Wild At Heart (Wild 2)

“Mark Sheppard, John McGee, Nathan Mineault … Jonah’s been flying somewhere almost every day that the weather cooperates.” I rotate a cream crockery pot to check the price. And while he’s been flying, I’ve been slowly building a list of contacts all over Alaska, for business but also in case he forgets to call me and goes off course again. So far, he has kept his word.

“I figured he would be. He knows a lot of people. I get someone coming into Aro every single day, asking about him.”

I can hear the smile in Agnes’s voice. She sounds like a proud mother. “I can’t believe he was so worried. We’ve had a few bookings through the website already, too. He’s taking a travel journalist around to a bunch of places next week. And a film-scout crew wants to book him for a solid week in early May.” It’s a good thing the days are getting long—the sun crept over the horizon at six today and it won’t dip past it until ten tonight—because he’ll need all the daylight he can get. It also means less time with him for me, when I can’t tag along.

I try to keep myself busy on those days.

“So, what are you up to tod

ay?” she asks.

“I’m going to bake Jonah a chocolate cake for his birthday, even though he’s refusing to take the day off.”

“I’ve never been able to get him to celebrate his birthday,” she confirms.

“So I’m learning. I have two days to convince him.” I put the crockery pot back on the shelf—it has a noticeable chip in the lip. “And I’m doing a little shopping. Figured I’d check out this thrift shop in town.” A double-wide trailer dropped in a barren parking lot about ten minutes from our house. With Jonah gone, I’m limited with how far I can venture unless I want to spend an exorbitant amount on an Uber to Wasilla.

I can’t wait to get my license. I’ve rebooked the test for three weeks from now.

“You’re in a thrift shop?” Agnes does a terrible job hiding the shock from her voice.

I laugh. “I’m trying to embrace this whole upcycling and recycling thing for decorating our place.” Ever since Jonah divulged his worries about finances, I’ve been reining in all spending to avoid stressing him out. “It’s a challenge. Gives me something to do.” And it gives the gray-haired woman behind the counter who has been watching me intently (as if I’m going to steal something from a thrift shop) something to do. Maybe if I had come with Jonah the day he donated a truck’s worth of trinkets and trash from our house, she’d seem friendlier. “How are things at Aro?”

“Oh … it’s fine. Not the same, but nothing stays the same forever.” Agnes sighs. “So, what about Diana? When is she coming up?”

“She’s trying for August, but Aaron said he can’t make it work and she won’t come on her own.” I try to not let my annoyance show in my voice. I shouldn’t be surprised. We’ve never been able to manage so much as a girls’ night without an appearance or at the very least, a phone call, from him.

“August will be nice. Fewer bugs,” Agnes rationalizes. “And your mom?”

“They’re saying Christmas.” Another prick of disappointment that I’m trying to ignore, though I understand my mother’s rationale—two Christmases in a row apart is not an option. “But Jonah’s mom wants us to go to Oslo for Christmas.”

“Maybe you should invite Jonah’s family to Alaska, then.”

I wince at the idea. “Yeah … I don’t know.” We have three bedrooms, so we could physically handle both sets of parents under the same roof. Mentally and emotionally is another story. “Have you ever met Astrid?”

“No, I don’t think she’s been back to Alaska since they left all those years ago.”

I wander down the cluttered aisle, pausing long enough to lift the metal handheld beater that I found buried in the depths of our corner cabinet. “I’ve said hello to her on the phone when they talk, but that’s about it.” Which is about once a month, the ten-hour time difference difficult to navigate. She seems nice—a soft-spoken woman with a heavy Norwegian accent who often cuts over to her native tongue, frustrating Jonah to no end, because he’s lost the language over the years.

But what if she hates me? What if she doesn’t think I’m good enough for her son? Would that bother him? I know it would bother me. Jonah and I will have been living together for a year by that point. Will we have broached the topic of marriage?

Will we be engaged?

An unexpected, fluttery wave stirs in my chest at that prospect.

“Well, a big family holiday in a log cabin sounds lovely to me.” There isn’t a hint of sarcasm in Agnes’s tone. “Have you found anything good in there?”

“I have! An old ladder that I’m going to use for blankets and this big, ornate picture frame that I think I’ll paint and turn into a tray.” I’ll need to come back when Jonah’s home to load it into the truck.

“I can’t wait to see the place.”

I smile and nod, though she can’t see it. “How’s Mabel?”

“Oh …” There’s a long pause. “She’s okay.”

An alarm bell goes off in my head. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing for you to worry about. Just teenager stuff.”