Season of Change

“I did.” Slade fought to keep a straight face. “That’s why we’re going to need an extra hammer.”

The three men walked toward the town square, leaving their trucks parked in front of the sheriff’s office.

A slender woman with long dark hair came around the corner of El Rosal, a cloth bag tucked in the crook of her arm.

“Becs!” With a nod to the men, Flynn veered across the street to meet his wife, Becca, who’d wisely brought a cloth bag to make it easier to carry her purchases home.

Truman dragged the twins from table to table, his shrill, happy voice carrying down the street. “Make sure you always, always, always buy the brownies from the Jimtown table early. They go fast.”

“Your daughters aren’t very talkative.” There was a hint of polite inquiry behind Nate’s statement.

“They’re shy.” Slade watched his daughters, hoping it was true.

Nate had a long-legged amble that made him look as if he was walking slowly, when in fact he was covering more ground in fewer steps than Slade, who considered himself tall at six foot. And yet, there was something rigid about Nate’s posture that contradicted his easy stride.

Wanting to change the subject, Slade, who didn’t normally pry, found himself prying. “Did you serve in the military?”

“Two tours in Afghanistan. Army. You?” The sheriff was a man of few words.

Slade shook his head. “Four years at Harvard. Two years on Wall Street.”

They exchanged respectful grins.

Flynn and Becca walked arm in arm in front of them.

For some reason, an image of Slade walking with a certain blonde came to mind. For the right reasons, Slade erased it. “You ever been married, Nate?”

“No...I... No.” His stilted answer was out of character for the normally staid sheriff.

This time Slade chose not to pry.

About thirty residents clustered about the tables, many leaning on canes and walkers. The only residents under the age of sixty were Nate, the partners, Truman, and the twins.

They reached Olly’s table. Slade bought a glass for himself, the sheriff, and the girls, who ran to him obediently when he called.

Nate was quickly snatched up by the locals, who circled him as if he was a celebrity.

Slade stood with the girls, drinking lemonade, wishing one of them would lean against him or hug him like they used to.

Grace looked at Slade’s hand three times before gripping it and tugging him over to the Jimtown table to look at their baked goods. Faith skipped next to them.

Slade could hardly breathe, for fear of making the girls go back to their no-touching, somber silence. Grace pointed at the brownies and then looked up at him with big green eyes and a sweet little pout.

Slade nearly tossed his wallet to her, barely daring to ask, “Only if you say please.”

Grace and Faith exchanged glances. Worry and determination flashed across their faces. Grace waved a hand as if swatting away a bug and faced Slade. “Please.”

One word. Barely a whisper. His heart was lost.

Slade ordered two brownies, feeling like the luckiest man in the world, so lucky that when he saw Old Man Takata sitting alone on the wrought-iron bench beneath the oak tree, he bought the man a glass of lemonade and sat with him.

“Weren’t you sitting here this morning?” Slade asked.

“I was. I like watching the world go by.”

“It’s getting hot outside.” The temperature was quickly climbing to uncomfortable. Slade knew all too well about uncomfortable summer days. He tugged at his tie.

“I have lemonade.” Takata raised his glass.

Mae Gardner, president of the bridge club, flounced over in a flowered dress and brown orthopedic sandals. Her shoulder-length gray frizzy hair curled like a storm cloud about her lined face. “Slade, dear, when are you going to move out of that house?”

Takata, who was normally as slow and deliberate as a turtle on land, snapped to attention. “Ain’t nothing wrong with his home.”

Unwilling to give ground, Mae plopped a fist on her hip. “Why should such a fine young man live there after the shameful thing his father did?”

Shameful. The word spiraled up Slade’s windpipe, closing it off to vital functions, like breathing and calls for help.

“Shameful?” Takata scoffed, sloshing his lemonade cup in Mae’s direction. “You and that bridge club of yours know all about shame, don’t you? Going down to Santa Rosa for those male dance reviews.”

Air returned to Slade’s lungs in a chuckle-suppressed gasp.

Mae’s face turned pinker than the pink sapphires flanking the diamond Will had chosen for Emma’s engagement ring. Mae spun and stomped away.

“Dang town gossips. Think they’re better than everybody. Don’t listen to her. What your father did was sad, not shameful.” Takata drained his lemonade and handed his empty glass to Slade. “I’ve never met your daughters. Last time they were here, they were too young for a proper introduction.”

Not to mention circumstances had Evy whisking their daughters away.

Slade called the girls over and introduced them, knowing Takata wouldn’t be able to tell his identical twins apart as soon as they moved away. Slade handed the girls each a twenty and asked them to buy strawberries, tomatoes, and corn, and then run back to the house to put their purchases in the refrigerator. It was only a block and a half away, a safe errand in a small town.

“You gave them too much money,” Takata complained after they’d skipped off.

“My ex-wife says I don’t give them enough.” It was a pleasure to give them something instead of writing a check to Evy every month.

“Kids who don’t learn to work for things don’t have a good work ethic.” Takata eyed Slade. “Why do you think you’re so successful?”

“Because I worked my butt off instead of living.” From high school to his last job on Wall Street. He’d worked until he’d lost sight of what was important.

The old man scoffed and tilted closer, as if sharing a secret. “You’re not living now.”

Slade couldn’t move more than his lips. “I live.”

“You exist.” Takata sat back, watching Grace stay just close enough to Truman, Becca, and Flynn that she could hear what they were saying, but far enough back that she wasn’t part of their family unit.

Slade struggled to draw in air. He knew how it felt to be on the perimeter of relationships, to feel as if you’d never quite belong. He didn’t expect to recognize the same thing in his daughter.

“Grace is an old soul,” Takata was saying.

Lucky guess.