Travis (Pelion Lake) by Mia Sheridan

“Jailed,” Cricket said.

“Imprisoned,” Burt said.

“Incarcerated,” I offered, leaning in to the microphone.

“Yes!” She breathed out a sigh of relief, smiling at me. “It was my fault you were incarcerated.”

But Cricket shook her head. “No. It wasn’t. I would have done it even if you had left and I still wouldn’t have been sorry. Family is everything. I think Chief Hale has learned a lot about that recently if I’m not mistaken.” She shot me a kind smile.

“Okay, okay,” Bree said. “Point made. Um, thank you?” She looked around. “The thing is, we all have other lists too. Travis Hale answered the call that day in the diner that saved my husband’s life, and most likely my own. He rushed in without a moment’s hesitation.” She looked at me, taking my hand in hers and giving it a gentle squeeze before letting go. “He’s one of the reasons those two little boys and little girl are here.” She focused back out to all the watching eyes. “He’s answered countless calls over the years. I bet he’s helped each of you, even in some small way.”

The murmuring rose again, but this one sounded agreeable, several heads nodding. “He’s a wonderful uncle who showers his nephews with love and too much ice cream,” Bree said, sending a smile in my direction. “There are lots of other items on your list of good and heroic deeds, and that’s the one we all hope you’ll add to over the years, addendum after addendum. We’re counting on it.”

The community members nodded or shook heads, and chattered in unison, apparently too stirred to stop things now.

“There still might need to be a reckoning,” someone to my left said. “Do we really need a public official who did what’s on page fifty-three? And in a church?”

“To be specific, it was in the graveyard,” another voice chimed in.

“That’s worse!” came a shout.

In my peripheral vision, Lucinda Rogers made the sign of the cross.

My head buzzed. Someone stood near the back and shouted another confession of their own that someone on the other side of the room responded to. My vision blurred even while a laugh bubbled up my chest. Yes, there might still be a reckoning, and I had a stack of checks to distribute that represented my entire life savings, but for a minute, I just had to sit, overwhelmed, and shaken with too many competing emotions to name. I breathed out, taking a few steps to the plastic chair nearby and sinking down, turning as someone else rose, then another. Shouts ricocheted around the room and I sat there watching as the whole place broke out in utter mayhem.





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO




Haven



I placed my blue sundress into my suitcase, my heart twisting as the memory of the day I’d worn it to the blueberry festival came rushing back, and I swore for a moment I heard the laughter and felt the warm sunshine on my shoulders. I balled it up—the dress and the memory—and shoved them under some shoes.

Blueberry sat propped against my pillow and I stared at him mournfully, remembering the flood of excitement when Travis had won him, the joy when he’d placed him in my hands. I should leave him here. It would always hurt to look at him. And he was nothing but a dumb stuffed animal. I brought him to my chest, closing my eyes and burying my face in his flat, patchy “fur.” He smelled like dust. He’d sat on a shelf for a very long time. I placed him atop my clothes, gently pressing him down and creating a travel nest.

A sharp pounding on my door jerked me from my despondent reverie and useless attempt at balling up memories and shoving them beneath shoes. They just kept rolling in, vision after vision of my time in Maine. And I was so afraid they always would. “Haven! Open up, it’s me.”

I pulled open the door and he came rushing in. “Easton, what are you—”

He gripped my upper arms, shaking me lightly, his face lit in a grin. “You won’t believe what happened.”

I looked him over. His smile was bright, and yet the rest of him looked . . . rough. His hair was sticking up in every direction, dark circles were smudged beneath his eyes, and it looked like he’d slept in his clothes. “You look awful.” The greeting was beginning to get repetitive. But so was my brother showing up in the morning looking like death warmed over.

“I know!” he answered, letting go of my arms. “The guys at the firehouse invited me to a get-together. Even after what happened, they rallied around me.” Something that looked like surprised gratitude altered his features momentarily, and it made my throat feel suddenly clogged. The kid who’d regularly been shunned, the man who’d very recently been publicly shunned, had been embraced. “I’ve been up all night, drinking and smoking and gambling,” he finished proudly.

I felt the blood drain from my face. “Gambling?”

Oh God. I hadn’t thought things could get worse, but leave it to Easton to prove me wrong. “Please tell me you didn’t gamble with our money. It’s all we have.” I’d known he’d been devastated after the town meeting . . . embarrassed . . . ashamed, but was he really so self-destructive that he’d leave us high and dry in the middle of Maine without jobs (we’d both quit) and a place to stay (I’d let Betty know we were checking out of The Yellow Trellis Inn today)?