Chapter 2
Ethan
“Sorry, Dad,” I muttered. “Didn’t see the Mustang coming.”
Her sharp eyes and silk scarf stuck in my head, uninvited, like a song I couldn’t shake.
“If I let one more piece of you slip—the truck, the store, Mom—this town stops being home.” I gripped the wheel, pushed the thoughts down, and listed goals for the day: open the store, call the distributor, make the deposit. Keep the store standing.
The road unspooled in front of me, familiar in every bend and mile marker.
As I drove, fields of corn swayed in the breeze, golden sunlight spilling over the horizon like a painter’s brush, and the familiar scent of freshly tilled earth seeped through my open window.
The roadside wildflowers danced in a riot of colors, reminders that life here was both vibrant and simple.
I’d spent a few years in the city after college, chasing the corporate dream, thinking that was what I was supposed to do.
But the fast-paced life, with its cutthroat politics and endless noise, had worn me down.
I returned to Willowbrook with a deeper appreciation for the small-town values I’d once taken for granted.
Here, people cared about each other, and traditions mattered.
Case in point: I’d been out past Centerville that morning, hauling back a pallet of feed for Mr. Durbin.
He’s been farming longer than I’ve been alive, and helping our elders is what we do in Willowbrook.
But nothing sours a decent morning faster than some blonde in designer sunglasses backing straight into the one thing I can’t replace.
I pulled into Mom’s brick ranch on Arden Lane, its white trim gleaming like a beacon. The lilac bush Dad had planted long ago burst with blooms, filling the air with a sweet, nostalgic perfume, the scent pulling up old memories of childhood summers without even trying.
Mom was working in the garden, sunhat crooked.
I stopped by most days now. To check if the gutters needed clearing, if the back door stuck, if the fridge was actually full of food and not just a carton of eggs and half a pie.
Mostly to make sure Mom was getting out, seeing people, not rattling around in here alone.
Some days it felt like if I didn’t keep showing up, the house itself might forget it was still a home.
I kept expecting him to be here, waiting for me to ask him for advice or to share a laugh about my day.
Instead, I’m talking to a ghost in the passenger seat, and sometimes it feels like I’m losing him all over again with every passing day.
“You look upset. What happened?” Mom asked, meeting me at the walk, eyeing the bumper.
“A city girl,” I said flatly, climbing out. “Backed her Mustang right into Dad’s truck.”
Mom’s brows arched. “Is she all right?”
“She’s fine. She’s better than fine. She told me it’s just a scratch.” My voice came out sharper than I meant, and I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Just in a hurry to toss money at it and go.”
“Your father used to park a mile from any cart corral for this very reason,” she said, with half a smile. She slipped her arm through mine.
“Yeah,” I shrugged.
Mom led the way up the walk. “Are you ready for the board meeting tomorrow? Lynn said they’re bringing in some hotshot to rebrand it.”
I snorted. “Sounds like another city type stirring things up. Just what we need, right?”
“Maybe they’ll have a vision for the fair,” she said, her voice steady. “You know how much it means to this town, Ethan.”
“Yeah, but the last time someone had a vision, they turned our cake walk into a ‘gourmet cupcake experience.’” I rolled my eyes. “Gourmet cupcakes? It's a county fair, not the Ritz.”
Mom chuckled. “Well, if you don’t like it, just tell them. You have that charming way of being direct while still looking handsome.”
We entered the house, and I did my usual rounds, checking what needed fixed and how much food was in the fridge. “Not bad,” I said, closing the door. “But you’re running low. I’ll bring groceries over after work tonight.”
“You don’t have to check on me every day,” she said softly.
“Yeah, I do,” I answered, just as softly.
For a beat, neither of us moved. Then I stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug. She was still thin and wiry-strong, but she felt smaller without Dad beside her.
Every time I help her, it feels like I’m trying to fill a void that will never be filled. How can I be her son and keep a store running, when all I want to do is curl up on the couch and ignore reality?
She patted my back once, twice, then held on longer than usual.
“I miss him so much,” she said into my shoulder.
I swallowed hard, eyes glistening. “I know.”
When she pulled away, she gave me a wobbly smile. “Bring bananas tonight. And coffee. The good kind.”
That earned a laugh out of me, low and rough. “Done.”
I kissed her temple, grabbed my keys, and headed for the door. Out in the drive, the truck waited, scrape and all. I laid a hand on the hood before climbing in, like always.
The drive into town was short, just a few minutes of quiet road and the same landmarks I’d passed all my life: Hiawatha Golf Course, Franklin’s Pharmacy, Phillips Park.
On the way in, I set Mrs. Shipley’s cans upright and waved at the lace curtain; snapped Duke’s gate latch and scratched his ears.
It barely took a moment. All of it felt like holding a corner of the town in place.
As I drove, I couldn’t shake the weight of the upcoming board meeting. The fair needed to succeed. It was the lifeblood of Willowbrook, the one event that brought the entire community together.
Dad had served on the fair board for nearly twenty years, the kind of man who believed a town stayed strong only if people showed up for it.
I’d grown up trailing him through vendor rows and livestock barns, watching how he kept the whole thing humming.
Keeping the fair alive felt like keeping a piece of him alive too.
But in my gut, a fear crept in. This hotshot from the city might come in and change everything. I wanted the fair to thrive, but did that mean tampering with the traditions that had held this town together for generations?
Calloway’s Books sat on Main, tucked between the bakery and Scoops, the bell quiet these days.
I stepped inside, the smell of old paper and lemon polish steadying me.
Shelves lined with well-loved novels whispered tales of generations, and the worn rug beneath my feet seemed to hold secrets of the town’s history, threads woven through years of laughter and discussion among fellow book lovers.
I wiped the counter, Dad’s old habit, and flipped the OPEN sign.
The register hummed, but the ledger’s numbers didn’t lie—barely enough to cover bills. If the store went under, I’d lose more than Dad’s legacy; without the income, Mom and I would have to leave Willowbrook altogether. It was the only place that still felt like us.
The shop hummed with routine—a retiree browsing the local history shelf, Mrs. Denson picking up her weekly crossword magazine—but it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t let Dad’s store die, not when it was all we had left.
“Hi, Carol. Looks like Mr. Grisham found a new fan,” I said, helping her stack of books.
She smiled, the lines around her eyes deepening. “Your father used to say I kept this place in business. Do you know he made sure every kid who came through my classroom had something to read?” She touched the counter, softer now. “You’re doing him proud, Ethan.”
My throat tightened. I wanted to tell her I was just holding on by a thread. But how do you say that to people who still see you as a pillar? I’m not a pillar. That was Dad. I’m just a guy trying not to crumble.
I busied myself aligning a stack of bookmarks, the rag still in my hand. “Just trying to keep the lights on, Carol.”
“You’re doing more than that.” She slid her new paperback into her tote. “Oh—almost forgot. Got a new neighbor. Moved in just a bit ago.” She waved a hand dismissively. “But you know how this town gets with someone new.”
“Yeah,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. “News travels fast.”
“Too fast,” she huffed with a smile, heading for the door. “See you later, hon.”
The shop fell quiet again, the kind of silence that made my thoughts echo too loudly. Dad’s voice seemed to hover in it, telling me to keep steady, to hold the line. I pressed the rag flat against the counter until my palm ached.
Luckily, the silence didn’t last. A couple of high school kids came in for comic books, arguing over which X-Men issue was cooler.
Mr. Cunnington dropped by to ask if I’d ordered the new tractor manuals he wanted, and I jotted a note to call the distributor.
A young mom with a toddler on her hip wandered the stacks, looking for something light to get her through the week, and I walked her over to the paperback rack, pulling a worn copy of The Bridges of Madison County.
The bell jingled again, and in walked Kayla Carter, backpack slung over one shoulder, with her younger sister trailing behind—only a year apart in age, but different in every other way.
“Afternoon, Mr. Calloway,” Kayla said politely, smoothing her hair like she always did when she was trying to look older than seventeen.
“Hey, Kayla,” I said, nodding toward the corner. “Homework club in full swing?”
She groaned. “I feel like I’m drowning in math homework.”
Before I could answer, her sister piped up. “You should’ve seen her, Mr. Calloway. She stayed up half the night doodling hearts around Jason Riley’s name instead of finishing her algebra.”
Kayla’s cheeks went crimson. “Cora!” she hissed, elbowing her sister.
Cora just grinned, leaning on the counter. “Do you have anything better than the stuff she reads? Like actual books where people do something instead of just swooning over boys?”
I smothered a laugh, earning a shocked glare from Kayla. “I might,” I said. “Adventure section’s still right where it’s always been. Top shelf, left side.”
“Perfect,” Cora said, already heading for the shelves.
A few minutes later, Cora reappeared with three books stacked in her arms, eyes shining. “Okay, I couldn’t pick just one, so… all of these.”
Kayla groaned. “You’ll never finish them.”
“Yes, I will.”
I took the stack, scanning the titles—Hatchet, Island of the Blue Dolphins, The Outsiders. “Good choices,” I said, sliding them back to her.
The Carter sisters bickered their way out the door, Kayla muttering something about sisters being exhausting, Cora firing back that at least she had interests. The bell jingled behind them, and the shop was quiet again.
By the time I slid the register shut again, the afternoon sun was bleeding through the high windows, striping the old rug with gold. Closing time was close enough to taste.
The bell jingled as Nate Sullivan entered, dust from the hardware store still on his flannel sleeves. He leaned his elbows on the counter like he’d done a thousand times before.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Not much,” I answered. “Hanging in there. You know, just trying to fend off a nervous breakdown.”
Nate snorted. “That was me a half hour ago. Had a kid try to drink WD-40.”
“Guess you at least got a funny story out of it?”
He glanced at the truck parked out front, squinting. “What happened to your dad’s truck, man?”
I sighed. “Some blonde in a Mustang backed into it at the gas station this morning. Claimed it was just a scratch.”
“Ouch,” Nate said, wincing. “How bad?”
“Bad enough. Chrome’s scraped. Hood’s fine, thank God. But it’s Dad’s truck, Nate. You know how it is.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
I let the rag rest on the counter, the weight of his words heavier than the scrape itself. “Yeah, well. Add it to the list.”
Nate clapped his hands together. “Speaking of lists—you’re coming to game night at Matt and Sarah’s this week. Don’t bother saying no. Maggie’s already bringing your favorite dessert.”
I groaned. “I’ve missed the last couple for a reason. Just haven’t felt like—”
“Socializing?” Nate finished for me. “Exactly why you should come. You can’t keep living between these four walls and Arden Lane. You need people. And don’t even try to say you’re too busy.”
I rubbed a hand across the back of my neck. “Yeah, we’ll see.”
“Nope,” he said, pushing off the counter. “Not a ‘we’ll see.’ A yes. You don’t show, I’ll drag you out myself.”
“Pretty sure that’s illegal.”
“Pretty sure it’s friendship,” he shot back, heading for the door.
I set the rag down and leaned against the counter, watching Nate cross the street back to his shop. The late light caught on the glass storefronts, turning Main into a row of dusty mirrors. Familiar. Predictable.
I should’ve felt steadied by it, the way this town never changed. Instead, the silence pressed in again, heavy as ever.
I pulled the ledger out, transactions barely covering the light bill.
Past-due notices and buyout offers from coffee chains and antique shops piled up, each one promising a quick fix if I’d just sell the store out from under Dad’s name.
If the store folded, I’d lose my place in this town—my purpose, my promise to Dad. I couldn’t let that happen.
I closed the ledger, palm pressed to the counter. The board meeting felt like a pivotal point, one where I could either uphold Dad’s legacy or watch it crumble under the weight of new ideas.
Tomorrow’s board meeting was coming, and with it, maybe another city type I’d have to deal with. I wasn’t ready—but I’d show up.