DAD DIDN’T COME home during the night. His room was still empty when I looked in the next morning, his bed unmade in the exact same way it had been the day before. When I looked into the driveway and saw his truck was still gone, my stomach felt uneasy. But I brushed the feeling aside—no matter what Dex had said, I knew Dad would walk through the front door any moment. He wouldn’t apologize for forgetting to pick me up, but I could guess what he would say instead—I was really on to something, Pen—you know how it is. Or, It all worked out, didn’t it? You made it here! Now stop pouting and let’s get some breakfast. And then he’d grin that sheepish grin that made it impossible for anyone to stay truly angry with him. I knew that grin like I knew my own reflection.
But just because I knew how the conversation would go down didn’t mean I had to sit here and wait around for it to happen. If Dad wasn’t worrying about me, I wasn’t going to worry about him.
I showered and got dressed, then made my way to the garage. Sitting in a corner near a pile of cardboard boxes and some scattered tools was my ten-speed bike. I quickly pumped some air into the deflated tires, wiped a layer of dust off the seat, and hopped on.
I biked slowly down the driveway and then across the street, and I could feel the tension in my shoulders easing. The breeze lifted up my still-damp hair as I pedaled harder. I didn’t have a bike in Chicago, and it was this feeling—this sense of weightless movement through the fresh, pine-smelling air—that reminded me of my childhood summers more than anything else. It was my dad who taught me how to ride a bike, long ago. I could still remember how he’d reacted when I made it down the driveway without falling off—he’d thrown his hands up in the air and ran up and down the driveway, yelling at the top of his lungs like I’d just won an Olympic gold medal instead of simply managing to keep my butt on a plastic purple bike seat. His excitement was contagious. I’d felt so proud of myself I thought I’d burst.
I biked the two miles into town, passing more and more houses as I got closer to the main shop-lined street, most of them tucked away from the road, closer to the woods. Many were old, and some were falling into disrepair. Seeing Bone Lake only once a year like I did gave me a fast-forward view of its decline, one that moved doggedly forward in normal time for everyone else. Every year, when I came back, there were one or two more closed businesses, five or six more foreclosed houses, seven or eight more dilapidated lots.
A few of the remaining businesses popped up as I neared the main part of town—a post office, an antiques shop, a breakfast place that had been run by the same woman for forty years. There were more cars on this section of the street, but not many. Bone Lake had exactly five stoplights.
I finally pedaled up to a white clapboard store, with a pink-and-white striped awning, that was nestled in between a Goodwill and a barber shop. Most of the front of the store was taken up by a giant plate of glass, which was painted in gold letters that read SWEET STREET.
After leaning my bike up against the side of the shop, I pushed open the front door and walked inside, where the scents of chocolate and caramel immediately overwhelmed me. The smell—and look—of the store was exactly like I remembered. I’d spent a lot of time there as a kid, and sometimes Cindy had even let me “help out” behind the counter. I was hoping Cindy might let me help out for real this summer. After all, writing a story to get me into Northwestern wouldn’t exactly help pay for Northwestern. Scooping ice cream for a couple of months might help me cover at least five weeks of a meal plan, which, hey, was something.
“Hey, Cindy.”
Cindy’s head popped up, and she smiled wide. The sunlight shining through the main window highlighted the warm brown color of her eyes. They were the same shade as Dex’s.
“You’re here!”
Instead of moving around the counter to greet me, Cindy leaned over it, giving me a tight hug that lifted me a bit off my feet and smashed my ribs into the counter. This close, I could smell the Cindy-ness of her—the sugar that dusted her hair and the cinnamon lingering on the faded Pearl Jam T-shirt she often wore instead of an apron.
Cindy shook her head as she released me, then looked me up and down. “Would you get a look at yourself? Dex didn’t mention how much you’ve grown . . . and you’ve gotten so pretty.”
I didn’t know how to respond, and instead just gave an awkward shrug-squirm combo move.
“I mean, you were always a pretty girl,” Cindy continued, “but every time you come home, you look more and more like your mom.”
I laughed, not commenting on the “home” remark. Bone Lake hadn’t been my home in years. “That’s funny. She says I’m starting to look more like Dad.”
Cindy straightened, and the smile slipped from her face. “Speaking of, I noticed Ike’s truck was still gone this morning. Dex is real worried about him.”
I waved my hand. “I’m sure he’ll turn up any second. Probably just went camping or hunting or chasing a story—you know how he is.”
Cindy nodded, but I could see the worry in her eyes. “Still, if he’s not back by tonight, and you need a place to stay, you’re welcome with us. I don’t like the thought of you in that house all alone.”
“Thanks, Cin. But I’ll be fine. You know what I could use? A job.”
Cindy blinked, looking surprised.
“If you need the help, I mean,” I continued. “I know summer’s your busiest season, and this time I’ll be home till August—”
“Of course!” Cindy interrupted. “I could definitely use a summer hand, especially now that Dex spends so much time with his X-Files club—”
“His . . . what?”
Cindy laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, he started this club at school, they’re supposed to look into proof of extraterrestrial life and that sort of thing. Mostly they just eat pizza and watch X-Files reruns.”
“Oh, that’s . . . huh,” I said. At least that explained why Dex was suddenly Ike Hardjoy’s number one fan.
“Anyway, I’d love to have some extra help here. Maybe afternoons and weekends? That’s when we’re busiest.”
I grinned. “When can I start?”
“How about tomorrow? I gotta deliver a wedding cake to Traverse City. The couple seem to really hate each other, but then again, they were smart enough to order my cheesecake frosting, so who knows? You can help Dex run the store while I’m gone.”
I smiled, but then thought again about Dex’s disappointed expression when he’d dropped me off the night before. I wasn’t looking forward to another argument about my dad, aliens, or any combination of the two. “Yeah . . . sounds good.”
“So that gives you, what? One whole day of summer to waste before you get to work,” Cindy said with a wink. She was joking, but her words echoed in my mind. I didn’t even have one day to waste, not if I wanted to get my Northwestern admissions article as strong as possible.
“Actually, Cindy, I was hoping you might help me with something else? If you have a minute?” I straightened up, pulling a small notebook and pen out of my purse.
“Ooh, looks serious. What’s up?”
I explained to her about the article I had to write, and why I wanted to focus on Bone Lake’s economic decline since the plant closure.
Cindy’s mouth puckered in distaste. “Now, why would you want to write about something so depressing?”
“Well, I’m hoping ‘depressing’ will catch the eyes of the admissions officers. Plus, I want to write about something important. Something true. And true things are usually kinda depressing, right?”
Cindy looked at me with concern. “You don’t really believe that, do you, hon?”
I shrugged and smiled, like I might have been kidding, and Cindy’s expression relaxed.
“Okay, shoot.”
I jumped right in. “How do you think your business has been affected by the plant’s closing?”
“Oh, it hasn’t, I don’t think,” Cindy said quickly, waving her hand as if I was being silly. “I mean, there are up years and down years, but people always want ice cream. And cakes.”
“Okay . . . but what about the town? Have you noticed any changes here in the past ten years?”
Cindy took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling, as if the answer might be written there. “No,” she finally said, drawing out the word. “Well, Molly’s Antiques burned down, and now it’s a consignment shop. That’s different. Plus, the church finally repaved the parking lot.”
I smiled thinly, trying to hide my disappointment. I wondered—just for a second—if I should ask about Cindy’s husband, Mark. He’d left when Dex and I were in the sixth grade. He’d gone looking for work since he couldn’t find any here after he lost his job at the plant, but he hadn’t come back since. I knew bringing up Mark would cause Cindy pain. Maybe it’s what a real journalist would do, but . . .
“Okay,” I said instead, “let’s talk about the actual plant closing for a second. Do you remember anything about when it happened? Or the accident with Mr. Jameson?”
Cindy blinked once, then twice. Then she shook her head. “What a tragic thing that was. And a shame, too. It’s best not to think too much about it.”
“Sure, but could you maybe try to say something about it? It’s just that the article is really important—”
“I’m sorry, Penny,” Cindy said, shaking her head. “My memory just isn’t what it used to be. You know who you should talk to? Hector at the hardware store. He knows everything that goes on in this town. And he was a manager at the plant before it closed, you know.”
“Oh yeah! That’s right. But do you remember even a little—”
I was cut off by a ringing phone.
“Gotta get that; might be an order,” Cindy said, pushing herself away from the counter. “So you’ll be in tomorrow?”
“Definitely,” I said, a bit jarred by Cindy’s sudden shift as she raced toward the ancient landline. I waved goodbye, deciding to take Cindy up on her advice.
Hector’s Hardware was just two blocks away.
When I made my way over to the shop and pushed open the front door, I once again felt like I was in a time warp. Just like Sweet Street, nothing in this room had changed since the last time I’d been in it. It had the same scratched linoleum, the same inappropriate pinup calendar hanging behind the counter. Hector looked the same, too—tall frame, thinning hair, and wide-set eyes that bulged a bit when he laughed.
“Well, if it isn’t the littlest Hardjoy, back for the summer already,” Hector said, putting down his phone and grinning widely when he saw me. Hector had been one of my dad’s friends growing up. He was one of the few people who didn’t seem to mind Dad’s weird obsessions and stories and would still grab a beer with him from time to time. “You here to pick up something for your dad? He ordered some screws a while back, but they were on back order. I think they came in, but I’ll have to check. Our stock boy just went missing, and everything’s gone to heck. You heard about that? Bryan Ryder? His parents are real upset. Probably he just ran over to Windsor with his girl, that’s what I think. Anyway, he didn’t exactly call in before he up and left, and now I got packages coming in left and right, and I’m sure your dad’s screws are around here somewhere—”
“Thanks, Hector, but I’m not here for Dad,” I interrupted loudly. Hector was capable of carrying on a one-sided conversation for hours, if you let him. “I was actually just at Cindy’s, and—”
“Did you try the new ice-cream flavor? Berry Vanilla Whip. It’s no Mackinac Island Fudge, but then again, what is?”
“Oh, uh, no. . . . I was there to get a part-time job, actually—”
“Nice! I’ve been needing a man on the inside. Been trying to get hold of Cindy’s maple candy recipe for years, but she always says—”
“—it’s a family secret.”
“Yup. But if you should happen to find that secret lying around in a drawer somewhere . . .” Hector gave an exaggerated wink.
“Uh, sure. I’ll keep an eye out.”
Hector’s eyes widened as he grinned. “Excellent.”
Something else occurred to me before I could get to my article questions—Cindy was right, there wasn’t anything that went on in Bone Lake that Hector didn’t know about.
“Hey, Hector, speaking of my dad, you haven’t seen him around, have you? He didn’t show up to pick me up at the airport, and I was wondering . . . did he tell you he was going camping or hunting or anything?”
Hector’s mouth pulled down in an exaggerated frown as he shook his head. “He didn’t mention it. Actually, haven’t seen your dad around too much lately. A couple of times over at Vinny’s, we played darts, but I don’t remember him talking about a trip.”
“He was at Vinny’s?” I asked, hearing a beat too late how all the friendliness had dropped out of my voice, leaving it flat and cold.
Hector blinked, confused. “Yeah . . .” He studied me a moment, as if trying to figure out what was behind my abrupt shift in tone. I quickly smiled and waved my hand.
“That’s okay, don’t worry about it. I actually came over to ask you about something else. . . .” I quickly laid out for Hector the same pitch I’d given Cindy, though this time it took three times as long to get out with all of Hector’s interruptions. But at least, unlike Cindy, he conceded that Bone Lake had changed.
“Yeah, I guess things are kinda different around here,” he said, tapping his fingers on the counter and nodding his head in thought. I quickly started taking notes as he continued. “What with the recession and everything.”
“The recession?” I asked. “Don’t you think the plant closing had something to do with it, too?”
“Oh sure, that was bad business, bad business. People were real upset when it happened.”
“What do you remember from then? You worked at the plant, right?”
“Yep. Got a job there right outta high school. Worked my way up to manager in six years, you know.”
“So, how did you feel when the plant closed?”
“Terrible! It was hard times. But now I got my store, make my own hours. Course, running your own business isn’t always easy, either. Like now I gotta figure out if I should hire a new stock boy or wait for Bryan to show back up—”
“Right, but, about the plant,” I said, worried we were getting off track. “I haven’t found a ton of concrete information from the time it actually closed. Do you know much about the accident?”
A cloud seemed to pass over Hector’s face. “Now, that was a real tragedy,” he said, his voice faraway. “A real shame. Human error is all it was, which is the worst part. But it’s best not to think too much about it. . . .”
My pen stuttered a bit over the page as I wrote down Hector’s words, but before I could ask Hector to repeat himself, he’d moved on.
“That was a real bad time, Penny. But I think we’ve moved past it, if you want my honest opinion. You can write that down. Say, Hector Correa, a successful, upstanding businessman, is optimistic about the future of his town—do you think upstanding is the best word? Or maybe honorable?”
“Um, they’re both pretty good,” I said, reluctantly putting away my notebook. As Hector went on to talk about the new brand of paint he was stocking and how the newspaper didn’t deliver on Mondays anymore, I began to realize how hard a task I’d set for myself this summer. Why was it so difficult for Bone Lake’s residents to talk about its obvious decline? Or maybe they just didn’t want to talk about it with me? I’d always be Ike’s daughter, the littlest Hardjoy, whenever I came back to Bone Lake. But I was also an outsider now, too.
The front door opened with a dinging noise, and Hector excused himself to go help the new customer. I took the opportunity to look through my hastily scribbled notes. I stopped when I got to one particular line—It’s best not to think too much about it.
Putting my finger there to mark the spot, I flipped back a couple of pages to my interview with Cindy. Written there, at the bottom of the page, was the same line. The exact same.
It’s best not to think too much about it.
A coincidence? Probably. It was a pretty common expression. But why had Hector and Cindy both been so reluctant to talk about the specifics about what happened to Hal Jameson at the plant? It’s not like what happened was a secret town shame or anything; at the time, the accident had made it into newspapers around the state.
Frowning, I closed my notebook. When I looked up, movement on the other side of the shop’s glass window caught my eye, and I froze. Standing right there on the other side of the glass, the afternoon sun lighting up the gold ends of his hair, was another Jameson. One with blue eyes and a Clark Kent jawline that a younger version of me had memorized a long time ago.
Micah.
My stomach dropped, and for a moment I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
Damn. First crushes really did leave a mark.
By the time I was able to inhale again, Micah had looked up through the window. He spotted me, squinted, and then his face broke out into its trademark wide smile. I was smiling back before I could help myself, the notebook in my hand all but forgotten.