Page 5 of Plentywood
“Well, yes. I need one, so they should.”
“You get what you want most times, Slick?” he asked.
“It’s Ben, and yeah, most times. And what’s your name?” I asked. “Maybe I’ll call and report you for your awful customer service.”
He pointed at the sign on the building. The one next to the Shell emblem. “See that name there? The one that readsSkeeter’s? Well, that’s me, Charlie ‘Skeeter’ Brewster. How about I go inside and wait for your call?”
I looked from the sign, and then to him, and then back to the sign again. “You’reSkeeter?” I asked, turning back and studying him closer. “Yeah, okay. I get that,” I said, nodding. “I can see that. The name fits you for sure.”
“It does, does it? I look like a Skeeter to you?”
“Yes,” I answered. “You look exactly like that sort of name.”
He placed the gas pump back in its slot and closed my gas cap. “Go ahead,” he said. “Tell me what sorta guy has that sorta name.”
“This is ridiculous,” I stated, staring at the handsome stranger, hating that he was so damn good-looking. “You’re just… well… you know.”
“I’m just what?”
“Well, you’re rural. You’re a man out in the… you know… the rural areas of places.”
“As opposed to?” he asked, leaning back against my car. “Go ahead. Once you pull that foot outta your mouth, tell me what type of man I am.”
“Never mind,” I said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little face about me. I’m a big boy,” he said. “But it’s my gramma that isn’t gonna like your ways of puttin’ labels on folks.”
“Your grandmother?”
“Gramma!” he corrected. “That’s what werural folkcall our grandmothers in these parts.”
“I didn’t see your gramma inside,” I stuttered, feeling like I’d overstepped. “And I apologize if I’ve come off as snooty.”
“You don’tcome offas snooty, Doc Hawthorne. Youaresnooty.”
I felt my face flushing. He not only thought of me as snooty, but somehow, he knew my last name. “How do you know my last name?”
“When you get up to Plentywood, and the fancy Hawthorne House Mansion that you also happen to own, you’re gonna meet an old lady. That old lady is gonna eat you for lunch, Mr. Fancy Pants. And when you meet that woman, my gramma, be sure to tell her that her grandson Charlie said hello.”
CHAPTER THREE: Hunter
After breakfast, instead of heading into the office, I went home. Earlier, I’d tried fooling myself into believing that today was just another day. The calendar read June 1stwhen I woke up, but I pretended that after two years, the date didn’t matter because I was over my grief. One look at Jill, Mark’s sister, and the truth was clear. I wasn’t over shit.
Like I’d done in the parking lot at the diner before driving home, I sat inside my SUV when I got here, buried in hurt. How do you dig yourself out of a sorrow so deep that it hurts to simply stand up every day and pretend you’re doing just fine?
Bella could see me through the window. I think even she knew today sucked. I forced myself to get out of theChevy Tahoe, a black SUV covered with the Sheriff’s department decals and loads of lights, that I drove, compliments of Sheridan county. The latest sticker was on the driver’s side door. It read,Sheriff Hunter Copeland.
“Hey, girl,” I whispered, allowing Bella to jump up on me. “Just me. Again.”
I often wondered how an animal dealt with the sudden departure of a loving human being in their life. Did Bella sense that Mark had dropped dead? Like me, she’d been there, front row and center, at his death. Dogs were intuitive. She sensed the change in me; the other life extinguished that day.
I pulled a chair from under the dining table and sat down. It wasn’t often that I sat at this table since Mark died. Too many meals were shared here. Too many memories.
* * *
“I know it’s not much, Hunt,” Mark whispered, watching me turn the belt buckle over in my hands. “I wanted… well, you know.”
“It’s perfect,” I replied. “You know how I feel about my Grizzlies.”
