp felt that the least he could do was look out for the two of them now, as much as they would let him. It was also one of the main reasons he’d started coaching hockey himself—he liked the idea of giving something back.
Besides, he genuinely enjoyed sitting in their kitchen and listening to Coach tell old stories or give him coaching advice to the rhythmic clicking of Mrs. Johnson’s knitting needles.