Chapter Two
Tires spun loudly, spitting gravel in all directions, as Aspen Anderson flung her Honda Fit into a lonely parking spot.
Some top-forty pop song bopped loudly from the speakers while she hummed along.
After shifting the car into park, she flung down her visor, popping open the mirror to check her appearance.
Aspen’s shoulder-length chocolate-brown hair was gator clipped out of her face, with golden highlights scattered throughout.
The bags under her warm brown eyes weren’t as bad today, so she tilted her head in approval before reaching across the middle console for her small makeup bag.
Shuffling through it, Aspen pulled out a fair- to medium-colored concealer and began applying it to her lightly tanned—but usually pale—skin using her middle finger.
Eyeliner was next, and she added a minimal cat eye to both of her lids, foregoing eyeshadow altogether.
Light rose blush and a pop of red lip stain rounded out the simple look, and she quickly threw the bag back onto the passenger seat.
With one last look, she closed her visor, turned off her car, and exited out onto the gravel.
Once outside, she checked her usual work attire for anything that might have been out of place.
Aspen always wore a pair of matte black kitten heels, tight high-waisted dark-blue jeans that hugged her thick thighs and curvaceous butt, and a heather-gray Dry Creek Bar & Grill T-shirt that she tied low in front to show off a thin line of her midriff.
“Oops, my cardigan,” she mumbled to herself before turning to open her door, grabbing the well-worn black sweater thrown over the back of the driver’s seat. Aspen flung it on quickly, noting how even an afternoon in late May was still kind of brisk.
“That’ll do, pig.” Aspen nodded to herself. “That’ll do.”
A click and her car was locked before she turned to face what she lovingly referred to as “The Strip.” It was a group of five businesses, conjoined but inaccessible to each other.
The building as a whole was very midseventies California ranch style, with a chipping beige exterior and a rusting aluminum roof.
Closest to Aspen was the meager post office, next to it was a few vacant spaces, then the Orick Family Market.
Past the far end of The Strip was a much larger, separate building that sported a large pole sign that read Dry Creek Bar & Grill.
Aspen looked at the sign before glancing down at her wristwatch to check the time. She was a little more than ten minutes early, so she decided to make her way toward the post office instead.
“Good afternoon,” Aspen singsonged brightly, greeting the man behind the counter. “It’s another beautiful day in Orick, Paul.”
Paul chuckled good-naturedly, his eyes not leaving the mail he was in the middle of sorting.
He was a lean but strong-looking man, midseventies, wrinkled, with leathery deep-brown skin.
His bald head shone under the fluorescent tube lighting, only his wrinkles and bushy white eyebrows showing the depth of his years.
The classic blue postal uniform he sported was well-kept, free of any blemishes or wrinkles.
“How is Charlotte?” Aspen smiled, hopping up onto the counter with a quick jump.
“The grandbaby is fine.”
“Wonderful.” She leaned forward to look at the mail in his hands. “Anything for me?”
“It’s in your box already,” Paul replied, finally looking up to give her a small smile. “Grab Dry Creek’s while you’re at it. Salvador’s memory is about as good as a dull knife in the woods.”
“He does seem to forget a lot, huh?” Aspen giggled, sliding off the counter to stroll over to the PO boxes along the wall.
She fished her keys from her jeans pocket and opened the box labeled 202.
Only one lonely credit card offer greeted her, and she grumbled before pulling it out to rip it in half.
“I don’t want this crap.”
“I know, but by law I gotta give you that crap.”
Aspen shut her box before moving to a larger one, labeled 6, that was closer to the main counter.
Inside were a few bills for the bar and a very large manila envelope.
She took a closer look at the larger envelope’s label, recognizing it to be invitational signage to promote the Redwood National Park summer season.
Elbowing the box closed, Aspen locked it back before sliding the mail underneath her arm.
“Another off season gone,” Paul mused.
“Not looking forward to the tourists?” Aspen asked, watching as Paul flung a box full of mail onto a workbench behind him.
“They drive like idiots,” he stated grimly before flashing her knowing grin. “But so do you, Ms. Anderson.”
Aspen feigned a gasp, grabbing theatrically at her chest. “Rude!”
“Ain’t rude if it’s true. Now, I’ve got some packages to sort, so I’ll see you tomorrow,” Paul finished, giving Aspen a parting wink before he ambled toward the back room.
“Sounds like a plan,” she called after him. “Make sure you bring me some updated photos of Charlotte. I am very invested in that child’s growth. Babies always get cuter with age!”
Aspen didn’t receive a response, so she just smiled and shrugged, turning for the door.
On her way out, Aspen ran into a redheaded woman decked out in a park ranger uniform, campaign hat and all.
She steadied herself on the woman’s arm before letting out a hearty laugh.
“Sorry, Caroline, I didn’t see you there. ”
“No worries, Aspen. I wasn’t paying attention. I feel like I have been all over the place today—I missed my morning coffee,” Caroline responded apologetically, nudging open the post office door.
“No, it was one hundred percent my fault. I’m a notorious klutz.”
“No harm done.” Caroline smiled wide.
“Well, I won’t keep you, but please do stop by the bar sometime soon. I wanna catch up with you about your winter in Lake Tahoe.”
“Totally.”
Aspen checked her watch—only a few minutes to spare before she needed to be at the bar to prepare for the dinner shift.
She trotted past the large windows of the market, meeting the gaze of the owner inside.
Stopping quickly, Aspen waved enthusiastically at him, but he did not wave back.
The man instead made a point to look down at his cash register like it needed his immediate attention.
“Mr. Pearson is a grumpy old fart,” a familiar voice remarked behind Aspen.
She turned to meet the soft, trusting black eyes of one of her bosses, Salvador Díaz.
His five-foot, three-inch frame was a bit shorter than her own five foot seven, but Salvador’s sixty-four-year-old body was lean in comparison to her fuller one.
He sported a full head of shaggy black hair, matching bristle-brush mustache, and skin that was a deep reddish tan, but he wasn’t as wrinkled as one would expect for a man his age.
Tequila was his secret, and he would spend the whole day touting it if you let him.
“Oh, hey, Salvador.” Aspen smiled, reaching forward to give him a quick hug. “Mr. Pearson, uh—”
“He still don’t like you?”
She looked back through the window. Mr. Pearson was now counting his money very slowly. Aspen turned to Salvador and shrugged. “I guess.”
“Did you tell him his tomatillos were mushy?” Salvador asked, his signature grin barely peeking out from under his mustache. “Or that the clothes he sells are itchy?”
“Did you buy those in there?” Aspen pointed at his paint-covered red-and-blue flannel, wide black chef’s pants, and neon-green clogs from at least three seasons ago.
“No, of course not. His shit would melt after one drop of grease.”
Aspen laughed fully, allowing herself a little amusement at Mr. Pearson’s expense. “Well, his TV dinners are always frozen.”
“Stop eating that shit,” Salvador scolded. “You know I will make you anything you want, all you gotta do is ask.”
“Thank you, Dad,” Aspen responded sarcastically, rolling her eyes.
Looking back at Mr. Pearson, she pondered out loud, “No, he just plain doesn’t like me.
Maybe I annoy him? Either way, I decided a long time ago that I would continue to kill him with kindness.
That way, he might keep selling my favorite flavors of Hungry Man. ”
“Probably your best bet.” Salvador nodded before tapping Aspen lightly on her arm. “You headed to the bar?”
“Yep.”
“Cool, let Ginny know I am off to Eureka to go to Ace Hardware. The men’s urinal is clogged again.”
“Virginia hates it when you go to Eureka,” Aspen responded, her hands naturally going to her hips.
Salvador grinned again, backing away from her slowly. “That’s why I am asking her favorite employee to break the news to her.”
“You are a scoundrel,” Aspen teased. “But I will let her know. Oh! Also—I picked up the bar’s mail. The National Park Service sent over the summer season signage. I’ll get it all hung up for you.”
“And that is why you are the best, Aspen. Tell Ginny I love her,” Salvador shouted a little too loudly while throwing dramatic air kisses, already off the sidewalk and on the beat-up pavement of the parking lot.
“She’s gonna be pissed,” Aspen remarked to herself, waving one last time before turning toward the bar.
Dry Creek Bar & Grill was in far better shape than the rest of the buildings in The Strip.
Wide white wood panels, deep red trim accents, and a well-maintained shingle roof showed off the care her bosses placed in their establishment.
Beer advertisements adorned the windows, while two heavy-duty wooden doors led inside.
Aspen pushed one open with her hip, and her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lighting.
She was met with familiar wall-to-wall deep-brown oak paneling, polished concrete floors, and a huge wood-and-wrought-iron wraparound bar.