“So,” the girl went on, “Travis is definite calendar material, but blue-collar calendar material. His ex, Phoebe, had plans to get him to run for mayor or governor. She said they’d be political royalty by the time they were thirty-five and live in the Buchanans’ neighborhood. But now that they’ve broken up, I’m doubtful he has those same ambitions. Honestly? I’m surprised they still allow him access to this club. Everyone’s still kind of embarrassed for him. And it’s not like he’s one of us anymore, that’s for sure. Especially without Phoebe. God, where is that weird smoothie girl who looks like she stuck her finger in a socket?”
I dug in my pocket, moving as little as possible as I pulled my ear buds out and stuck them in my ears, dropping the end in my pocket again as if there might be a phone there. I rose quickly and both girls, now turned toward the counter, jumped. I widened my eyes, pulling the ear buds from my ears. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I was stocking and didn’t hear you.”
The girl who’d been talking, a pretty redhead, scowled slightly. “It’s fine. I’ll take a berry blast with a shot of wheatgrass.”
A couple sat down at my counter and I greeted them. I looked up and smiled as Travis waved at me from across the club, heading for the exit.
**********
I shouldn’t do this. There is no point in doing this.
I opened the browser, the cursor blinking in the empty search box. I let out a deep breath and typed in Hale Pelion, Maine. I can’t help it. My desire to know more was like a burning thirst.
And even more interestingly, every Hale generation has some scandal or another.
A long list of links came up and instead of talking myself out of it—which would have been the wiser move, not to mention one that respected the boundaries between friends . . . even friends who’d put their fingers . . . well . . .
I opened the first link and began reading. I learned about the town founding, about the Hale family through the generations—Lord, but there were a lot of boys. And finally, I read about the car accident that ended in a shootout between brothers on a highway in the middle of a springtime day.
A sharp pang pierced my heart for Archer Hale. I sat back in the chair at the desk in the small room designated as an office that guests were welcome to use at The Yellow Trellis Inn. I pictured what it might have been like that day, surely coming up far short of reality. Reality was never just the picture of events. It was the smells and the sounds and a hundred other small details that no one else would ever understand because they hadn’t been there, standing among the ashes as your world burned down.
My mind moved to the blueberry festival where I’d met Archer and his wife and kids. Travis had told me about his brother’s voice box being injured when he was a kid, and so I hadn’t been surprised by the scar on his throat. What I had noticed was the peace on his face, the joy in his eyes, the way his wife had gazed at him with such open love, the sweet exuberance of his twin boys and that beautiful baby girl I’d only glimpsed in the stroller.
However it had happened, and whatever strength he’d drawn from, Archer Hale had triumphed over that day.
And maybe I would someday triumph over my own.
I read about how the land had transferred to Archer and about the shooting that had occurred eight years ago, Chief Travis Hale showing up just in time to stop the threat before anyone else was hurt.
I swallowed down a lump in my throat, thinking about everything I knew about Travis.
One of the men who had died on the highway was his father as well. Where had Travis been that awful day? He’d been seven years old too. Who had explained things to him?
Who had helped him grieve?
And after that, he’d been set to inherit the town apparently. Another loss, rightful or not. Had he suffered over it? Did he still?
It was all too much. Too much trauma. Too much pain. Sometimes the world felt so damned sharp.
I clicked the browser off and put the computer to sleep, but it was several minutes before I pulled myself from the chair and returned to my room. Because at the end of the day, what did it matter? I was leaving. End of story.
So why did that feel like a lie?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Travis
“Where’s Spencer?” Maggie asked, topping off my coffee.
“He’s with Birdie Ellis. They’re setting up a community relations group that will be presenting at the annual meeting,” I said, picking up my mug and taking a sip.