Page 7 of Lone Wolf in Lights
“Girl, Eli’s truck,” Aubrey emphasized with an exaggerated sigh, rolling her eyes. “Just the truck. And maybe those muscles when he’s loading up boxes. But that’s it. Purely logistical.”
“Logistical.” Willow snorted, and promptly ignored Aubrey’s laughter and focused back on her work.
Late in the morning, the roar of the engine reverberated through the cab as Eli maneuvered his truck along the country roads of Timber Falls. His grip on the steering wheel was firm, knuckles white with a tension that mirrored the turmoil brewing deep in his gut.
As the truck slowed to a stop near the entrance of the cemetery, the gravel crunching beneath its weight, Eli killed the engine and sat for a moment. He drew in a deep breath, and with a heavy sigh, he grabbed the flowers off the seat, pushed open the door and stepped out into the chill.
He felt the cold seep through his jeans and flannel shirt, prompting him to pull his winter jean jacket tighter around him. His boots crunched on the snow-kissed grass as he approached the wrought iron gates, each step measured. He moved between the rows of gravestones, each marker a silent testament to lives that had rippled through the small town that had raised him.
He stopped before a simple headstone with the inscription “Marianne Cole.” His mother’s resting place. “Hey, Ma,” he murmured. He placed the flowers in the holder. His fingers lingered on the cool granite, tracing the letters of her name, each curve and line etching a memory into his heart. “Miss you,” he breathed out, the words carried away by the cold wind that rustled through the bare branches overhead.
He rose, moving to the gravestone next to his mother’s. The grave marker before him bore a name that echoed in his soul. He knelt. The bouquet in his hands—a vibrant splash against the muted tones of the cemetery—trembled slightly as he placed it beside the headstone.
“Hey, sis,” he whispered. He missed his mother deeply, but his sister had died young. Too young. Only twenty-three years old.
Her absence left an ache in his chest that never left him, even if he’d learned to live with it.
A warm touch on his shoulder startled Eli, and he looked up into the kind light blue eyes of Betty, an eighty-year-old widow with tight purplish-gray curls. Her presence was as comforting and familiar as the town itself. She was a longtime resident and a nosy one.
“Betty,” he acknowledged. “Didn’t see you there.”
She chuckled softly, her hand still resting lightly on him. “You were a million miles away, Eli. It’s good to see you here though.”
Betty had been a constant in Timber Falls, involved in everything from bake sales to school fundraisers while he was growing up. Her heart seemed to have enough room for the whole town, and Eli had always admired her for it, even when his own world had been falling apart.
“Your mother and sister, they’d be proud of you, you know,” she said, not needing to look at the graves to know whom he mourned. “You’ve kept on going, kept on living. That’s all any of us can do.”
Eli nodded, the weight of her words settling deep in his chest. It was a simple truth, one he wrestled with every day. “Are you visiting your husband...” Eli began, then hesitated. He knew grief was a private thing, yet Betty wore hers like a locket, open for those who needed to see they weren’t alone.
“Ah, Henry,” she sighed, her gaze turning toward a well-tended plot adorned with a simple headstone. “Yes, it’s my day to see him.” She reached into her coat with a mischievous glint. “You know, I keep a little secret close to my heart on these chilly visits.”
Eli raised an eyebrow.
“Here,” she said, producing a gleaming flask from the depths of her pocket, winking as she did so. “A bit of warmth for the soul—Henry’s favorite way to fend off the cold.”
The corners of Eli’s lips twitched upward. He took the flask, feeling its cool metal against his calloused hands.
“Betty, you’re full of surprises.” He chuckled.
“Life’s too short for predictability,” she quipped back, her smile as infectious.
With a nod of gratitude, Eli unscrewed the cap. The rich aroma of aged whiskey flirted with his senses before he brought the flask to his lips, taking just enough to feel the liquid fire trace a path down his throat.
“Henry had good taste,” he admitted, voice softened by the burn.
“Only the best for the best,” Betty replied, accepting the flask back and taking a long sip.
Eli took a slow breath, the air icy as it filled his lungs, and watched Betty replace the cap on her flask with a practiced twist. Her hands, though aged, were steady and sure—a stark contrast to the tremble that had claimed his own only moments ago.
“Henry would’ve liked you,” she said. “He always appreciated someone who could respect a fine whiskey.”
“Sounds like a man of good character,” Eli replied, the corners of his mouth lifting in a half smile.
“Best I ever knew,” Betty affirmed, tucking the flask back into her coat. “He’d sit out on our porch, glass in hand, and tell stories until the stars came out. It was...comforting.”
The word resonated within Eli, stirring memories. He glanced at the twin graves of his mother and sister. The warmth from the whiskey was a temporary shield against the cold truth of loss, but now, as the alcohol’s embrace faded, the past crept back in.
“My mom loved telling stories, too,” he found himself saying.
