Chester Johnson waves to me as he saunters down the road, his cane leading the way. In this small town, everyone knows everyone.
I slow my truck and roll down the window. “Hey, Chester, need a lift?”
“Headed up to Edna’s,” he says and taps his cane.
“Hop in. I’ll give you a lift. It’s on my way,” I say, even though it’s not.
I lean across the cab and open the door for him. The last time I jumped out and tried to help him in, he nearly beat me to death with his cane. Pride is a big thing here. That was a lesson I learned the hard way when I arrived six months ago. I chuckle as I adjust the radio, and patiently wait for him to get in. He finally settles, but his breathing is heavy and labored.
“I’m quite capable of walking.” He purses his lips. “Just in a hurry today.”
“Edna making her famous quiche?” I put the truck into gear and head up the hill to Edna’s.
He smacks his lips. “Nothing like it. It’s her fresh eggs.”
I turn the heat up even more when he shivers.
“You still staying at Gram’s?”
“My house isn’t ready yet.”
He nods. “You’ll get settled soon enough.”
I bought a heritage house here in town for a couple of reasons. One, to live in while I attended to business in Lunenburg—except it isn’t live in ready yet—and two, as an investment. The plan isn’t to live in this small town permanently. Once I get the processing plant done, I’ll be on to the next facility that needs my attention. I just hope it’s in a big city somewhere in the states, maybe along the Eastern coast, close to Portsmouth, Maine, where I was born and raised.
This town’s new plant will be designed with top-notch equipment and will allow us to process more fish at a faster rate. It’s been hush, hush so far. The last thing we want is rumors started. Many folks don’t trust the conglomerate as it is, feel it puts profits ahead of safety. They wouldn’t be wrong. But the bottom line is this: my carefully designed facility will bring us into the twenty-first century and make us more profitable.
“Did I see you making time with some girl on the dock?”
Making time?
I nearly laugh at that. “I saved her from a head-on collision with Eddie.”
“She was a looker.” He taps the top of his cane on the dashboard. “Might want to think about courting her.”
Again, I bite my tongue at his old fashion lingo. I don’t bother telling him today Netflix and chill has replaced courting. His heart isn’t as strong as it used to be. His cane, however… I think I’m still bruised.
Taking my foot off the gas, I coast into Edna’s driveway. “Enjoy that quiche,” I say.
“Can’t leave without saying hello,” Chester says in a low gravelly voice. “Uncivil around these parts.”
Since there is no point in arguing, I’ll only lose, or get smacked with his cane, I put my truck into park, and slide out of the cab. In the yard, dozens of chickens cluck and peck at the pellets sprinkled in the grass. By the time I circle the hood, Chester is slowly making his way to the porch. I move ahead and open Edna’s door for him. Nobody in this town uses locks. This town lives by different rules than the rest of the planet.
Chester grumbles and gives me a crotchety look for holding the door, but he moves past me and I follow him in. The warm scent of freshly baked bread reaches my nostrils as Edna comes around the corner, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Nate,” she says, fine lines crinkling around cloudy blue eyes. It’s nice that Edna and Chester are there for one another after losing their spouses. “Come in. Come in. I just made quiche.”
“I heard, but I can’t stay. Have to get a crate of lobster over to Frank.” I lean in and give her a hug. Her warmth reminds me of my mother, and my stomach tightens. How can a mother just walk away without a backward glance? “Just wanted to say hello.”
“Well, you wait here, young man.” She disappears for a second and comes back with a dozen fresh eggs.
I’d offer to pay, but Chester has an eye on me and a grip on his cane. “Thanks, Edna. We’ll all make good use of these.”
I head back out, sidestep a few chickens, and climb back into the driver’s seat. I drive back to Main Street and pull into the town’s only gas station. In the bay, my sports car is still up on a hoist. I grab the crate of lobster and step inside. Whistling comes from the back room as I set the lobster on the gas station’s nasty green, aged, and pitted counter.
Frank comes out from the back and wipes his dirty hands on an even dirtier rag. With a ball cap over his bald head and grease-stained, blue coveralls that are big and baggy on his slim frame, he nods at me. Frank is well into his seventies but has no desire to retire. His kids took off for bigger and better out west in the oil rigs, and he’d be damned before he lets one of the “shinier” stations, as he calls them, move in, restructure and put in a damn convenience store. That ain’t what gas stations are for—his words not mine.
“How’s it going, eh?” he asks, giving me a toothless grin.
I chuckle inwardly. It took time to get used to the local accent and the “eh” at the end of nearly every sentence. I finally figured out it’s a sound Canadians use for a lot of things—state an opinion or express surprise, make a request or command, or soften criticism. Now and then, I find myself saying it, too.
“Going good. Thought you and Nancy might like a feed of lobsters.” I pick one up. “Good size, eh?” I say.
“Mighty nice of you.”
A bell behind the counter jingles, and Frank glances over my shoulder. I turn, as Kira parks her car at the pump. She sits there for a moment, then steps from the vehicle with her credit card in hand. Frank shakes his head.
“Damn tourists. They all expect to pay at the pump.”
“When are you going to bring this place into the twenty-first century anyway?” I tease, just to get a rise out of him.
“Don’t you start. Folks need to pay inside, and that ain’t gonna change anytime soon. I like meeting my customers.”
Kira stands there, her brows drawn as she walks around the pump, trying to figure out where to put her credit card.
“I’ll be right back.” I step outside, and Kira’s eyes go wide when she sees me. A few hairs tumble free from the clip working hard to keep her strands afloat.
Might want to think about courting her.
Not a bad idea, but I have other things on my mind, like buying up the last of the old neglected cottages on the shore. My hands are currently tied, the plans for the processing plant on hold until I can secure the land. Everyone has a price; I just have to figure out what those still holding out want.