Page 72

“Your dad is sanding my deck with the big, tattooed guy.” Jed whistled. “Captain La Rue hates guys with ink and bushy beards. Ha! If I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes, I wouldn’t have believe it.”

Once again, I was aware of my audience. Nancy and Shawna perked up at their desks, and Petey slid his chair closer to the aisle. Even the town council representative who’d come by for my signature had stopped in his tracks on his way to the door.

“Dad was looking for a project, and Waylon mentioned that he was refinishing your deck,” I replied matter-of-factly. “Is there a problem, Jed?”

“Hell, no. I’m thrilled. I think I should take a picture or two for proof, though. No one’s gonna believe me.”

He was joking, and I knew it. Dad might gripe about Jed Calhoun, but there was no real bite behind his bark. No real animosity on either side.

Nonetheless, my hackles rose and I felt compelled to warn Jed off with a menacing, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jed.”

“Oh, no,” the older man sputtered. “I wouldn’t. I’m glad the deck is being done. I just didn’t know you were all…friendly with the new guy.”

“Yeah. We’re friendly.”

We’re friendly? Did I really say that? What did that even mean?

Jed left soon after, but I supposed the word was officially out. Chief La Rue and the mountain man were friends. And yeah, something was definitely wrong with old Clark La Rue. Maybe the chief, too.

I wished I could start the day over, sipping coffee while I reread a text thread with Waylon from the night before.

Me: Sports drinks are hit and miss. If it’s Gatorade, it’s gotta be red.

Waylon: No way. Blue.

Me: BLUE?

Waylon: Thumbs-up.

Me: Blue has no real flavor. Orange is better.

Waylon: Vomit emoji. Wrong. Blue is superior. Don’t argue. It’s a vibe.

Me: Coltrane is a vibe, stargazing is a vibe. NOT blue Gatorade.

Waylon: Eye roll, sunglasses emojis. You like jazz?

This was followed by an hour-long text session about music, Waylon’s dubious guitar skills, the time he’d been kicked out of a karaoke bar for butchering, “Brandy,” and the standing ovation I’d received for my recorder solo of the Star Wars theme for my third-grade talent show. The thread went on and on.

He might have been alarmed to know how much these innocent ramblings meant to me. Waylon was a bright light on a horizon that was hopelessly out of reach and yet comforting at the same time. I could be myself with him. Not someone’s son, father, or police chief. Just me.

At quitting time, I texted Waylon to see if he had plans. Now that the town knew we were friends, we could grab dinner or he could come over.

I’d love to, but your dad’s here. I called your mom. Everything’s cool.

Right.

I traded my state-issued Explorer for my SUV and drove straight to Waylon’s place. I didn’t bother with the front door. I followed the tall hedge between his house and the neighbors’ and found Dad and Waylon on the deck’s railing, each armed with an orbital sander.

“…Red Sox swept the Cardinals in 2004. What a roster—Ortiz, Ramirez, Martinez—and the end of an eighty-six-year drought. Eighty-six years is a long time. Longer than I’ve been around, though not by much. Who’s your team?”

“The Orioles.”

Dad scoffed. “Why? Have they ever been to the World Series?”

My heart sank. My father was a sports fanatic. He must have asked Waylon his favorite team a dozen times or more already. And baseball was his passion…maybe more so than football.

Waylon just nodded. “Yep. Three times. 1966, 1970, and⁠—”