Harvest Moon. Sharon Struth

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СКАЧАТЬ Trent’s gaze landed on a taxidermy stuffed raccoon mounted high on the wall, giving him second thoughts about staying.

      “Can I help you?” An older man with thick white hair and wearing a dark blue smock with “Kenny” written on the pocket continued to clip his customer’s hair.

      “Any chance I can get a trim?”

      “Sure. Gimme a few.” He tipped his head toward a lineup of chairs. “Have a seat. He’s not waiting. You’re next.”

      Trent tried not to flinch when Northbridge First Selectman Buzz Harris stared back at him from one of the chairs. His suit jacket lay over the chair beside him, and a crumbled sandwich wrapper next to a nearly finished Snapple littered the seat.

      “Hello, Buzz. I haven’t seen you since RGI pulled their bid.” He inwardly cringed, wanting to slap a hand over his own big mouth. The large-scale resort plans, which had brought the Jamiesons back to Northbridge nine months ago, may have been the wrong subject to open with.

      Buzz cleared his throat. “Your brother told me he’d offered you a job at the vineyards.”

      “Yup.” Trent glanced at the worn floorboards before meeting Buzz’s hard stare. Buzz was the one person Trent had worried about running into once he’d decided to make this place his home. “I start my work there today, as a matter of fact.”

      Trent took a place a few seats away from Buzz, aware of an awkward stillness in the air, as if he’d walked into the wrong classroom at school. He cleared his throat. “You should stop by the vineyards sometime. The place is really coming together.”

      Buzz pressed his lips tight.

      Only a handful of people in town knew about Trent’s family’s history in Northbridge. Buzz was one of them. What had happened at Buzz’s house long ago left Trent embarrassed by his actions, but he’d hoped by now Buzz and his wife had moved on and forgiven him. Another reason surfaced for the sour face, maybe the more obvious reason for Buzz’s discomfort, although this wasn’t the place to bring up the decades old topic.

      Buzz stood, slipped his wrinkled linen jacket on over a short-sleeved dress shirt. “Good luck in your new job.” Buzz picked up his lunch leftovers and tossed them in the trashcan on his way to the door.

      “See you at six on Saturday morning, Kenny. Bait’s on you this week.”

      Trent couldn’t move, immobilized by a strange, indefinable sensation. Seeing Buzz right off the bat forced him to face his past, and he hadn’t crumbled. Yet the foreboding winds of the complicated issues they shared would need to be addressed at some point.

      * * * *

      “He’s a moldy old mossback.” Phyllis Katz stood at the door to Veronica’s office and scowled, making the soft creases on her cheeks crinkle even further.

      Over the twenty years Veronica had worked with Phyllis at the library, this wasn’t the first time she’d heard her complain. The attractive eighty-year-old, who wore her salt-and-pepper hair styled in short layers, always had some grievance. This was, however, her first complaint about their newest helper, a charismatic octogenarian who’d joined them as part of a volunteer program put in place by the Northbridge Senior Center.

      “A mossback?” Veronica snapped the lid back on her salad and glanced at her doorway. “Now there’s a term you don’t hear every day.”

      “From my Word-of-the-Day calendar.” Phyllis glanced over her slender shoulder. She turned back to Veronica and dropped her voice. “It sure describes an old-fashioned dope like him. He wants to wait a while to start dating. Wait for what? At our age, time is precious.”

      Veronica understood the impatience of waiting, especially these days, when her conscience urged her to consider changes she wasn’t sure she could handle. “Be patient. He only lost his wife a year ago. Whatever you do, don’t call him a mossback to his face.”

      “Don’t worry. I know better.” Phyllis turned to leave.

      “Could you shut the door, please? I need to make a call.”

      Phyllis arched a silver brow, but did as asked.

      Veronica’s fingers raced along the keyboard of her computer, a slight lift in her pulse as she entered the password to her e-mail account. Three days ago was the last time she’d heard from Ry. Her heart jumped when an e-mail from him finally appeared. She opened it.

      To: [email protected]

      From: [email protected]

      Subject: Your Opinion

      Hi Etta,

      I’ve been swamped lately and apologize for being out of touch these past few days. I thought of you when I passed a singing group in a mall. Did you try out for the solo in your chorus group yet?

      I remember my first solo, back in middle school. It was a “Rock n’ Roll” production. I’d been taking guitar lessons for a year and hoped I’d make the cut. Those lessons were the first time I understood the power music had over me. I got the part and think I did pretty solid justice to Elvis impersonators around the world with my version of “Rock Around the Clock.” The worst part was how they made me wear a white jumpsuit! Not my style then or now. Let’s just say, I won’t dress up like that again.

      I’ve tweaked the music I sent you last month and would love your input. File is attached.

      Promise to write more soon. Another busy day ahead…

      Ry

      P.S. Remember our first argument about bad music videos? I think you’ll agree THIS link contains the worst.

      Their first argument? Unexpected tenderness for him settled in her heart. The idea they bantered in good humor, like a regular couple, pushed her a step closer to him. She opened the link to a video of “We Built This City,” and laughed through the entire video.

      Her smile faded as Emily’s concerns echoed in her ears. Ry was a sweet man. He remembered things Veronica told him, like about her solo. The details, of course, omitted. Not a word about performing with The Right Notes at the town’s Harvest Festival because then he’d know too much, enough to locate her.

      The first time they’d ever e-mailed away from the blog she’d admitted to him a reluctance to talk to a stranger through e-mail. He could’ve answered any number of ways, but his suggestion they keep their real names and where they lived private greeted her like an opened door to a safe haven.

      A part of her wished she could tell Ry everything about her and ask the same of him. Did he ever think about meeting her, too?

      She clicked open his file, “Song 32.” At the first soft pluck of a guitar string, she shut her eyes and let the music dance inside her mind. Notes now moved at a faster tempo than his last version, a more uplifting sound. She detected some added parts, a place where the melody dipped, but wasn’t down for long before soaring back to the inspiring tune.

      When the last note played, she opened her eyes, blinking to adjust to the sun peeking through the slats of her window blinds. Over a month ago, he’d asked for her help with СКАЧАТЬ