“And when was that?”
“About five years ago. Before that, I think Hunter was working over in Hemlock Cove. He spent a few years there under someone named Terry Bradshaw. I think they grew close. It was Terry who came in and ultimately relieved Greg Ryan of his position.”
This was all gossip I’d missed while out of town. I wanted to ask about Hunter when I’d called my mother, but I feared she would tell him about my interest. Even worse, I feared she’d figure out why I cared. He was the one thing I could never shake about Shadow Hills.
“Why was he removed?”
“Because of the drunk driving. And beating his wife, though he denied that to the bitter end. And she helped. The cops here overlooked it for a long time. Hunter stepped in to save his mother a few times as a teenager, getting a beating or two himself for the effort. That’s why he went to live with his grandparents across town before graduation.”
“I know about all of this.” Hunter had confided in me a time or two, mostly when he was at his most vulnerable. “I don’t know why his father was finally removed.”
“It was the other chief. Hunter must’ve let a few things slip, because that guy came in guns blazing. He had friends in high places and there was enough evidence on Greg to oust the entire department. Terry served as interim chief until a new one could be appointed, a guy who used to work in Detroit and wanted away from the city. Things have been quiet ever since.”
“And Hunter came in sometime after?”
“Weeks after. Terry eased the transition himself.”
“You know a lot about the situation.”
“Terry had coffee in here every day when he was in town. We got to know one another. He’s a good guy. He still stops in about once a week, when he needs a break from the antics of Hemlock Cove. It’s only a twenty-minute drive.”
Hemlock Cove. It was known as Walkerville when I was growing up. Then, about the time I was going to college, they rebranded themselves as a tourist town for witches. Everyone in the area thought it was a terrible idea, but it turned out to be a stroke of genius, because the town has thrived as others in the area struggled.
Witches. That made me think of the Ouija board. I was about to ask my grandfather what he knew regarding its origin when I thought better of it. He would think Alice and I were doing more than drinking if I told him what we’d witnessed. Besides, under the hammering of my hangover, I was starting to question what really had happened. Perhaps we imagined it, or somehow made it happen without realizing what we were doing.
“Do you think Hunter is happy?” I really was curious as I watched Grandpa turn on the grill.
“I think he grew into a good man who is still figuring things out,” Grandpa replied. “Life was never easy for Hunter. Things are better now, though his father is still around, making things difficult sometimes.”
That was another thing I’d been wondering about. “What about his mother?”
“She stayed with her husband. He doesn’t talk to Hunter, which is exactly how Hunter probably wants it, but she won’t talk to him either. They tell anyone who will listen that it was some sort of dastardly plan by Hunter to wrest control of the department away from his father. As far as I know, they still live out in that house on the lake. It’s fallen into disrepair, and he spends the money from his pension on booze.”
That sounded about right. I’d never liked Hunter’s father. He was a horrible man, mean and ill-tempered. He went out of his way to be gracious to me whenever we’d crossed paths, but I figured that was simply because I was from a prominent town family and he didn’t want to risk ticking off Grandpa. I never understood how Hunter turned out to be such a strong individual the way his father was always trying to break him down.
“Well, I hope Hunter is happy,” I said, moving to the coffee machine so I could fill the additional filters. When the rush hit, it was best to be able to grab a filter and just slip it inside rather than deal with ripping apart finicky bags.
“I’m sure you do,” Grandpa said with a smile, causing me to fix him with a suspicious look.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I was edgy, and only part of it was because of the hangover.
“I didn’t mean anything by it.” Grandpa turned his back to me, pouring oil on the grill and watching it warm. “Do you want breakfast to help with that hangover before people start arriving?”
Breakfast sounded wonderful. What I wanted even more was an explanation. “What did you mean by that?” I refused to let it go. “If you’re suggesting that something is going on between Hunter and me ... well ... that’s just ludicrous.”
His eyes were full of sympathy when he turned back. “I know nothing is going on with you and Hunter ... yet.”
He just had to throw in that last word. “It’s not going to happen. We’re adults now. We have nothing in common.”
“I wouldn’t say that. You both like certain things: hikes in the hills, coffee in the morning, taunting Detroit Lions fans.”
“The stuff of great romances.” I rolled my eyes. “We were kids when we were together.”
“And I think you still care about him. That’s neither here nor there, though. I’m not going to get involved in your personal life. That’s not my way.”
I couldn’t swallow my snort. “Since when? You’ve always stuck your nose in everybody’s business. If they share blood with you, you tell them how to live their lives.”
“Only if they’re doing it wrong.”
“Oh, so everybody in this family but you is living life wrong, huh?”
“Pretty much.” He didn’t seem bothered by the assertion. “Do you want to know what your problem is?”
“No.” I turned back to the coffee filters. “I don’t have a problem. I’m perfectly happy, thrilled even, to be here.”
“Yeah, you’re full of it. That’s not what I’m talking about. The job stuff will work itself out when you’re ready. You’ll start writing again when you’re ready. I’m talking about your other problem.”
“I don’t have a problem.”
“Your problem is that you hide your emotions. You feel the need to bury them. Do you want to know why?”
Ugh. He always asked that question. I hated it. “No. I want to talk about something other than me.”
“We’re talking about you right now.” He was firm enough that I knew he wouldn’t let me weasel out of the conversation. “The reason you’re so closed off is because your mother was too open. She foisted conversations you weren’t comfortable with on you at a young age and you never got over it.
“Like ... do you remember when you got your first period?” he continued. “She announced it to everybody in the family, as if they should throw a parade or something. You were mortified.”
I was still mortified sixteen years later. “I really think we should talk about something else.”
He barreled forward as if he hadn’t heard me. “You got so frustrated she was telling anyone who’d listen that you blurted out the truth. You’d actually started your period six months before then and simply didn’t tell anyone because you knew she would be obnoxious about it.”