Page 40 of Here & There

She gives me a conspiratorial grin. I’m not sure what she means, but I’m also curious about their relationship. But I can’t think of a way to ask her that doesn’t sound like I’m interested in him.

Then she says, “I love those too.” She points to my ears. I’m already wearing a pair of earrings I found in one of the stores. They’re little gold camels.

I smile. “When I see camel anything, I can’t resist. They’re my favorite animal.”

Chris laughs.

As we drop my bags in her car, I notice a stack of boxed helmets in the back.

Chris sees me looking. “They’re for my second job, at an outdoor adventure shop.” She sighs. “I need two jobs because I’ve got expensive hobbies.”

I learn that Chris is what my mother would call—with disdain—“one of those adrenaline junkies.” She rides dirt bikes andATVs, goes to muscle car shows, and likes recreational bungee jumping and skydiving. Even though none of that appeals to me in the least, I love that she bucks the gender stereotypes doing them.

My stomach growls.

“Oh shit. Is it lunchtime?” she asks. “Sorry, sometimes I completely forget to eat when I’m having fun.”

I’ve never understood people who forget to eat. “I’m fine,” I say.

Chris insists on taking me to the local coffee shop for lunch. “It’s got fantastic sandwiches,” she says.

“Fantastic. A good sandwich is the way to my heart.”

“Mac will appreciate that. The only thing he loves more than doing things for people is feeding people.”

I get a warm fuzziness hearing that. I think about that sandwich and tea latte he made for me the other day, and my stomach growls even harder. There’s something about people loving making food that makes me feel so soft. I think it comes from my parents really phoning it in when it came to mealtimes. My dad barely ate at home, and my mom eats like a bird to this day.

The coffee shop, which is called the Bean Scene, is in an adorable white clapboard building with a green and white awning. But inside, indie rock music plays under the hiss and clatter of the espresso machine. Despite the modern interior, with black-trimmed windows and butcher-block counters, the patrons are a mix of tourists and locals, and there’s an homage to the town in the form of a salon wall full of framed newspaper articles about the town.

This place is doing exactly what I know the Dinghy could do.

Chris says there’s a plaza nearby with benches and picnic tables we can eat at since it’s such a beautiful day. After weplace our order at the counter, Chris excuses herself to use the bathroom.

I ask the woman behind the counter if I can take a few photos while I wait.

“Go for it,” she says warmly.

I snap a few photos with my camera, focusing on the parts I think we could emulate at the Dinghy. But when I get to the wall of framed articles, I lower my camera. There’s a whole section here dedicated to the town’s beloved ex-mayor, Angus MacGregor, who I realize is the person Diane was talking about this morning.

But when my eyes land on the oldest article, I lower my phone, my mouth dropping. In this one, an extremely handsome man stands next to a tall, pretty brunette woman. There’s a toddler on the woman’s hip, and the newly minted mayor’s hands are on the shoulders of a handsome dark-haired boy of around ten.

The father is clean cut, with neatly combed hair. I picture him with a grown-out beard and shaggy curls around his collar. And a wool cap for good measure.

Then my eyes go to the boy with the little dimple in his chin.

The caption confirms what I already know: The town’s beloved mayor is Mac’s father. It also confirms something I can’t believe I never asked: Mac’s full name is Alasdair MacGregor.

I look at the boy again and can’t help laughing softly. Even then, Mac had a hard time smiling. Though I can still see the pride in his expression over his dad’s win.

I look at the toddler, whose arms are entwined around her mother’s neck; their mom’s head is tilted to the girl’s. If Mac is his father’s boy, his sister clearly had a deeply special bond with her mother. But she’s also got a hand entwined with her husband’s on little Mac’s shoulder. My heart squeezes a little at the sight of this tight-knit family.

We don’t have a single photo of our family like this. We were never a family like this.

The woman behind the counter calls for our order.

I smile and go to move to the counter, but just as do, my eyes land on an article in the same section that declaresMayor Saved by Hero Son, Wife Tragically Lost.

My stomach drops.

---