Swede paused, his thin lips showing only the slightest trace of a smile. “You can count on it,” he said, and left the room without looking back.
Cross took time to locate a box of Cuban cigars and lit one before he strolled outside to the patio. Overhead, a thin quarter moon fought against currents of choking clouds, still threatening rain. A chilly breeze, sweet with the smell of Pacific salt, teased the heavy wine-red draperies at the open glass doorway. He breathed it in deeply, savoring the scent and power of darkness.
Silhouetted against the pale sky was the figure of a slender woman, her back turned toward him, her raven hair blowing in the wind. He advanced to where she stood rubbing her arms and shivering and watched her from behind.
“You're cold, pet,” he purred in her ear. “Come inside and let me warm you.”
She startled, then turned to face him, her eyes wet with tears. “Oh Garrin, I was thinking ... if ever I should lose you....” She started to cry.
He held her against him, stroking her hair. “Now, now, kitten, I will never leave you, and I will never, ever let you go. You can be certain of that.”
She looked into his face, blinking and smiling, and he wiped her tears with his fingertip. “Let's go inside,” he coaxed. “I feel like it's been an eternity since I felt the way I'm feeling now, here in your arms. Let's go inside and see what happens.”
“Yes,” she whispered, pulling him by the hand, “let's.”
9
RUBBER STAMPS AND PAPER CLIPS
The Johns' old blue Ford truck kicked up a cloud of dust behind it as it rattled down the road leading from the farmhouse toward the highway. As soon as he hit pavement, Michael rolled both windows down and fiddled with the radio dial until he found a country station that he liked. Music with a solid beat and homey lyrics, the warmth of early summer’s sunshine on his bare arm, the wind in his hair, all helped take his thoughts away from missing his father, selling a ranch that was the only home he had ever known, and the uncertainty of the future he now faced.
Around him, Star Valley spread out like a well-worn quilt, a patchwork of green and yellow pasture squares knotted on each corner with a white sideboard farmhouse here and a ramshackle barn there; the whole effect stitched together with barbed wire and fence posts. Star Valley was, in fact, two valleys joined in the shape of a peanut. The valleys, known as the upper and lower valleys, were, in the minds of the locals, the most beautiful place on earth. Few outsiders, once having seen their unspoiled grandeur, would dispute that opinion. The dirt road Michael had been driving on from his ranch joined Highway 89, which ran straight through both valleys, due north to south. He passed Star Valley’s famous cheese factory on the outskirts of a little horse rail of a town called Thayne, then drove on through the Narrows, where the Salt River flowed lazily between green banks of willow and cattail. Here, where the valley was cinched in like the waist on a bridal gown, a deer suddenly darted across the highway, narrowly escaping Michael’s truck. He slammed on his brakes and swore.
Glad for the deer as well as himself, Michael muttered a short prayer of thanks and sped on his way. The narrows opened and the upper valley was laid out before him in all its bucolic postcard perfection.
The morning sun's glare on his dusty windshield forced Michael to squint as he viewed the approaching town of Afton, some five miles distant, tucked against the western skirt of the Salt River Range. The whole familiar sweep of it was easily taken in by one glance of his eyes. This time he almost resented the beauty of it. For all but three years of his life, he had wakened, worked and slept within the bosom of this valley, a place he must now leave for good. There was nothing to keep him here now. In his mind, he told himself, he was likely looking at these fields, these farms and Star Hill, which bore the valley’s high school symbol, a star formed of white, painted boulders, for the last time.
The town began now in proper. Michael drove past a string of small businesses, the dentist, the insurance agent, a Pizza Hut, then on past the town’s only two gas stations, a car dealership, and then the Frosty River—a drive-in where he and his friends had demolished many a greasy cheeseburger and thick chocolate malt after a Braves’ football game. Streets lined with a hodge-podge style of houses, built anywhere from the 1930’s to present, side by side. Even so, pride of ownership was evident. The yards were kept well. Backyard gardens of vegetables and raspberry bushes spoke of a self-reliant people who loved their little spot on earth. The homes may be humble, but dear. Michael felt an ache in his gut. A part of him longed to stay in this place, so familiar that had he been struck blind, he could still have navigated every street. But a restlessness stirred inside he could not ignore. It whispered in his ear like an insistent fly. There’s more than this for you, Michael Johns. Time to go. Time to go.
He drove down the eight-block length of Main Street, grinning as he passed under one of the town’s more charming features, a worn, elk-horn arch erected right across the highway. It was said some veterans returning from the Korean War had nothing to do when they got back to the Valley and thought an elk-horn arch would be just the thing to attract tourists. It had stood there ever since, looking down on all the rodeo and homecoming parades, observing the changes in automobiles that passed beneath it, mutely taking note of all the comings and goings of the town folk at their shopping. Michael grinned. If that old arch could write a book, what tales it could tell.
Moving on, Michael cast nostalgic sidelong glances at more small buildings standing shoulder to shoulder, businesses that had been passed down from parent to child for generations: a furniture store, a pharmacy, grocery store, a jewelers and, last of all, the newspaper office. He had been in every one of them, knew every item stacked on every shelf. Everyone behind every counter knew his name and he theirs. Leave it behind, the fly buzzed in his ear. Time to go.
At the end of the block he turned left, drove two streets east past the town park, up to a tidy, yellow, gabled house which had been converted into the Lincoln County Library. Here he parked the truck, hopped out, and started up the walk.
The elderly librarian was sitting at her desk, reading, her back to Michael as he entered. She was dressed in a navy blue, cotton-print dress with a doily collar. This would be the way he would always remember her, Michael thought—-twinkly, gingersnap eyes and a doily collar.
As she did not look up when he came in, Michael tiptoed up behind her and put his hands over her eyes.
“Gracious!” she gasped, dropping her book to the floor.
Michael leaned down and whispered menacingly in her ear, “This is a stick up, ma’am! Hand over your rubber stamps and paper clips or I'll be forced to use my voice in a loud and unruly manner.”
The woman laughed then and reached up to grasp his strong young hands with her frail, bent, arthritic fingers. “Michael Johns, you scoundrel! You about gave me a heart attack.”
“Ah, Mrs. Crandall, how'd you know it was me?” Michael asked innocently as he removed his hands, picked up the book for her, and sat himself down atop her desk.
Bright eyes, framed with sagging eyelids and crow's-feet wrinkles, frowned up at him with mock disapproval through a pair of square, rimless glasses. “Who else would it be but my favorite student? I see your behavior has not improved since you graduated.” Her voice was stern, but her whole face suddenly broke into a warm smile. “I am awfully glad to see you, Michael!”
Michael
