Chapter 9
“He’s back.”
Amy wandered the aisles of Emma’s General Store, one of the oldest business establishments in Jack’s Bay, and listened. The indignant, almost hushed tone of the conversation just made one want to eavesdrop.
“Who?”
“Nathan Hero. Back at the old cabin.”
A snort. “Well, I hope he stays there and doesn’t cause trouble. Whole family’s a mess.”
“Such a mess.” The woman called over to the proprietor, stacking cans one aisle over. “Hey, Emma, did you get any fresh produce in?”
Amy struggled to get her mind back on getting the groceries she needed for the next few days while she went deep at the cabin and finished her business plan. It didn’t help she had a bevy of appointments scheduled that she couldn’t blow off, which all meant the next few days were hyper-planned. The first appointment was today at 11, at the coffee shop. While it was a pre-meeting to help her get the funding for the business she was launching on Jacqueline Street in a few months, the bank manager had hinted it wasn’t a meeting she’d want to miss.
She’d found that odd. Why had Jay made that point?
So here she was, getting her groceries at the ungodly hour of seven in the morning. Sure, Mom would have sent Dad over with a few boxes of stuff—they’d issued a standing offer to help her out whenever she got super busy. But she rarely accepted. The whole thing with the sweet cabin in the woods was that it was her place, and that meant she could—and would—take care of herself.
Thank God Emma, the proprietor since forever, kept a pot of coffee on at the front, with a bunch of old ceramic mugs from every town event that had been held for fifty years cluttering the counter beside it. If you were in anytime, and wanted a cup of hot Joe, you took one. Once you used it, you put it on the tray, and someone—might be Emma or it might be anyone else who had a few minutes—would take it to the back and wash them all, reposition them back out front.
If you had a few coins to toss into the cute northern Ontario bear ashtray to help out, you did. And if you were broke, you took a cup and enjoyed it, and god help you if you didn’t, because you were low on cash. Emma would fix you with those deep blue eyes of hers and you’d smarten up next time.
So while there were newer, flashier stores a few streets over, Emma’s on Jacqueline Street still drew her. It also helped that Emma opened crazy early. 5:30 a.m., summer or winter, she unlocked the wooden door painted a creamy white and lit a candle in the big bay window where she also kept crafts and creations from local residents from one to one hundred and thirty displayed. Some were for sale, some strongly not for sale, but the candle was the signal she was open and in.
And then she sat, right beside the bay window, in the antique rocker with the thick, cotton quilt draped over it. Had her morning coffees—plural—with homemade pastries pilfered from her tiny display case, on top of her counter, stocked by the ladies of Jack’s Bay. Also free, for anyone who wanted a quick bite, a sugar fix, or just a reminder that life was kind. Once the glowing, red circle of the sun rose over the horizon, bathing the pines beyond in the crimson glow of a new day, she put the candle out.
And then once the sun retreated and the black curtain of night descended, putting most of the good folk of Jack’s Bay to bed, she lit the candle again until she closed shop, and it flickered there until some time around 11 or 11:30. By that time most nights she was back in her rocker, keeping an eye on Jacqueline Street—also known as Main. She’d watch a show on the flat screen TV mounted on the wall a few feet from the front door, with her faithful companion, Beowulf, a tall, powerful Dalmatian who sat at her side all day, every day.
When she went to bed, she transferred the light-bearing duties to an old oil lamp which burned through the night. It was rumored there was a tradition with that oil lamp, but Emma wasn’t sharing. But nonetheless, her routine was intact.
‘People need to know there’s someone here for them at all times,’ she’d explain, if asked. She’d shrug her shoulder. ‘I, or my assistant—we’re here.’
So it was no surprise that if something cost a few pennies more, it was of no matter to the people of Jack’s Bay. Owen, the astute manager over at the IGA was aware that a surprising number of people went to Emma’s, despite the fact he could buy in bulk, and offer lower prices on pretty much every item. But there was enough business for all, Emma asserted, and the fact her little shop was still open, and she was still there, despite the full parking lot over at the IGA seemed to be proof of it all.
This morning, though, Amy drew her lips tight. It seemed the conversation in Emma’s General Store had shifted to a topic she knew all too well. Personally.
The man, deep in the cabin in the woods, with the dog.
“I don’t see why he’s come back. We don’t need his type around here.”
A new voice joined the conversation. “I heard he’s broke. Did okay when he was Special Ops. But hasn’t done well since, or he wouldn’t be back, living there.”
“They say his father wasn’t right in the head. Went crazy.”
The rattle of a tin hitting a metal basket. “Why’d he leave here?”
“Family trouble.” Her voice grew hushed. “Woman and her husband seemed all right at first. Kids seemed cute enough at the start, all four of them. But then it went bad. The rest of the family moved to the area, and things just fell apart. After all that mess with his father murdering his mother, why on earth would he come back? And to the same cabin? How can he stand it?”
Amy’s mouth went dry. She’d tried to put it out of her mind, but it was bad.
Murder.
“Damn unpredictable, that’s what they are, the Hero men. Look fine, then boom.” The woman slashed her hand through the air. “You’re dead.”
Amy’s mind ran with thoughts. He’d looked grief-stricken that day in the woods. Was that just an act? Was that unpredictability in their blood? Bred into them? Or just an old wives tale?
She thought again of the puppy. It had been on her mind almost continually, even through her many tasks, since yesterday.
None of what it had suffered was its fault. And it had been way too grateful for the food she’d pressed through the screen door.
She glanced at her watch. How long would it take to get back out there, check on the dog right now? Could she do it and get back in time for that ‘unmissable’ appointment?
She could do it.
If she could waylay a bad scene, she had to get back out to that cabin. Now.
She plunked her armful of groceries on the counter, let them tumble onto the scarred wood. “Here’s my stuff, Emma. I’m in a bit of hurry.”
Emma glanced at her quizzically. Then sizing up the situation quickly, as only one who’d been in customer service all her many years could do, she nodded and started ringing through her purchases with the speed of someone who actually gave a damn.