CHAPTER 1
EVAN
“Evan!”
I wince at the sound of my name, called so jovially as I push through the back door of Gramps’s house and into the brightly lit kitchen. That kind of greeting means he’s not alone this morning.
Every day, at exactly seven, Gramps sits down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the local newspaper. It’s the same way he started the day when I was a kid, living here with him, and he’s continued that habit on through the years.
Since his fall, his friends here in town have taken to bringing him coffee from the gas station, or arriving with pastries to sit and chat with him.
“Hey, Gramps,” I grumble, turning away from the door and bracing myself to see who exactly his company includes this morning.
“Evan,” Beverly Munoz says, dipping her head quickly in greeting to me. Her curls are pushed back from her face with a pink headband, her brown eyes sharp and alert, even this earlyin the morning. I can already see this for what it is—another ploy to try and get me involved in that damn restoration project. “Good to see you.”
“You too,” I say, busying myself with unloading the bag of food I brought with me. Fish and vegetables, stews, and cured meats from the elk I caught last week up at the cabin. Food he likes, food he won’t have to cook himself. “How’s the resort?”
“Busier than ever,” she says with a laugh, and when I turn away from the food, she and Gramps are sharing a look. “Which meansI’mbusier than ever.”
“Sorry, Bev, the answer is still no. You know I don’t like being in town.”
“Oh, come on, Evan,” Gramps says, knocking his knuckles against the table. “It’s not like these folks are going toeatyou.”
“Ha,” I return, because despite the fact that both Gramps and I served in the military, I don’t know how to explain to him the hesitancy in me to be around other people. How the town I grew up in feels foreign to me now.
I left as one kind of person and returned as another. And now, I don’t quite feel like I fit in.
“Just think about it,” Beverly says, her voice warm, not conveying any of the frustration I’m sure she’s feeling. “We could really use your help. After all, your grandfather passed his handiness gene down to you.”
“That’s not a gene,” Gramps counters. “It’s the result of good, old-fashioned hard work.”
The two of them fall back into a conversation that mercifully excludes me as I move through the house, referencing the checklist on my little notepad as I do.
Refill his meds—check. I stopped at the pharmacy’s pick-up box on the way in, and now I replace his old pills with the new ones, refilling the weekly organizer with a variety of pills—all different shapes and colors—into the little compartments.
“…Carp says he’s going to ask about,” Beverly is saying, her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, fingers overlapping. “It’s been hard to find volunteers.”
“Maybe you could try the high school,” Gramps suggests. “Evan was always doing volunteer work to get extra credit or whatever.”
Beverly nods thoughtfully. “We could talk to Kendra. Maybe she knows how we could get some high schoolers involved. But I worry there might not be a lot of work they could be involved with safely. Most everything at this point is still demolition and construction: wood-cutting, laying the floor, that sort of thing. Everything is moving so sluggishly.”
I know this conversation is for me to hear, but I can’t bring myself to get involved in the project, no matter how helpful I know I’d be. About a month ago, after the first big storm and when Gramps had his fall, I’d thought about offering to take his spot on the volunteer crew.
But I just can’t handle being around all those people. Even the thought of it makes my chest feel compressed, and I raise a fist to it, making a tight circle like I can rub away the constriction there.
Even though this conversation of theirs feels needling, I’m glad Beverly—and the others—come to visit with Gramps. I usuallyonly make it down once a week. Without the restoration project to take up his time and the fact that he can’t stand for more than ten minutes at a time now, he’s been feeling listless.
Despite the fact that I’m not involved with the project, I’m familiar with what they’re trying to do. First, because Gramps has been talking to me about it and trying to get me to volunteer for months. And second, because I read the minutes from every town council.
In the center of town, there’s an old theater, built in the late 1800s. The names of past pioneer families are still engraved on some of the stonework inside. With its frescoed ceilings and original wood framing, the building is pretty impressive, especially for a place as small as Granite Peaks.
Just another mountain town tucked away in the Rockies, but that theater was our claim to fame, at least until the mid-1900s, when the owner went bankrupt and ended up selling the building to the town. For years, it’s been just barely maintained, kept as something of a historical relic. I know about its history because every class in the Granite Peaks school system took a trip there at least every couple of years, when teachers had to cycle between the same sites and nature preserves for the end-of-year trip.
But now, with tourism waning for our little town, Carp—the mayor—and a bunch of the others on the council seem to think the right choice is to renovate that old theater, revamping all the original architecture while converting it from a classical theater—made for live performances—into a movie theater, where locals and tourists alike can buy popcorn and soda.
Not only that, but they’re planning to add a bookstore and café into the building, along with a little museum section to show off the town’s history.
In the town council minutes, Beverly was noted as saying, “Independent bookstores are flourishing. Most young people won’t visit a town without a cute little coffee shop. This project should enhance our community, give locals a place to enjoy, and draw more tourism to the area.”
