“Yup. I guess about the time my mom was sixteen, my grandfather started talking about how there weren’t really many good jobs for women in these parts, so she should start finding herself a husband.”
“Ouch.”
“Exactly. My grandmother went into partnership with a man they went to church with, who loved to cook, but they named it after Corinne—my mother—because it would be her business someday and she’d never have to take a husband she didn’t want or stay with one she chose but shouldn’t have.”
“And what happened to the partner?”
“An actual restaurant was still a bit of a novelty in this part of the state back then, and the snowmobilers came. Not as many as we have now, and they didn’t have the ATVers for summer business as much. But they kept at least five different flavors of ice cream stocked. It started doing well, and then my grandfather died. My grandmother sold the farm and bought a cute little house in town with some of the money and bought out her partner with the rest.”
“So your mother worked there with your grandmother until your grandmother passed away, and then she ran it until she passed, and now you run it.”
“Right.”
The question burned unasked in his eyes. Hadn’t her grandmother’s gambit to provide her mother with freedom actually backfired, and on the next generation, too? He clearly wanted to point out she’d actually been trapped by her grandmother’s choices, and he wasn’t wrong, exactly. It was complicated and hard to answer, though, so she was glad he didn’t vocalize the thought.
“I’m almost afraid to ask, but what did your grandfather die from?” he asked instead.
“Again, it depends on who you ask.”
He almost tripped over a rock because he was too busy looking at her. “Okay, what if I asked the medical examiner?”
“Medical examiner? You’re such a city boy. The doctor at the clinic said it was a stroke, and that’s what the death certificate says.” When he was quiet for a notable amount of time, just staring at the path ahead, she laughed. “Did you get bored with the story, or are you busy running through your mind all the various poisonous things that could be found around a farm that might cause a death to present as a stroke?”
The way the tips of his ears turned red was adorable. “I’m a writer. My brain is wired for a good story.”
“Your brain is wired to think up ways to commit murder?”
“You should see my search history,” he said with a chuckle. “Also, if you think I’m bad, you should spend some time with my Uncle Joe.”
“He writes horror, though. That must make for fun campfire stories.”
“The actual stories aren’t bad. It’s when you’re all sitting around relaxing, maybe talking about the Red Sox, and then he randomly asks if anybody knows how to disable the safety stops on a wood chipper. You realize while your minds are all on sports, his is dwelling on how to murder somebody in a particularly gruesome way.”
“At least poison’s more civilized.”
“Exactly.” He grinned, those blue eyes crinkling. “So have you ever told Hannah your grandparents’ story?”
She laughed and swatted at his arm. “Her podcast is abouthistoricaltrue crime, and again, it was only two generations ago.”
“They had a clothesline.”
She folded her arms. “Ihave a clothesline, thank you very much.”
“Why? Do you like finding bugs lurking in your unmentionables?”
“Clotheslines are free, and I like clothes dried in the fresh air. Also,unmentionables? Who says that anymore? Are you writing scripts for Hannah’s podcast now instead of writing your book?”
“Hey, my book is almost done.”
“And speaking of your book being almost done, which is what we’resupposedto be talking about,” she said, trying not to think about the fact he’d leave town again when it was finished. “You cut off what you sent me before I could get a clear idea of whether Stephen regains his moral compass or just gives in to that Clark darkness to take everything in the end.”
He laughed. “I don’t want to spoil it for you.”
“In other words, you don’t know yet.”
“Ouch. Also, no. I’m not quite sure, and I feel like I’m choosing which segment of readers to disappoint when I choose wrong.”
“Focus on Stephen and not the readers,” she reminded him. “Now, talk it out.”
