The call ends before he can finish.
He growls, a legit animalistic sound under his breath as he turns off at the Rocosa exit.
“Good help is hard to come by, huh?” I joke, but his growl only intensifies.
“She’s more trouble than she’s worth most of the time. And there’s nothing I can do. Her dad and Uncle Ted are old golfing pals, so I can’t fire her... and Dedeknowsit.”
“You should try talking to your uncle again, especially after that rude call. Is he back in town yet?”
“I wish. He’s down visiting Mom and Bruce in Florida still. Something about the white sandy beaches and warmer weather being better for his health.” Tristen hesitates a second before blurting out, “He’s considering opening another bar down there.”
“B-but, what about the bar he already owns here?”
“That’s what I asked him too.” He shifts in his seat. “He said he’d promote me to co-owner if he does. Then, I’d be doing his job and mine.”
“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?”
“I mean... yeah, but this is more official sounding. Plus, I’d get to weigh in on big decisions that could help shape Cliffys’s future.”
“And as co-owner, you can fire Dede.” I tilt my head. “Where is the bad news in all of this? It sounds like a win.”
“If I take the promotion, then I’m stuck in Rocosa.”
I shrug. “Aren’t we all? Nobody ever truly escapes unless they are made of money. Even then, they don’t go far.” I pauseto replay his words back in my head. “Are you thinking of leaving?”
He parks in one of the rare empty spots in front of the post office and leans back in his seat, unable to meet my eyes. “Maybe.”
That one word pierces through me in a way I never expected. My heart thuds in my chest, the empty hollow sounds vibrating up to my ears.
“Nothing is set in stone, but sometimes it feels like I don’t have an anchor here.” He shoots me a look before returning to drum on the wheel again. “Why should I stay?”
“Because Rocosa is your home. You don’t just dig up your roots and leave without a better reason than not having an anchor.”
“Yet when Des left for college, you didn’t even bat an eye.”
With a flinch, I meet his blue gaze. “Then I guess I’m one amazing actress. Thanks again for the ride, Tristen. It’s been an absolutedelight, as always.”
I unclench my fingers from their death grip on the seat cushion and snatch my wet blouse from the back seat.
“Reese, wait a minute . . .”
I scramble out of the truck and slam the door a little too hard behind me. With an overly sweet smile, I say, “Sorry about the whole thing with Dede. I hope it works out.”
“C’mon, Reese . . .”
There’s nothing more to be said.
His pleas fade in the distance as I storm off, jogging down a side street toward the open community field. The normally grassy area has since been transformed for the harvest season. Hay barrels and pumpkins litter the field, and the merriment of children laughing eases some of the tension from my muscles.
When I’m angry, it’s best to keep moving. Traveling my usual path fills me with a cathartic peace until I slowto a more leisurely pace. I turn another corner and find myself at the far end of town, near Mountainview Church, our only church in Rocosa. It sits higher than most of the buildings at the top of the hill, its double doors facing the long stretch of Main Street. Granny used to say it was so that no matter where you were in town, the cross on the steeple would be visible.
Despite Des’s weekly invitation, it’s been some time since I entered these church doors. Questions flood my mind, sprinkling doubt on everything I was taught growing up. Now my faith is like one of the leaves lost in the turbulent wind. Nothing makes sense. I would be nothing more than a fraud if I returned with uncertainty in my heart. They’d probably slam the door in my face before I could enter.
I shiver as another cool breeze whips over my shoulders, and I regret not bringing my windbreaker with me. The brisk autumn wind nips in the shady spots. But the chill is worth it for the panoramic view of Rocosa from the hill.
Colorful buildings line Main Street, the ambience similar to an old-time TV show. Quaint hand-painted shop signs with local names like Alma’s Antiques and The Bee’s Knees swing in the breeze. Lights are strung between the golden aspens, off now in the daylight but will twinkle like fairies at sunset. All the flowerpots lining the sidewalks have been replanted with orange mums, thanks to the strict regulations of the Rocosa Historical Society.
To tourists, it’s a picture-perfect mountain town.
