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Jaxson
The chicken parmigiana was every bit as good as it smelled, as were the garlic bread and dipping sauce that came with it. Getting his dinner from Franco’s for the duration of his stay wouldn’t be a hardship, although he would take the hostess’s advice and phone in his orders from now on.
Except tomorrow, of course. Tomorrow, he’d be eating Sunday dinner with Penny and her family.
He shook his head, chastising himself for caving so easily. That was followed by the same rationalization he’d made earlier—that the benefits outweighed the cost. The Hoffmeiers might know who Ilsa was—or at the very least, they might be able to point him in the right direction. The sooner he got some answers, the sooner he could move on.
Move on to what, he hadn’t quite figured out. His future was hazy at best. He was a thirty-something mechanic with a bum leg and nothing and no one to go home to, not really. Sure, he had friends in Campbell’s Junction, but things weren’t—and never would be—like they had been once. Not for him.
He knew only that he had to keep moving forward, and to do that, he had to step back into the past.
The mysterious Ilsa was part of his father’s past, but was she part of his? Could she be the mother he never knew? The timing seemed to suggest she might, as did his gut.
And if it turned out she was, then what?
Again, he didn’t know. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
It was hard to miss something he never had. Biologically speaking, Jaxson knew he had a mother, but she hadn’t been part of his life, not the part he could remember.
He’d wondered though. Who was she? Why wasn’t she part of his life? Was it a choice? Hadn’t she wanted him?
The most his father had said on the subject was that it was better he didn’t know, and after a while, Jaxson had stopped asking.
Now, having read the letters, he knew that at some point, Ilsa had loved his father—or said she did. Was it his father who’d walked away and not looked back? And if so, why?
Feeling the irritation surge again, Jaxson flipped through the television channels. Unsurprisingly, he found nothing he was interested in. He’d never been one to sit in front of a screen, preferring to do something rather than watch, especially something that involved his hands and his brain. He wasn’t the smartest guy in the world, but there wasn’t a machine made that he couldn’t take apart and put back together again.
The only exceptions to his no-view rule were the custom restoration shows he watched sometimes. There was one guy, Kyle McCullough, who had an ongoing series on restoring old classic bikes that Jaxson watched and rewatched whenever he had the chance.
When Jaxson hit the game show network a third time, he stabbed the power button and tossed the remote on the bed. The guy he’d shared a hospital room with was a trivia fanatic. As a result, Jaxson now knew a shit-ton of completely useless facts.
Because that would come in handy.
Feeling restless, he decided to visit the bar Harry had told him about.
O’Malley’s wasn’t hard to find; it was the only pub in town.
He received his share of curious looks when he walked in and took a seat at the bar. He’d expected as much. The bartender took his time making his way down to Jaxson’s end of the bar, which Jaxson had also expected. Cheney’s was the same way on those rare occasions when an outsider wandered in.
“You’re not from around here,” the tender said.
“No,” Jaxson agreed.
“You one of them Sanctuary boys?” asked the guy a seat over from him, peering at him through narrowed eyes.
“No.”
Another guy approached, this one wearing a badge pinned to the waistband of his Dockers. Jaxson did a quick assessment. Small-town law. Self-important. The kind of guy who thought the gun he carried gave him special privileges but who would probably piss himself in a real fight. Jaxson immediately disliked him.
“What brings you to town?” the badge asked.
Jaxson was spared from answering when Harry appeared and slapped a beefy hand on his shoulder. “Guys, this is Jaxson. Had some motorcycle trouble and is staying at Mel’s until Stoltzfus recovers from his daughter’s wedding.”
Some murmurs, some reluctant nods. A meaningful glance exchanged between Harry and the cop that did not go unnoticed.
“Come on,” Harry continued, turning back to Jaxson. “Let’s see if you’re any good at shooting darts.”
Jaxson got up and followed Harry toward the back, aware of the eyes following them.
“Don’t mind them,” Harry said cheerfully. “They’re not used to seeing new faces in here.”
Yeah, he’d figured that out for himself. “I have to ask. What’s this Sanctuary everyone keeps asking me about?”
Harry went to the board and pulled out the darts, and then he walked back to the line made on the floor with tape to make his first throw. Lowering his voice, he said, “It’s a place up the mountain that caters to military types. Guys who come back worse off than when they went, if you know what I mean.”
Jaxson subconsciously rubbed his leg, but Harry shook his head. “Not like that. Up here,” he said, pointing to his temple. “Makes some folks nervous.”
Jaxson was beginning to understand. “Ah.”
“Did you have any luck at the library today?”
“No.”
“That sucks, man. Wish I could help, but I’ve only been around the last twenty years or so. I’m still considered the new guy.”
“Maybe someone here has information.”
“No doubt,” Harry answered, “but if I were you, I wouldn’t ask. Not tonight anyway. These guys don’t take kindly to strangers who come in asking questions. Makes them suspicious-like. But a man who just wants to have a few beers, shoot some darts, and hang out? That’s different. And if you don’t mind a bit of friendly advice, it wouldn’t hurt to buy a round before you leave.”