lights fires in my yard every night, it was a chore just to keep counting.
I closed my eyes and let the warmth of the fire soak into my bones. For a long while, I listened to the sounds of the lake. Then I heard a splash on the water and looked up at the cloudy sky.
Luke was gone, racing the moon once more. His nightly ritual made as much sense as my life. I stood and walked slowly back to the house. I felt like an aging warrior afraid of tomorrow’s battle, but determined to face head-on whatever came at sunrise.
Chapter 10
Luke stood on the dock and let the cold air dry his body. He’d swum far longer than usual but he needed to use up as much of the energy trapped inside him as possible. Watching Allie pour out her fears to him had been torture.
If he’d stayed there a minute longer, he would have pulled her into his arms. Even now, he could almost feel her against him. She was a beautiful, bright young woman. She didn’t need to think the weight of the world rested on her.
Dressing slowly in the dying campfire light, he heard a boat bumping against the end of the dock.
“Hello,” Luke said more to let the fisherman know that he was near than to be friendly.
“Evening.” A young man stepped out of his boat. “Mind if I tie up here for the night?”
“It’s not my place.” Luke moved closer, trying to see the man’s face. “But I don’t think they’ll mind.”
“Good.” The stranger offered his hand. “I’m Timothy Andrews. I’m staying at my dad’s company cabin a few hundred yards north. Our docking ramp was damaged last week in that wind, and I’m afraid I might gut the bottom of the boat trying to pull up during this fog.”
Luke guessed the guy to be twenty-two, maybe a year older or younger. He had a friendly smile, but shadows under his eyes as if he were ill, or unhappy, or on drugs. “Luke Morgan.” He offered Timothy his hand.
Timothy’s grip seemed slight, but he said, “I heard old Jefferson talk about an old friend he once had named Morgan. He was Navajo.”
“That would be my granddad. He was a code talker during the war. Met Jefferson in Germany and they became solid friends.” Luke knew he was giving out too much information, but he hoped it would encourage Timothy to talk. A man stepping out of a fishing boat at night with no catch swinging from a line might have business on the lake other than fishing.
Timothy fell into step with Luke. They followed the path lit by the dim glow from the store windows. “I read a book about what the code talkers did during the war. Very interesting.” Timothy also seemed to be making an effort at conversation. Maybe it was the night. Maybe something about the fog made people want to connect. “World War II is kind of my hobby. I read everything I can find on it. You got some of your grandfather’s stuff from that time?”
“Not a thing,” Luke answered as they headed up the drive to the main road.
“Too bad.” Timothy shrugged.
They talked about the fog and winter coming on as they walked. When Timothy reached the gate, he tapped the OPEN sign. “Glad this place is back in business. Good night, Luke Morgan.”
Luke waved as the kid disappeared into the mist. Timothy had seemed excited about the war, but little else. Luke couldn’t help but wonder what a young man his age was doing besides reading. Maybe just taking some time off? Maybe hiding out?
He added the Andrews place to his list to check out later tonight as he walked back to Jefferson’s Crossing. Between the fog and the rain, the store looked as if it were the only spot of life in the world. Luke had spent so much time in cities, it always took him a few nights to get used to how dark the country was.
As he rounded the corner of the store, he saw Allie asleep on the porch. The warm glow of the tiny lights left on inside sparkled in her hair. She was curled up looking cold and very much alone. A ledger book lay across one knee. A pencil still rested in her fingers and a fat old cat curled inches from her feet.
Luke debated. He couldn’t leave her here. The night was too cold. And, if he woke her up she’d probably start talking again. If she cried, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.
Studying her face, he noticed she wore little or no makeup, unlike most of the women her age.
He tugged the pencil from her hand, but she didn’t stir.
Lifting the book, he noticed a drawing of old hands working a mound of bread. Nana, he decided. Allie’s work wasn’t half-bad. Luke shifted, almost touching her.
She still didn’t move. It would be a crime to wake her.
Carefully, he tugged her legs over one arm and circled her shoulders with the other. When he moved her, she shifted against his chest like a baby kitten seeking warmth.
He carried her into the store and up the stairs as silently as he could. The glow of a night-light made it possible for him to see the half-bed turned down near the window.
Lowering her gently, he tugged off her shoes and covered her with the blanket.
She wiggled into the pillow.
Luke backed out of the room, not wanting to take his eyes off of her until he had to. He decided listening to her talk was definitely easier than watching her sleep.
Chapter 11
On Friday, business hit us before Nana and I finished breakfast. The first customer was a shy lady, from directly across the lake, who wanted to know if we had any tulip bulbs. I promised to put in a special order with Micki for next Thursday and she seemed tickled.
Next came a couple dressed in business suits. Paul and Lillian Madison. She looked bored, but he seemed friendly enough. He bought fishing magazines and canned soup; she asked if we carried wine. I didn’t have time to talk to them, but I got the feeling they were part of the weekend trade. Both looked like their hands fit briefcase handles far more comfortably than fishing poles.
I’d sold bait, drinks, and several bags of chips by nine and Nana made twenty bucks with her biscuits and fried pies. By eleven, people began asking if we sold sack lunches. Nana enlisted Luke to help her make ham sandwiches, and I watched a dozen lunches go out the door within an hour.
Mid-afternoon Willie Dowman dropped by to tell us Mrs. Eleanora Deals planned to come to the cafe for dinner Sunday night if we were serving.
“A meal?” I asked, startled that anyone would even ask.
Willie nodded. “Jefferson tried to serve Sunday dinner a few times a month in the winter. Course, the last few years it was little more than tomato soup and crackers, but we all came if we could.”
I glanced at Nana and she smiled. “I’m making catfish gumbo and cornbread. Tell her she’s welcome.”
Willie picked up his order. The last two fried pies. “I’ll be coming about the same time Sunday night. She’ll want me to pick her up in the boat and cross over the water, but Mrs. Deals likes to eat alone, so we’ll be needing separate tables.”
I followed him out to his boat. “Did Jefferson really serve dinner in the cafe?”
Willie shook his head. “In truth, not often, but he must have planned to at one time or he wouldn’t have ordered the chairs and tables. I don’t think he ever served anything but drinks and ice cream in the summer, but he had this idea a Sunday meal would be nice in the winter. It would get us together to check on each other and I think he thought the profit would help carry him through the winter.” Willie climbed into his boat, then turned and reached his hand out to catch my arm. For a moment he just held it, then he patted lightly. “Jefferson told us all that you might make it a weekly event.”
