Every day, I got up early, went for walks, took a lot of pictures. I helped Charly with the kids and otherwise stayed in my room. I hated the feeling of being cooped up, but for a while, it was what I had to do.

I simply wasn’t sure how much longer I could do it.

That afternoon, I took Charly’s bike and pedaled to the local general store. It was run by Brett’s dad, Mack Conner. He owned the hardware store next door as well, the two businesses joined by an opening in the middle. I had only ever met him a few times, and simply as a friend of Charly’s. I entered the store, looking around in fascination. It was old-fashioned, with thick shelves, the wooden floors dusty and worn under my feet. There was an old drink cooler, filled with ice-cold water and bottles of soda. Two overhead fans that moved the air slowly. A candy shelf. A row of odds and ends. A small meat counter. The other side was filled with tools and home renovation items and decorated in the same manner. You could find some screws, pick up screening to repair a window, and grab a pound of ground beef with a tub of ice cream for dinner, all in the same place. A real throwback.

A younger man waved to me as I peeked through the cased opening in curiosity. He was busy stocking shelves, and I waved back.

Sitting behind the counter of the grocery side was Brett’s dad. He was reading the paper, glancing up as I walked in.

“Afternoon,” he grunted.

“Mr. Conner,” I greeted him.

With the sunlight behind him, his white hair glowed. He was a tall, lean man, his face surprisingly clear of wrinkles, with his hair slicked back and his shoulders still straight. He was dressed in a cardigan, his shirt buttoned, and when he came out from around the counter, his shoes were shiny.

“You’re Charly’s friend,” he mused. “Kathy?”

I smiled, extending my hand. “Close. Kelly.”

“You take pictures.”

“I did,” I said, feeling the frisson of sadness go through me.

“Did? Break your arm or something?” he asked, leaning on the counter.

“No. Lost my job.”

He nodded slowly. “Lots of that these days.”

“Yes.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Oh, um, Charly needs some of your double-smoked bacon.”

He nodded. “She likes that.”

“And a few other things,” I added, holding up my list.

“You get what you need. I’ll slice the bacon. She likes it thick.”

I picked up a small basket and grabbed the few things on the list. Unable to resist, I took one of the cold sodas and a bag of chips. I paid for the items then went outside and sat in one of the old rocking chairs, enjoying the sunshine. I sipped the sweet beverage, the bottle ice-cold on my palm. I opened the bag and munched on the chips, marveling at the quiet around me. Mr. Conner came outside, carrying a bottle, and sat beside me in the other rocker. We shared a smile and clinked the necks, but neither of us spoke for a moment. I was acutely aware of how much Brett looked like his dad, with the same blue eyes and body structure. Finally, he spoke.

“My boy behaving?”

I almost choked on the liquid.

“Pardon me?”

“At the garage,” he added mildly.

“Oh. I don’t think Maxx has any complaints.” I felt the sudden need to defend Brett. He always complained his dad treated him as if he was still sixteen and constantly criticized him. “He’s not a boy, you know. He is highly thought of by everyone. He runs the whole place, and his staff thinks the world of him. So do Maxx and Charly. Stefano too,” I added.

He grunted. “He will always be a boy to me, Kelly. He’s my son.”

“You should be proud of him.”

He turned, narrowing his eyes. “What makes you think I’m not? I know what he does, how hard he works. How people feel about him. I’m very proud of him.” He turned away, dropping his voice. “His mother would be too.”

“Have you ever told him that?” I asked.

He paused. “I’m not so good with that.”

“You should try. It would mean the world to him.”

“It sounds as if you know my son well.”

I paused, taking a drink of the cold liquid. “We were friends.”

“Were?”

“We argued. I think he’s mad at me.” It was the only explanation I could offer.

He chuckled. “He’s been mad at me for years. He’s still my son.”

“Maybe you need to change that. Him being mad,” I said. “Talk to him man-to-man, not father-to-teenager.”

He huffed a dry laugh. “He has been talking to you.”

“Maybe at one point.”

He drained his bottle and stood.

“John Hicks at the local paper is looking for someone to take pictures. Go see him, and tell him I sent you.”

I sat up straighter. “Oh, thank you.”

Tags: Melanie Moreland Reynold's Restorations Suspense
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