About Billionaire Scientist Male Models (From: The Mere Valley)

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The Mere Valley: A Novel

Chapter One: Welcome

            It was the end of an era, Tim figured. People would talk about it some more, but they’d been watching the story play out a long time. Not a bunch left to say. Big happenings in small towns tended toward anticlimaxes, idle eyes ever-open and tight mouths ever-whispering. When did the downfall start? Tracing exact origins was tricky. Best to move forward. Look ahead. Consider the future. This was the advice of his remaining true friends. Their verbal pats on the back. Their comforting nudges out the door, soft injunctions to get on with it.  

            And so, he had plans.

Tim Semple was a grown man, after all. Time to change trajectories. Thirty-five next week. Where had it gone? How did he get here? Had he always asked himself such tired questions?        

            Herm Bronson placed a roll of bills into Tim’s reluctant hand and said something about the weather being too hot. Yes, Herm, it’s much hotter down here in town. Up on the mountain where you live, the wind blows cooler. The air is spread nice and thin and rare, up where you live. “It is, Herm. It’s too hot.”

            Bronson was fairly new to the area, pudgy and polite. Some folks in town didn’t like him at all and probably never could. Some thought he was fantastic, matter closed. Tim figured he was okay. Witnessing Herm and his translucent son Rory spit and struggle to hoist his grandpa’s work bench into the unscratched bed of their blinding white pickup would’ve been funny on another occasion. But that was the last of it. Semple’s Hardware was all empty space.

            “That thing is really heavy,” Herm said, squinting at the sky and stretching the suffering bones holding up his sweaty back. Tim smiled a little, forcing his thin eyes closer to closed. He recalled moving the bench just a few feet with his dad when he was a kid younger than Rory. Herm wasn’t lying. It was dense and sturdy, the way old things can be.  

            “Are we done here?” asked the teenager, snaking off the tailgate to play with his phone and bangs in a parallel reality.

            “I’m sorry, Tim.”

            “Nothing to be sorry about, man.” He gave a casual salute with the money still in his hand. A wink and another smile. Father and son were gone a few seconds later, leaving Tim under the Semple’s Hardware sign wondering what exactly Herm was sorry about. Having to sell the work bench, maybe. Losing the family business, more likely. Could’ve even been a roundabout acknowledgement that the son he’d raised was an unpleasant, flimsy caricature.

            Tim stuffed the cash in the pocket of his jeans and went back into the store. It was on the corner, nothing fancy. Built solid out of red brick, just before The Crash of 1929. His great grandfather loved tools and figured on selling them to make a living. It survived The Depression, The War, time’s rough-and-tumble. The times he wasn’t around.

Not knowing the effect it would have, Tim sat down in the middle of the empty space, letting memories surround him. He saw old timers wagging long wrinkled fingers, arguing about trifles when things were good, issues when things were bad. As soon as he was walking, Tim learned to love the regulars, ones who’d proudly mosey in smelling of chewing tobacco to buy a single washer or nut; pretexts to wile away daylight telling the same stories with different embellishments. He felt it now, looking down at the indestructible hardwood floor.

The end of an era.

            “Are you Timothy Semple?” He blinked away the fog to see a young woman struggling with a box by the door.

            “That’s me,” he said, rising quickly, eager to hide any lingering emotions on display. 

            “I’m Reny Davies. Dru Davies’ niece.”

            “Sure,” he managed, adjusting his t-shirt, like it might compensate for the holes in the cotton or the lack of sleeves. “Of course.”

            “Okay,” she said, grunting to park her belongings on the vacant front counter. “You’re confused, and I can’t explain with all this—ah, better. Stuff in my hands.”

             After shaking out her arms she did a cute little wave, mostly fingers. Tim returned the gesture in almost the same dainty fashion. He’d been abducted from himself, from sentimental reveries, set back down in the company of a remarkable beauty. Maybe it was the somber situation and the shabbiness of the store making her stand out in contrast. No, he thought, catching his breath. She’s something else, alright. Almost as tall as him, and he was a little over six feet. Golden-haired, cheeks full with a little red. A face and figure so pretty, a guy can sort of get stuck standing there.

            “I suppose I’ll keep talking,” she said. Tim became fully aware of his sudden paralysis as she continued. “Dru Davies is the painter that will be using this space for the next six months. Until they—”

“Tear it down,” Tim interjected, the delivery too firm. He saw a slight wince and knew she’d read agitation in his tone. “Sorry. Damn. I wasn’t even planning on being here. Met a guy. Selling off the last of the—last.”

            She relaxed her angelic face to exude uncut kindness and said, “It’s really not your fault, Mr. Semple.”

            Not your fault. Probably the phrase Tim wanted to hear more than any other. But not the way she meant it. How did she mean it? “How’s that, ma’am?”

            “Tomorrow’s the first of the month. And here I am, popping in unannounced before going to the hotel. I hadn’t meant to be rude,” she said, just about under her breath. “But I was rude. Thought I’d take a chance and have an early look. Saw you walk in a minute ago.”

            Finally, he started to understand. A just-arrived Transplant. One who made more sense in the New Mere Valley. “Tim,” he said, holding out a hand and slowly stepping her way. “Good to meet you, Ms. Davies.”

            Moving beyond their clunky introductions, he helped with more boxes as she talked freely about finishing up art degrees in her hometown of London, how this was the perfect situation, how lucky she was to have an American aunt as commercially and critically revered as Dru Davies. Tim did his best to follow along with names of schools and painters he’d never heard of and did his best to ignore her lovely long legs and bright city smile.

            “What happens in six months?” Tim asked, removing his frayed ballcap to shove it halfway down a back pocket. He brushed aside a mane of brown hair and wiped sweat from his forehead.

            “What happens—oh. The new studio will be finished by then. This is sort of a spot to get things sorted until the move.”

            Smart. With all the money moving into the area, expensive paintings would be in serious demand. Miles of fresh walls to adorn. Getting a jump on a long, bright future. “Sounds like good thinking. I should’ve been an artist.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

            “Feels like you’re being way too nice. I’m just horrible for barging.”

            Tim didn’t know if her coming a day early represented bad manners, but he wasn’t about to fret. Not when things were growing more and more pleasant. It was hard to stop himself from grinning like a fool.

            Did they have rapport? A spark, even? Nah. She was a nice person who knew zero other people in town, and he was a guy who could lift heavy objects.

            “It’s so lovely we met,” she said. “I hope everyone in Mere Valley proves as charming. I might never leave.”

            Reny’s eyes were deep green and slightly downturned, a hint of sadness shading her singular appearance. Tim wanted to keep talking, but he figured it best to get on. “Good luck setting up. Sure it will go well for you and your aunt.”

            He was surprised by a sudden hug. It didn’t last long, but it was enough to lift him entirely from the deep melancholy of the day.

            “Well,” he said, something catching in his throat. “Ok. Thanks for that.”

            They came apart and looked at each other for a few quiet seconds, faces still close after the hug. Tim wondered how badly he was losing in the looks competition. The little scar on his chin, the bigger one on his left cheek interrupting dense stubble—lines starting to find permanent residence—he wasn’t a monster, but there were flaws. Reny Davies was not so burdened.

The silence lingered. She didn’t seem to mind it. Experience told him additional words would be counterproductive at best and ruinous at worst, so he waited.

            “Come back, Tim. If you ever have time.”

            Tim would make time. He couldn’t remember a better first encounter. He started to assure her that she’d see him soon, but he was interrupted by something loud outside. Excusing himself and rushing through the front door, he squinted at two men at the beginning of a robust exchange, pointing fingers and speaking over each other on the sidewalk next to their vehicles. One car was European and fancy and had a folded front needing serious work. The other was a weathered original two-door Bronco with a slight scratch on its steel back bumper that blended in with decades of other scratches.

            The man with the Bronco saw Tim and disengaged from the argument as if it wasn’t ongoing.

            “Don’t walk off, Alonso,” insisted the rage-faced driver of the sporty car. Smoke was now billowing from under the chassis. He was forced to step away as flames threatened to lick his bootheels. “This is your fault, damn you.”

            Alonso, a fit man with a square jaw and soft eyes smiled widely at Tim as he casually approached the door of Semple’s Hardware where Reny was now standing. Nearing her, his stride evolved into a swagger, as if unlaced hiking boots and tattered tan army shorts were too good not to show off. “Lovely to meet you,” he said. “I’m Hoyt. Hoyt Alonso. Mr. Semple’s brother.” He calmly and confidently shook Reny’s hand with his back turned toward the seething man with the crumpled car. His name was Merritt Lennox Jr.  

            Tim interrupted Lennox’s progress toward Hoyt with a notion of somehow calming him down. In a way, he felt, this was his fault. “Merritt, you should call the police. Maybe make sure they bring the fire guys. Those electric cars can go on burning for…”

            “You call them, Semple. I’m not done with your pretend brother over there. Who the hell’s he talking to? I’m trying to kick his holy ass and he drifts away on me.”

            Keeping an eye on Lennox, Tim pulled out his phone with a sigh. Life hadn’t exactly been predictable lately. Clinging on to and ultimately losing the family business, relationship difficulties, certain opportunities, etc. That said, this was turning into quite the afternoon. He thought about how he’d tell the story to Gable. She liked a story.

            Tim tried relaying the details of the situation to Mary Lee at the police station. It wasn’t easy, far as summaries go. Merritt smacked away his hand and pushed by to continue shouting at Hoyt.

            “Police and fire are on the way,” Tim announced, unsure if anyone heard or cared. As Hoyt and Merritt reignited their fracas, Reny fixed on the rising flames. “We should probably move,” he said to her. “Over here.”

            Getting separation from the scene, Tim still managed to hear some of the ongoing argument. Lennox contended that he was unequivocally blameless in the rearending of Hoyt’s parked Bronco. His voice was husky and loud. His neck, usually veiny from lifting weights, was veinier. Hoyt’s counterarguments were comparatively gentle. He only hinted at Lennox’s character flaws, offering general tips for better living and conflict resolution. Tim came close to laughing, knowing thought-for-the-day consideration would piss Merritt off all the more. 

            It went on like that for a minute or two. Guys who really didn’t like each other, now with a fresh reason for the pile. “Sorry about this,” Tim said to Reny as things got louder. Police cars pulled up. The fire truck, too. Good thing. Thick smoke was billowing up from underneath Lennox’s car. The broken machine cracked and hissed. Plastics and rare-earth elements suffered equally.

            A tall black police officer with useful muscles to shame Lennox’s gym bulk approached after instructing the other cops to stay put. “What’s going here, fellas?” he asked, planting himself in the personal space of both men. His voice was strong and even, out of place and welcome. He looked over at Tim and tilted his head down to scan and judge Reny. Semple imagined the officer immediately recognized her as new and therefore possibly the only unbiased witness present.

            “Hey, Sheriff,” Tim said, as nonchalant as he could pretend. “So, I came by earlier to meet Herm Bronson over that work bench…”

            “Hold up,” said the lawman, rubbing his perfect goatee and getting a better sense of the argument while hoses blasted jets of water at Lennox’s erupting vehicle. “That’s enough,” he said, tugging Hoyt away hard by the neck of his short-sleeved cardigan. “Reverend Alonso. How about taking it easy. An arrest won’t go over well with your flock. May start running off for one of those new outfits. There’s the new guy, in from the city last month. Looks fifty, dresses twenty. Claims salvation goes with getting rich.”

            “Not a very funny joke, Nathaniel.”

Tim stifled a grin. He’d watched those two square up and tussle more times than he could remember. Almost a whole life of it. On playgrounds, in backyards, playing sports. The three of them were separated by mere months, thicker than thieves from first grade on.

            “I know what you’re doing, Sheriff Jacobs,” Lennox said. Spit escaped his overripe lips and landed on the baking pavement. “This act doesn’t fool me.”

            “Just let him be, Merritt,” Tim interjected.  

            “Shut up, Semp,” ordered the sheriff.

            “Roger that,” Tim answered, retreating to his little place in the world.  

            One of the fire guys, Freddie Simon, came over and advised they move even farther away. The fumes were nasty, he said. “We’ll contain it, keep it from your store, Tim. Got the Bronco to a safe distance, Rev.” He took off his clunky helmet to wipe sweaty soot from his blonde beard. His eyes were watery and red from the fight and he blinked rapidly as he spoke. “Sorry about that car, Merritt. Damn shame, you know. A beauty.”

            “This frigging place,” Lennox said, walking away to make a call. He was a formidable character, meticulous about his appearance. Not one of those rich guys going around in the same shirt and sneakers every day. Lennox loved trodding his many domains in beautiful Lucchese boots and a one-of-a-kind Stetson cowboy hat. Tim couldn’t help being jealous of his sport coats. Wore a new one every day and they all conformed perfectly to his build. More than a few times Tim overheard Townie girls, ones who really hated Lennox, concede he was a gorgeous man.

            “Likely calling his legion of lawyers to litigate me,” Hoyt observed. The sheriff guided him in a different direction than Lennox, leaving Tim and Reny alone for a few moments. They walked up the street into the warm wind to avoid the smoke and toxic air.

            “What was all that?” she asked. A reasonable question with a thousand truthful answers.

            “Uhhh,” Tim said, scratching his head as he ran through some highlights. Merritt Lennox Jr. was one of the richest Transplants to come to town in the last ten years and the leader of a faction of new residents making convulsive moves in Mere Valley. He was the owner of several large national companies, one being Lennox’s Home and Garden. A company Tim tried and ultimately failed to compete with.

            “Was he stopping by to gloat?” she asked.

            “Hard to be sure, but that’s a good guess. Could’ve been passing, saw my truck. Hoyt must’ve just pulled up to say hello.” Tim looked away. “Anyway, Lennox owns the property now. Or his bank does. Can visit when he wants.”

            “And your brother,” she said, casting a curious glance toward Hoyt and the sheriff. They were arguing, but their body language hinted at a lighthearted undertone. “Is he really the preacher?”

            Tim smiled and returned to her lovely green eyes, seeing bits of gold. “He is. Doctorates in Theology and Philosophy, big hit on Sundays. Pretty impressive guy. I’m biased, of course. Apologies for his appearance. Dresses like he escaped from somewhere.”

            “I’m fairly certain he was hitting on me before your Mr. Lennox stole back his attention.”

            She was trying to downplay her quick affinity, but it wasn’t working. Hoyt’s dark eyes and high cheekbones were enough to capture most women—his other features kept them fixed. The preacher had smooth, light-brown skin and an irresistibly bright smile and everything else they seemed to go weak for. He wore his dark hair long, but it never seemed unkempt. Tim couldn’t help but contend with a little good-natured jealousy. “And he was such an ugly kid,” Tim joked. “Far as flirting, guessing Hoyt thought meeting you was a pleasant alternative to mixing with Merritt. Sound thinking.”

            The twenty-something turned and squinted at the fire while the usually quiet street filled up with customers and employees from other businesses on the square. “What about the lovely sheriff?” she asked.

            “We’ve been through it, us three. He’d be the rock. Just trying to keep the peace.”

            “I think I understand. He seemed to go out of his way to specifically chastise your brother. A dash of diplomacy.”

            “Got a feeling not much gets by you.”

            The crowd went on gathering, strength and numbers. He heard his name spoken by different voices. Hard to condemn their curiosity, him standing with a statuesque beauty of unknown origins, flames dying and rising and dying and rising fifty yards away, marking his Great Failure. One of the firetrucks was blasting its horn to keep people away whenever Freddie Simon paused from the megaphone.

            As the people bunched and pushed Tim and Reny closer together, comments and questions unceasing, she strained to say, “Seems I chose quite a time for my town initiation.”

            “Yeah… yeah.”

            He hoped things simmered down. It was the last thing Nate needed. Every damn thing was a battle these days, seemed like.

            “Did Merritt go burning up in the fire?” asked Mrs. Rosalin Dunn from the edge of the crowd. She owned the liquor store up the street and was about as old as Mere Valley itself. Anyone who knew her true age was long gone.

            “No immolations today, Mrs. Dunn. You stay over there.” Tim guided Reny in Mrs. Dunn’s direction. He watched Mere Valley’s newest Transplant and its most senior Townie shake hands as he made introductions.

            Mrs. Dunn crossed her bony arms and with her sandpaper voice said, “Saw a pile of smoke and the ass of that stupid car. Thought you might’ve caught yourself a break, Timothy. Prick bastard shouldn’t be breathing for his bad behavior.” She gave him a wink and smiled at Reny, paying no mind to the extra wrinkles and worn teeth accompanying the expression. “It was nice to meet you, sweetheart.”

            Mrs. Dunn was something like ninety pounds and still got around well. She slid away like a card through a deck before Reny or Tim could say goodbye. “Ok, what else?” asked the young beauty.

Tim selected a few additional headlines. Merritt Lennox hadn’t just put him out of business. He was married to his ex-wife. They were barely divorced when Shayna traded up.

            “Wow,” Reny said. “That’s a bitter pill.”

            “Maybe,” Tim answered. “Or maybe just what I deserved.”

            “Quite the drama—forgive me, I don’t mean to make light.”

            “Quite the drama,” Tim said, acknowledging the truth, appreciating the good manners. “And it’s not over.”

            “Seems I’ve stumbled into it,” she said, inching away.

            “Welcome to Mere Valley, Ms. Davies.”

Chapter Two: Gable’s

            Gable had chosen a wise location for her bistro. A few years back, when Tim helped her convert a little old warehouse into something resembling its present form, he expressed doubts. It was too far north of the town square, he said. She all but guaranteed that loads of new developments would spring up around her place in the coming months and years. Perfect roads. Gleaming shops and offices. It came to pass like she had a crystal ball. “Hello,” Tim said, dodging a pair of leggy women wearing strange angular clothing as they kept to their pace on the sidewalk, oblivious to his simple greeting, going to or coming from one of the fancy shops surrounding the bistro.

            “Hey there, Semple,” Gable said, holding open the front door. Holding back a smile.

            “Hi, Gabes,” he said, looking over his shoulder.

            She laughed and said, “They certainly weren’t getting out of the way.”

            “You saw that?” he asked, hands up to signal his puzzlement.

            “See it every day, buddy. Rich women take no detours, suffer no delays. Not even for cute boys.”

            He kissed an offered cheek as she welcomed him in and locked the door behind. It was mostly dark, but Tim knew the place down to the square foot. “How’s your day going?” he asked as she turned up the main dining room lights.

            “Uneventful, I’d say,” she answered, stopping to adjust a chair an inch back to its place. “Compared to you, that is, Mr. Semple. I am but a simple, humble restaurateur, preparing once again for another ravenous host.”

            He rubbed his brow with a hand that shrouded cinched eyes. His body and mind were preparing for whatever Gable had in store, be it prosecution or light peppering.

            “So, was she up on you like this?”

            Their faces were almost touching when he blinked open. Close enough to follow her breathing. He thought about a real kiss, arms wrapped tight around her. It wouldn’t take much. Just an inch, then nature would steer. He’d have to put his hands through, with her arms on her hips like that. Not much of a chore for a red-blooded man.

            “Something you want to say directly?” he inquired, forcing himself still, attempting to match her unshakable air.

            She leaned forward without making contact, close enough so he felt her in his bones. “I don’t know, Timothy. A nice girl would like to rise above the gossip—”

            “A nice girl would?”

            Gable sighed. “She would. But when half of Mere Valley texts me about you gallivanting about with some pretty young thing, a nice girl grows a little concerned.”

            “Gallivanting,” he said. “This town hasn’t changed as much as some people think.”

            “I know,” she soothed, the way one quells a despondent child. Her hands came up to hold both sides of his scruffy face. “She must be hot though, if people are that eager to raise the alarm. Hotter than me?”

            “Not possible.”

            “You squint when you lie, Semple. Those icy blues take cover. I’m going to kiss you proper now so you don’t have to keep dodging.”

            For a minute or two, Tim was free. No longer imprisoned by what he had to do or couldn’t do or expectations or relationship management. Her body. Her lips. The smell of her skin and hair. Gable was intoxicating. Every new moment was further confirmation. She knew her power and only hinted at abusing it.

            Fair enough.

            “When are you going to marry me?” he asked, immediately regretting the question. It was desperate, lacking proper thought. Proper set-up. “Ah, crap. Just an expression. Words—eh—jumped the tracks.”

            “Okay buddy.”

            “Gabes…”

“No really, the marriage inquiry followed up by the takeback was some of your best romancing yet.” He knew immediately that Gable wasn’t truly holding him to account. She brushed things off. Maybe because she knew him so well, that he wasn’t a brilliant scholar like Hoyt or an instinctually sharp investigator like Nate.

He was overthinking.

            “I’m really sorry about today,” Gable said, turning her head and placing it on his chest.  “You won’t complain, but there’s no way it doesn’t suck to say a final goodbye to the store. Even if it was a burden lots of times.” She ran her fingers slowly through his messy hair. He closed his eyes tight and allowed himself the comfort.

            “How are things here?” he asked, knowing she’d grudgingly allow the sudden spotlight shift.

            “Nothing’s broken, which is a miracle. Booked up. Yeah, thinking it’ll be a good Friday.”

            He held up his hand for a high five. She winced. “You’re a dork, Semple.”

            “Let me know if you need any help. Seriously. Not like I have a job. Yet.”

            A quick kiss and wink and Gable had her earbuds in, back to work in the kitchen. Tim looked at the bar to his left and pictured himself with a drink. That really good stuff the bartender needed a stool to reach.

            “Mr. Semple?” He turned to see the man he was there to meet. He was an inch or two shorter than Tim, in great shape. Thin for the cameras, Tim thought.

            “Hey there, Mr. Varga.” Three o’clock exactly, as they’d agreed.

            “Gable told me to come through the back. I didn’t mean to startle.”

            “Please. You’re right on time, just like last time.” He looked over at the bar once more and decided to confess. “I was thinking whiskey. A little early, right?”

            He was nervous, though it made sense to be overwhelmed. Baz Varga was the type who radiated overwhelming success because he was bred to it and because he seemed to truly enjoy it. Tim wondered what that was like, if it ever got old. No way it got old the way losing did.

            Tim watched the new arrival pick two glasses and a bottle of whiskey from a shelf halfway up. They silently decided on a table and sat. Varga looked comfortable pouring drinks. Tim tried forcing himself to be comfortable in the quiet, watching. “Maybe it was a bad idea. Should keep my head.”

            “A day like yours, you deserve at least one.”

            “Okay.” Varga was right. A hell of a day. He hoped Hoyt was okay and Nate was managing the fire and the drama. “That’s not bad,” he said, setting down the empty glass.

            “Did you think I’d go for the fancy stuff?”

            “Perhaps I’m not worthy of it yet.”

            He laughed slightly, revealing a few perfect teeth. “That’s funny. No, I simply can’t tell the difference. Why fake it?”

            “Didn’t grab the cheapest, either.”

            “I’m not an animal, Mr. Semple.”

            “That’s funny.” Tim was having a hard time figuring Varga. He wore Savile Row suits and owned jets but his spirit seemed man-of-the-people. It was Gable who first recommended they talk. He’d been coming into the bistro for months and made a good impression on her and the staff. A guy like that, money like that, and nobody knew for sure what he was doing in Mere Valley. “You still feeling good about our arrangement?” Tim asked.

            “I do, Mr. Semple. The more I learn, the happier I am you’ll be working for me.”

            “Hope I have enough to offer,” he observed, wishing he could find a setting nearer to humble than self-flagellating.  

            Varga sat back and smiled big enough to flash some more teeth. “Do you think business should be personal, Tim?”

            It was the first time the CEO didn’t address him as Mr. Semple. He wondered what it meant, if anything. Tim started to give his honest answer, which was maybe, then stopped himself and thought about what Varga wanted to hear. It didn’t have much effect. “Maybe.”

            “You’re too careful, Tim.”

            “That’s—yes, that is probably true.”

            He came close to boasting that only moments before he’d haphazardly half-proposed to Gable, but that was an outlier. Over the years, Tim had indeed allowed himself to drift more and more into apprehension. His mind worked differently than it did growing up or back in the military. That Tim Semple wasn’t afraid of much. People used to say he was fearless, even reckless, and it was basically true. True, pre-rocky divorce. True, pre-dad’s cancer and unceasing, impossible bills. If he was skittish or lacking Baz Varga’s intrepidity, there were reasons, if not justifications. 

            “Of course business is personal. That’s why you’re my guy. I want to make this valley and the resort we build on those mountains THE place. THE one everybody talks about. Worldwide. But there are people involved. Your people. I need you, and if the stories are true, you need me.”

            “Makes sense.” It did, in many ways.

            “And it’s personal for me, Tim. Ever since my uncle passed and I became CEO, everyone has been looking at me to fail. The rest of my family are vultures, riding the wind, prodding for weakness. This development could finally get me respect. Respect from my own ranks. I’d love to say I don’t care what’s said about me, but I’d be lying. Let’s do this, Tim.”

            The rush of it took over. A six-figure job, with benefits. He’d been living off scraps for years, trying to keep the store open against Lennox and Transplants just like him. Now here he was… on the verge of working for another Transplant.

            Some Townies were bound to turn on Tim. People he loved. They’d call him traitor, say that no good intent could justify getting in bed with a bigshot. Betraying his wonderful father’s memory, they’d say.

            “And you promise,” Tim said, offering his hand to shake, “Merritt Lennox doesn’t win.”

            “It’s him our us,” Varga nodded. He didn’t flinch, even in his eyes.

            Tim felt good.

Chapter Three: Healthy

            In the back room of a dive bar in Old Mere Valley, Tim sat smiling wide at a card table. The player next to him insisted he call or fold and made fun of his face, calling it the worst in all the poker-playing universe.

            “He’s been like that all night,” said his brother Hoyt, sitting at his ten o’clock. “It’s that new job. And all these years I’ve been teaching money can’t buy happiness.”

            “Could just have good cards,” Nate said. The sheriff had folded his hand moments before, freeing himself to down another shot and open another beer. He wasn’t much of a drinker, usually, but it had been a day.

            It was their bi-monthly Friday Night Game. Five regulars and occasionally a guest or two. A constant, ever since Tim, Hoyt and Nate returned from Afghanistan. Originally, there were six regulars.

Tim’s father loved to play. No wonder. It was a special kind of sanctuary, cluttered and wood-paneled and dimly lit, vibrating slightly from the sound of the jukebox out front, filled with unceasing jokes and complaints and challenges. They never locked the door. Didn’t need to. Everyone in town knew not to disturb The Game at Lou’s Bar. The occasional drunk might forget himself and where he was and stumble in, but that was rare. Most patrons, drunk or drinking, had reverence enough for the Friday Night Game to know the bathroom from the back.

            “I’m gonna fold,” Tim said, reluctantly laying down a low pocket pair.

            “No balls,” observed the man on his left, taking two loud puffs from a bog oak pipe. Everyone called him Pop, but he was born James Adams seventy-six years ago. Pop had been best friends with his dad and served as a second father-figure to Tim, Hoyt and Nate. “Far as the fancy gig, if you’re happy, I’m happy.” The old man raised twenty dollars and put an encouraging hand on Tim’s shoulder while in the background, Hoyt and Nate argued passionately about something trivial.  

            “Thanks, Pop. What do you think, Phil?” Phil was the final regular at the table, a man around the same age as Pop. He was also the longtime mayor of Mere Valley.

            “Think of what?” he snapped, loud enough to put every other sound and action in the room on hold. “Sorry. Uh—I guess I’ll fold.”

            “I was talking about working for Varga,” Tim said.

            “You okay, Phil?” Pop followed. “Seem a little wound up over there.”

            That was putting it lightly. He’d been quiet all night, fidgeting and folding. Phil wasn’t one for loose banter, but he was never short of polite, never irritable. The thirty minutes of cards had done nothing to reset Phil back to normal settings like the others hoped it would. “Fine,” he said, addressing Pop and rubbing down the remaining hairs on his head, taking heavy breaths. “I’m fine. But deal me out of the next hand.”

            He was up and moving toward the door to the bathrooms, too fast for his age. Pop snapped at Nate and moved a thick finger in Phil’s direction, a clear order to check on him.

            They were all standing when Nate came back into the room holding the mayor in his arms. “Here,” he said, handing the limp old man to Tim and ordering Hoyt to call ahead to the hospital. “Keep him breathing,” he said, running out the back to get his police SUV from down the street.

            “What the hell?” Tim said, wanting to help but not knowing how.

            “Keep his head up propped up against your shoulder and his mouth open,” Pop said.

            “Is that what you do?”

            “Doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Hoyt said with a voice calmer than Pop’s and a hell of a lot calmer than his. “Walk him gently. Nate went for his car so he can flip the lights and speed. He’ll be pulling up any second.”

            Tim felt shame for not being as sharp or as level-headed as his brother or best friend. “That makes sense,” he said, stepping carefully around the card table to the bar’s rear exit, trying to jostle Phil as little as possible. “You’re gonna be okay. Here comes Nate.”

            The sheriff was already out of his black SUV, taking Phil from Tim and placing him in the backseat. “Who driving?” he asked as Hoyt got off the phone with the hospital.

            “What are you talking about?” Tim asked.

            “I drank too much,” said the lawman.

            “I had a couple,” said the preacher.

            “Don’t look at me,” Pop said. He liked a little weed when he drank.

            Tim hadn’t had a drop. He started for the driver’s seat. “I’m gonna go like hell. “Y’all grab hold of him.”

            It was fourteen minutes to Mere Valley Hospital, straight through the old part of town. Tim’s blood pumped like it hadn’t in years. He clenched his jaw and clenched the steering wheel as they dodged cars and ran lights. In the back, Nate talked to Phil and Hoyt said some prayers. In the passenger seat, Pop was looking out for obstacles and trying to keep it together. He’d known Phil longer than any of them had been alive.

            Fourteen minutes to Mere Valley Hospital, but they made it in six. A team of doctors and nurses were waiting outside the new emergency entrance. The moment Tim stopped, Nate and Hoyt went to work guiding Phil into the arms of the staff and onto a gurney. “He’s breathing,” Nate called out as they rushed inside, “but it’s all over the place.”

            Standing at the entrance, they each tried to manage their own breathing. “You think he’s gonna be okay?” Tim asked, and before anyone could answer, he looked at Nate. “What happened?”

            “Soon as I got through the bathroom door, he collapsed. Went down in a heap before I could catch him. No idea.”

            “At our age, could be anything,” Pop said, rubbing his puffy beard. “Best guess, heart attack. Had two myself, but they weren’t as rough as that.”

            “So you think he’ll be okay?” Tim asked.

            “How the hell do I know?” Pop asked back. “I’m old and senile.” He reached into his pocket for a metal joint case and started walking away from the building.

            “Drugs in the hospital parking lot,” said the sheriff. “Really?” Hoyt had a mouth over his hand, trying not to laugh.

Tim let out his first full breath and gave Nate a hug while the sheriff shook his head in half-hearted judgment of their elder. “He needs a minute, buddy.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“We’ll meet you inside,” Hoyt said. “Take your time.”

Tim wondered if Pop needed a moment to shed a tear. If so, so be it. He’d earned the right to react however he needed, and he’d earned the right to be alone, to take the edge off.

“You boys did good,” said the old man, lighting up, still walking away. “Proud of you.”

“Y’all ready?” Hoyt asked.

“She might be in there,” Tim said, wishing he hadn’t.  

“She might,” Hoyt responded.

“Best doctor they got,” Nate added. “Hope she is.”

Tim cleared his throat and complimented his brother and friend on their thoughtful calm during the crisis. They said the same to him. Hoyt commented on his driving, saying it was some of the best he’d ever seen, minus the bus of schoolchildren he ran off the road and the nuns he mowed down. “The way you plowed over that gaggle of elderly ladies was particularly bold.”

It had been about ninety seconds since they saw Phil being wheeled away to an uncertain fate. Since then, almost every silly, stupid word had been an attempt at a time-out.

Avoidance.

Deflection.

“Let’s get in there,” Nate said firmly.

Tim put an arm each of them as they went inside. He saw the chief of surgery speaking and nodding with the doctor running the ER. She looked calm, calm and beautiful, the way she always did, no matter how many long hours or tough cases. It was an almost otherworldly gift. Tim used to admire it. Right now, he found himself judging it. Why the hell wasn’t she in there with Phil, checking and rechecking, looking over shoulders, jumping in to lend a guiding hand? As Nate observed, she was the best they had. So good they basically built a whole new section of hospital around her and her talent. They being her current husband and his cronies.

It was didn’t even seem like a hospital. The place was almost inviting. Exactly the opposite of the original portion of the building where they were all born, built by people inspired by the architecture of the Communist Bloc.

            When she saw them standing there, she smiled at the ER doc and excused herself before coming their way. Tim watched her hug her brother and best friend, saw her hold their hands. Heard her say they’d already gotten Phil stable and that his wife daughter was on their way. He was getting tested and scanned and soon she’d they’d know if he needed surgery. Pop was right. A heart attack.

            “We’re going to take care of him,” she said. “He was lucky it happened when it did, that you guys were around. The Friday Night Game?”

            “Yes indeed,” Hoyt said.

            “Guy’s hanging on fresh from a heart attack and she says he’s lucky. Nice.”

            “She is being nice,” Nate interjected. “Thanks Shayna. Keep us updated if you can.”

            “I will. Hi Tim,” she said, turning to get back to work.

            “Doctor Lennox.”

Chapter Four: After Midnight

            Tim decided to leave the hospital around two in the morning, an hour after the blurry-eyed ER doc came out to tell them Phil was going to be “okay.” A few days for observation, the usual complete change of every habit he’d ever made in his life, a list of medications long enough to be darkly comical, and weekly examinations. Nate and Hoyt passed out before he left, but Tim figured he’d do better getting a few hours at home. Sleep never came easy, not like it did for those two. More than once he’d caught them snoring on the edge of a firefight.

            Phil’s wife Linda caught him on the way out, just a few steps outside the entrance. She looked bad in the bright light, but that was to be expected. Her husband of fifty years was sick. That’s why Tim didn’t notice the fear under her sadness right off.

            “He’s not doing this anymore,” she said. “We talked about it. He agreed. Though I didn’t give him much choice. I could kill him,” she said, letting out a single laugh through her tears.

            “Not doing what, Linda?” Tim asked.

            “He’s not the mayor anymore.”

            “Okay,” he said, placing his arms gently around her thin frame to stop the shaking. “Whatever you guys need to do. And whatever we can do.”

            “It’s not the job it used to be. Not what he signed up for.”

            No argument there. Decades ago when Phil took the job, Mere Valley was downright sleepy. The mayor thing was a side gig, a way to help the community when he wasn’t running his plumbing company. When the big shots started moving in, it became a full-time headache. Not that he complained. Ever. Poker was the first time Tim had seen him irritated. “Oh,” he said.

            “If he asks, don’t say yes.”

            “Asks what, Linda?”

            “I told him not to, but he’s stubborn.”

            “I’m sorry,” he said scratching his forehead. “Maybe I’m tired…”

            “Mayor. Stay away from it.”

            Tim wanted to laugh, but it was a moment devoid of humor. Under the buzzing emergency sign, he could see the seriousness in Linda’s pale brown eyes. “Understood,” he smiled. “Anyway, I got a new job today. A good one. Couldn’t be mayor if I wanted to. And I don’t want to.”

            She put her dry hands on the sides of his face. “Handsome, like your father.”

            He was about to offer a polite thanks, but she already started back inside and wasn’t wasting any time about it. He had things to say. Questions. But she was through the sliding door. Best to leave her be.

            His truck was still back at Lou’s Bar, but he looked forward to a long walk. The heat had given way to crisp breeze coming down from the mountains. The air immediately woke him up, and for the first time all day, he felt his mind was free of clutter, of immediate things to do or worry about. For half a mile, he was possessed by almost euphoric blankness. The gentle air, everything around him too familiar to be surprising or thought-provoking in the slightest.

            As he kept to a leisurely pace, he eventually ran into main street and a site that ripped the calm right out. Abel Saunders had a for sale sign up in the window of his tailor shop. Abel was in his twenties with a young wife and a new kid. Son of a bitch. The only suit Tim ever owned was the one he threw out the day after his dad’s funeral, but everyone in town swore up and down that Abel was a true craftsman, same as his father and his father before him.

            Son of a bitch. He could already picture the conversation he’d be having with the young tailor; he’d had it too many times before. Tim would ask until it sounded like pleading, offering to help but not knowing how. Abel would say that taxes were too high and the Transplants wouldn’t do business with him. They only shopped at the new stores with nonsense names, places where they did half the job for twice the money.

            That’s how it would go. That terrible, familiar story. One he’d lived and was reliving as he gritted his teeth, a lifetime from his half-mile vacation.

            He considered calling Gable but thought better of it. She was probably just getting home, done with a grueling day and needing rest for another one to come. No one worked harder. Except maybe Abel Saunders. Son of a bitch.

            Continuing on at a quicker pace, he thought back on the hospital and Linda’s warning. There was a lot more going on there. He wondered, how many months, how many years was Phil just holding on in that job? Were there days when the mayor considered stopping into the hardware store to ask Tim if he’d consider taking over?

            He wasn’t going to find out tonight.

            A few miles later, he finally got back to his truck, parked behind Lou’s. The owner was finishing up with the trash. He lit a cigarette and asked about Phil.

            “He’s stable. Gonna be okay, but he’ll need to take it easy.”

            “Time takes its toll,” he said, turning to close up. Tim nodded at the barman’s observation said goodnight before driving home with the window down. A little whiskey and a couple hours sleep and maybe he’d stop wanting to do exactly the thing he was warned against. If she hadn’t said something, he might never have thought it. Now he couldn’t get rid of it. Mayor Semple.

Chapter Five: Fair

            “You had that look all day at the hospital,” Hoyt said.

            “What look?” Tim asked.

            “Weight of the world.”

            “Nah.”

            “Is this where I say I believe you and we move on?”

            “Yep.”

            “Solid.”

            Tim didn’t know how he looked. Didn’t want to. A half-hour of sleep, maybe. That’s all his mind would give him.

            Being the last Saturday of the month, the fairgrounds were alive and buzzing. There had to be a couple thousand people out, friends and families, young and old, listening to local musicians, riding dodgy rides. For the teenagers it was a cheap date. For the adults, a place to let the kids run until their batteries went out.

            Though he was exhausted, Tim tried to enjoy the sights and smells. This was the last year for the Saturday Fair, unless they found another location. The land had been purchased and marked for development. Too valuable to sit idle for much of the year.

            They sat on a park bench, watching a group of pot-bellied former classmates go for glory at tug-of-war. It ended with three men rolling in mud while the victors drank sloppily from large mugs. “Nice to see the Viking spirit lives on,” Hoyt commented.

            “Huh. Hard to imagine that bunch conducting a raid,” Tim said.

            “Well, you’ve always lacked imagination. One of your many limitations.”

            “What are you going to talk about at church tomorrow?”

            “Haven’t really thought about it. Something from the Bible, maybe.”

            “Innovative.”

            “If it ain’t broke,” he smiled. “Does that mean you’re coming?”

            Hoyt’s question was meant to be a slight rebuke. Tim didn’t always show up. “I’ll be there.”

            Tim sometimes wished for the extra faith his brother had; it gave him a spiritual engine that kept him going, kept him serving. He’d ministered to Phil and Phil’s family and friends all day, and tomorrow morning everyone in the pews would look up and see the charming face of a man of leisure. There were no burdens on display.

“Bit of a mix this year,” Hoyt said, nodding toward a group of Transplants trying to decide what to do with themselves. They were typical of their species. Anywhere from thirty to fifty, childless and fit to the point of desiccation. “Making an effort. That’s something.”

            Tim stopped himself from saying something negative. “Let’s walk and talk,” he suggested, scooching off the tabletop. “I need to move or I’m gonna pass out.”

            “Roger that,” Hoyt said, joining him on the main path. It was more or less a giant ring, with rides and banks of booths positioned on either side. The sun had set and the colored lights from a million tiny bulbs lit up the faces of those walking by. It was nice, really. A galaxy of white bulbs covered the branches of the big trees on the sides of the path and strands ran high over their heads like little glittering suspension bridges. Between hellos and handshakes, Tim asked, “What was up with Nate?”

            “How do you mean?”

            “At the hospital. He was alone in Phil’s room for a long time, then he lit out.”

            “I don’t think he lit out.”

            “Fine. Bounced absent ceremony.”

            “Better.”

            “Wonder what they were talking about?”

            “Could be anything.”

            “True enough.” Hoyt was right. No point in speculating. Still. Tim had a feeling. “Where is Nate?”

            “Texted him an hour ago. Said he was at the station finishing up. Stuff to do.”

            “You think he’d be here. Public safety—that sort of thing.”

            “You’re being weird. More than usual. Okay, just keep walking.”

            “What do you mean—”

            He knew what he meant. Up ahead, Merritt Lennox was holding court near a Transplant’s canopy tent. Selling something. Something with a French name.

            “It’s a wine,” Hoyt said.

            “I know it’s a wine,” Tim snapped. “Like you said, keep walking.”

            “Look now, the village idiot,” said one of the Transplants. His name was Charlie Gallatin. Lennox’s Harvard-educated, scrawny right hand.

            “Is he referring to you or me?” Hoyt mumbled. They didn’t stop and didn’t reply, even with all the nasty things they could hear the group saying about them. None of it was particularly original. Terrible heritage, inbred, uneducated, should know their place, should leave town, etc.

            The brothers were almost past when Lennox chugged over and stopped directly in Tim’s path. He was joined by a huge blonde man in an ill-fitting sportscoat, straight out of henchman central casting. “Stay back, Bradley,” Lennox said, glassy alcohol eyes fixed on Tim and nothing else.

            “Hi, Bradley,” Hoyt grinned, hands clasped in front of his body, almost prayerfully. “I was just about to ask your name, but Merritt told you to stay back, Bradley. Thanks, Merritt.”

            Tim tried not to smile at Hoyt’s unique warning. He knew his brother would do everything in his power to stop things from combusting. He’d also never back down.

            “What’s this about, Lennox?” Tim asked, still relaxed as the businessman inched closer. “People are watching, man.”

            A lot of people. Young and old, Townies and Transplants. It was like someone pressed pause on the whole fair. This was the only ride still running. “You’ve always been full of shit, Semple, but I never thought you’d go so far. All the whining we’ve had to endure, about your poor town and your poor, noble little business.”

            “Too much of that lady’s wine, I’m thinking,” Tim said. He couldn’t tell if Lennox was buzzed or all the way drunk, but it had to be a factor. The villain usually conducted his villainy in private. “People are watching,” he repeated.

            “Varga,” he announced, turning a circle and saying the name over and over. “Tim Semple’s working with Baz Varga. What kind of traitor to your people does that make you?”

            Tim could hear Mere Valley murmuring all around him. “Will you let me and my brother by?” he asked, calm as he could.

            Lennox said nothing but by put a hand out toward the big guy, a directive to stay put. He seemed determined to the next part on his own. Tim dodged a sharp right cross and stepped back neatly from a wild uppercut. Lennox lost his balance and covered up, instinctively expecting a counter that didn’t come. He moved forward again, custom boots slapping the well-trodden path as he set himself and threw a hard left. Tim snatched his wrist and forced him to the ground with nasty pressure to the elbow joint. He had dark thoughts about breaking the over-muscled arm or even advancing his controlling position to sink in a deadly choke from behind. It would be so easy.

            “Semple,” Lennox groaned from his knees, flailing helplessly with his other arm.

            He heard Hoyt telling him to stop, but just barely. The world was turned down and his internal voice was all he could understand clear. It implored him to make his ex-wife a new widow. She’d be fine. Shayna seemed real good at getting over men.

            Hoyt gave his shoulder a tug and he came nearer to his senses, releasing Lennox for a rough meeting with footpath. Big Bradley decided to ignore his boss’ orders and charged at Hoyt. Not a great idea. The preacher was too quick and too trained. He dodged and tripped the larger man, placing a knee on his bulgy neck and shoulders after the fall, applying just enough pressure to keep him down. “Tell your guy to chill, Merritt. And no more comers. Everyone, just a little disagreement. Passions astray, but only for a moment.”

            Merritt said nothing, quickly dusting himself off and grabbing his ineffectual helper before storming off into the darkness beyond the tents and attractions. The entire drama lasted less than minute, but Tim found himself frozen in time like a naked statue, exposed to the elements and exposed to the views and ridicules of any and all.

            Simply put, he was overcome with embarrassment. It was not the behavior of a man almost thirty-five. He hung his head in shame while Hoyt implored the surrounding crowd to resume having fun. “Get it out your systems and I’ll see you at church tomorrow morning for fire and brimstone!”

            Hoyt made his living in front of crowds. Tim didn’t. “I’m not going to work for Varga!” he shouted, loud enough to be heard by the slowest to disperse. “Merritt wasn’t right. I did agree to work for Varga, but now I’m gonna try for mayor. Can’t do that and work for Varga.” He looked up from his embarrassment-hunch and stared straight into the phone of a Transplant filming him. “Okay. Have a good night.”

            Hoyt came over and patted him on the back. “I think that went pretty well.”

            Tim rubbed his tired eyes and laughed under his breath. “A frigging mess.”

            “Or… maybe you looked cool, pacifying a violent situation with no injuries. They should write songs about you—us.”

            “I might’ve hurt a tendon or two. Hopefully.”

            “So, you topple the mighty without throwing a punch, quit your job before it starts, and announce your candidacy for mayor.”

            “I should’ve told you.”

            He let out a loud, performative breath and patted his stomach. “Seems I’m out of the loop on oh so much. Phil didn’t say he was quitting. You never told me you quit your new job. And I knew nothing of the sway you hold over Lady Reny Davies.”

            Sure enough, the young Londoner was walking over, arm-in-arm with an attractive older woman sporting  short hair and a regal posture. “That must be her famous aunt,” Tim said.

            “Stands to reason.”

            Tim turned to his brother and gave him a hug. “I’m sorry for not telling you about the mayor thing. And I hold no sway.”

            “I love you, Timmy. It’s been a busy few days. Besides, that was fun. Don’t blame yourself for it. Seriously, don’t be you on this one.”

            “Thanks for having my back.”

            “Always. Anyways, never met a Bradley I liked.”

            “Amen,” Tim said, nodding and waving at Reny as she got closer. The lights above and around gave her skin a different glow. Her green eyes sparkled. The brothers stood straight and still, like they were in the presence of a general. No general ever looked like that, Tim thought.

            “Mr. Semple,” she said. “Reverend Alonso. Aunt Dru, these are my two oldest friends in town.

            “Hello, gentlemen.”

            Their ma’ams were just about on top of each other.

            “I’ve seen some of your work,” Tim said. Hoyt turned his head in surprise. “On my phone. Pictures.”

            “I’d ask you to come by the studio in a few days, but I understand that might be awkward,” the artist said.

            “Aunt Dru…”

            “We’d love to,” Hoyt said, smiling widely the artist. “Big art fan. Been fortunate enough to see some of yours in real life, actually.”

            “Lovely,” Dru said, carefully taking a sip of wine from the Transplant’s display. “And lovely, your handling of Mr. Lennox.”

            “Are you making fun?” Tim asked. He honestly wanted to know.

            “Not at all, Mr. Semple.”

            “Call me Tim.”

            “Not at all, Tim. In the brief time I’ve spent dealing with Mr. Lennox, I’ve learned how tenacious and unpleasant he can be.”

            “Did he give you fits over the rent?” Hoyt asked.

            “Indeed. He squeezed. But it’s not that he squeezed. It’s that he seemed to do it out of pleasure. Not a pleasant man. He’s fortunate you didn’t put him in the hospital. Or lost a few teeth, at least.”

            Tim was surprised by the artist. She was straightforward. Nothing like his prejudices.  

            “We heard what you said about running for mayor,” Reny said. “That’s great, Tim.”

            “Varga’s a good customer,” Dru added. “But I’m not so sure he would’ve been the best employer.”

Hoyt asked the older woman how the wine was. She said she’d had better stuff from a box, suggesting they walk toward the beer stand up ahead. Despite things settling down and despite the charming company, Tim found himself distracted. His phone hadn’t stopped vibrating since the altercation with Lennox. Calls and texts from Gable and Baz Varga, mostly. He hadn’t given any warning. Some serious apologizing was in his future.

            “Are you okay?” Reny asked, their hands touching slightly as they walked behind Hoyt and Dru.

            “I’m good,” he said. “Really, really good.”

            While he talked more with the British beauty about the fair and the events of the last few days, he did his best not to feel guilty. What did Hoyt call it? Don’t be you. It was Lennox who’d attacked them. Lennox who’d forced him out of business. Lennox who’d taken his wife.

            The guilt persisted. Because he deserved it. He had strayed. Strayed with Gable. Just the once while he was still married to Shayna. But once was enough.

            If not for that, maybe he’d have a wife instead of a mortal enemy. A shop and a simple life, free from entanglements he was ill-equipped to handle. No fair fights. He’d done more than his share of fighting. Now more were on the horizon.

            Reny handed him plastic cup full of beer and asked what he was thinking about. A part of him wanted to tell her the whole truth. It seemed a sin to prevaricate in the presence of such pure beauty.

            “Me? Not a whole lot. You wanna ride the Ring of Fire?”

Chapter 6: Sunday

            “Oh yes. We were too dumb to care about the danger. Twelve, thirteen years old. It’s not like we were new to roughing it. Enough knowledge to get ourselves in trouble, you might say. And I know. Everyone sitting here understands the rule—a rule old as Mere Valley—you don’t try to hike Ryan’s Pass before July…”

            The congregation nodded and let out low notes of agreement. Tim couldn’t help but smile. He knew the story, lived it, but he was intrigued to see how Hoyt would make it relevant to the day’s sermon.

            “That first day, great. Made great time. Nothing to worry about. Next morning, one of the biggest blizzards on record rolls in, starts doing its thing. We’re already six miles up from the trailhead, no proper winter gear. Can you believe it? We weren’t smarter than everyone else who’d ever come before us. I’ll give you a moment, because it’s not easy to believe. God and his Son you can believe, but not the brazen folly of three Mere Valley boys trying to prove something beyond their capacity. I go to far.”

            There was light laughter up and down the aisles. Tim turned and nodded at Nate sitting stoically two pews back. He tried to remember the feeling when that weather started coming in. Hoyt determined, keeping up spirits, Nate injured but too numb to feel anything. It was the first time in his young life he really believed he was going to die. The snow was up to their waists, making every step a matter of strength and will. And then the wolves. Eyes in the trees. No telling how many were out there, smelling their weakness, waiting for the boys to give in to the cold and the exhaustion. Each had a rifle, but they hardly felt like protection. Tim’s hands were so cold, he doubted his ability to pull the trigger. Even if he did, the weapons were soaked. Probably wouldn’t fire. Maybe everything being so cold, getting eaten wouldn’t hurt too bad. Maybe he’d stick his neck out, make it easy them.

            Not a lot of hope. They huddled together as the white wind tried to blow them from the mountain. Tim asked Nate if he could keep going with the bad ankle. He said yes like the question was an insult. Hoyt chattered out a few jokes, using any energy left to act unaffected. Tim remembered getting going again. Standing up, taking the first step—if they stopped again, it would be for the last time.

            “Well, the situation was pretty grim,” Hoyt continued. “If my brother asks me to start saying prayers, well, that’s how grim.”

            More laughter.

            “And then the sound hear it. The beautiful banshee screams of snowmobile engines. We were saved. Within minutes, wrapped up dry in a big fancy tent, looking at the wind-blown faces of ten heaving men who were relieved they’d found us alive. Now they could kill us.”

            One of their rescuers was in the church and said an amen.

            “Thanks, Mr. Waters. I know what you sacrificed. There was a John Wayne movie marathon running that day, and this is before streaming.”

            Hoyt took a beat to let everyone release a polite chuckle or two. “Seriously though, we wouldn’t have made it back. They saved our lives. Our dads and their friends. The first ones they called, no doubt. Nobody says no to that. You get a call that kids are in trouble, even dumb kids, you pitch in. That’s living with people. Being a part of a town. We aren’t here for ourselves. God’s word teaches humility, to put others first. In serving each other, this place becomes more than a town of people with agendas. I’d like to encourage you to think of what you can do for the people sitting here today and for everyone else in this community, no matter how long they’ve been around. Too much putting people in categories lately, and I’m just as guilty as anyone else on that front. I’d like y’all to pray for Phil this week as well, not just because he’s in recovery. Because he’s a good servant. I know, because he was one of those that saved our butts that day.”

            After prayers and a final hymn, Tim and Nate stayed behind until they were the only ones left in the old church. It was so sudden, the quiet following Sunday Service. If it wasn’t for the lingering perfume of old ladies, you’d never know three hundred people were shoulder-to- shoulder just minutes ago.

            “Kinda weird, him telling that story,” Tim said, sitting on one of the steps leading up to the altar. “Now little things I forgot are coming back.”

            “Anything interesting?” Nate asked, sitting a step down, facing the foyer and front doors.

            “Not interesting. Funny, maybe. I remember being worried cause you hadn’t made out a will. You were twelve, dude.”

            “Oh yeah,” he said, smiling and putting his head down. “Well, I like things to be in order. Just my way.”

            “And they’re not right now. That’s where you’re going?”

            Nate stood up slowly. “Tell me how things are going, Tim. For real. Assess the current situation.”

            “Which situation?”

            “Start with yourself. Expand from there.”

            “Well, you and everybody in town know I’m running for mayor, and I ditched the Varga gig. A bit clumsy with it all, considering I never talked about it with Gable or Varga.”

            Nate let out a breath covered his mouth, letting out a few quick and quiet sentences Tim couldn’t understand. “And why didn’t you tell Gable?”

            “I was asleep when she got home last night. She was asleep when I got up to come here. You know her hours.”

            “You find time for these things, Timmy.”

            “I take your point. Just been a crazy few days. Funny, kinda asked her to marry me Friday. Sort of.”

            “I’m not gonna even follow up there.”

            Tim was tempted to say something judgmental about Nate’s love life. Not a whole lot to work with. He’d had three long term deals over the last decade, all pretty girls, pretty supportive. Tim liked them all. Nate stayed cordial and friendly with each of them afterwards. No toxic hanging on, no sad codependency. “If you were so good with women, you would’ve married one by now,” Tim said, deciding to meet Nate’s hard stare without flinching. His insult wasn’t good enough to hurt, but he was going to sit there all smug, owning it like he’d delivered a knockout punch.

            “Pleased with yourself?” Nate asked, one eye raised, seeing through Tim’s bullshit.

            “Not especially. Sorry, felt like I was getting lectured. Acted out.”

            Nate loosened his posture. “Remember when you’d try to make a point to the teachers in school? Even if you were right, it never went your way.”

            Tim shook his head and stood up, holding out his hand to shake. “Have I ever asked you why you wear the sheriff gear to church?”

            “Once or twice over the years.”

            “Ever answer?”

            “I have,” he said, taking Tim’s hand. “Only you’re not the best listener.”

            “Okay, tell me again sometime. I bet the answer is really interesting.”

            When they finished shaking hands, Tim was relieved. Nate was strong as hell.

            “Should we get to it?” asked the sheriff.

            “Yeah,” Tim said.

            The last few minutes of ball-breaking and banter were all just prelude to the stuff they didn’t want to talk about but needed to. Tim asked Nate why he left the hospital and what he did after, why he wasn’t at the fair, why he looked serious as stone during the church service.

            “I spent my day running some things down. Didn’t come up with as much I’d like. If I look serious, that’s a win. Means I’m hiding pissed-off and angry.”

“Phil,” Tim said. “His wife.”

            “Well, it might be a total coincidence, but his attack seemed to start the moment I mentioned taking the job with Varga. I’m either being incredibly narcissistic or there’s something there. Been bothering me since it happened.”

            “His wife talk to you?”

            “She told me he was quitting. Said not to run, to refuse if Phil asked.”

            “Didn’t have the intended effect.”

            Tim rolled his eyes. “Your turn.”

            “I noticed the same thing at poker. Didn’t think much of it, no time to, first priority making sure Phil was okay. Then he me in pulls close yesterday when everyone’s out of the room. Says the pressure got to him.”

            “It’s been getting to him for years, Nate. He should’ve quit years ago. Now he’s finally got a wakeup call.”

            “Or it’s more than that. Phil thinks he’s being harassed.”

            “How do you think you’re being harassed? Isn’t that something one knows or doesn’t know?”

            Nate relayed what Phil disclosed at the hospital. A few parked on his street for entire days. Some late-night phone calls with only breathing on the other end of the line. “Encouraging” emails about approvals or permits for one project or another. It sounded pretty unsettling.

            “I figured there was something, the way Linda tried to warn me off.” Tim scratched his head. “But we’re talking about a classic overreaction, right? Paranoia?”

            “I spent the rest of the day and this morning looking into it. Checked into the emails and the phone calls. The wording on the emails is subtle enough to argue either way. Far as the calls, a few of our buddies are trying to trace them. Phil doesn’t remember when they happened exactly. All landlines. Makes it more complicated.”

            “You’ll figure it out, Nate.”

            “I went to Merritt’s place yesterday.”

            “Lennox Manor?” Tim asked with a bitter tongue. “Never been. Is the stone really imported from an old Scottish castle?”

            “Probably.”

            “How could she live in a place like that? Do they have butlers?”

            Nate ignored both questions. “She watched me question him. Things got a little out of control. Honestly, I’m glad she was there. Otherwise…”

            Nate’s body was slightly turned. Embarrassed. The pieces began to fit together in Tim’s head. Phil’s suspicions, justified or not, almost drove him to the grave. One of Nate’s first moves after checking on the emails and calls was Merritt Lennox. Logical. The guy never made things easy for Phil. He basically owned three of the six town council members. Tim figured Nate went over there to Castle Jerkoff and asked some pointed questions. Lennox probably said he was the one being harassed, that all he wanted was to make everybody in town rich. Nate would’ve made it painfully clear that any unlawful coercion directed at Phil or his wife would be dealt with. It would’ve taken everything Lennox had not to do something stupid. And then it would’ve taken Shayna stepping in. Because Nate and her had history. They got along. Hell, she was his first girlfriend. Fifth grade. Soft spots.

            And her ability to quell the storming sheriff would’ve pissed Lennox off even more.

            The fair made more sense now. Lennox raging hot enough to go after him in front of the blue bloods and everyone else. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Nate. You were doing your job. Not talking to Lennox would’ve been irresponsible.”

            The sheriff sat down on the front pew and hung his head. “Guess so.”

            “Let’s go eat. Sunday at Gable’s. I can almost guarantee us a seat.”

            Nate pulled up his head. “Sure about that?”
            “You’re grumpy. I get it.”

            “Tim, how about rethinking the mayor thing? Could be too much.”

            “Don’t.” His raised voice echoed off the sanctuary’s stone walls. “I had a feeling that’s where this was going.”

            “At least until I figure some things out.”

            “When’s that going to be? Candidates have to sign up by tomorrow. Are you going to have it figured out by tomorrow, Sheriff?”

            Nate stood up from the pew stepped forward. “Don’t give me attitude, Timmy. I’m trying to look out for you. If there are people willing to harass an old man, they’ll come after you too. It’s not worth it.”

            Tim had no right to be mad. His friend was right. Smart and right. But he was mad anyway. “If you don’t think I’m up to it, that’s your problem. How about you do your job?”

            “Really?”

            “Really. Because someone’s going to be in charge, and if the wrong person takes that seat, you’re going to be seeking new employment. The Transplants won’t keep you.”

            “I’ve thought about that.”

            “Think about this. I don’t have that job with Varga anymore. I bail, I got nothing. I want something. But maybe that’s your problem.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “Means it’s probably nice, having the town loser as a friend.”

            “I’m done talking. But we can go out back if you want.”

            Tim seriously considered the offer for a few seconds. “You really want to fight?”

            No answer. Jaw tight. Done talking indeed.

            When Hoyt came back in from the front asking what they were doing, Tim was grateful. It was some kind of an excuse. “Great sermon today,” he said, turning away from Nate, anger still on his lips.  

            “Thanks,” his brother said, voice trailing off. The sacral air had been defiled and he could feel the tension. “What were you guys talking about?”

            He gave Hoyt a quick hug and started down the aisle. “Great sermon. Nice, remembering how we all stick together.”

Chapter 7: Gable’s Two

            Tim tried drowning the self-recriminations flooding his head by blasting a favorite album on the way to the hospital to visit Phil. Tried it again on the way to Gable’s. Didn’t work either time. Hardly a lyric or note got through.

            The usual lull between lunch and dinner was no lull at all. He had to park a quarter mile away. Walking by pickups and Lamborghinis and everything in between, he rolled up his sleeves and loosened his one decent tie. Another hot one. The sun seemed close enough to burn your hand.

            Gable’s was a welcome change of environment. The soft light, the steady air conditioning. The ready supply of alcohol. Tim would start with a cold beer. Maybe a shot of whiskey. Still early in the day for drinking, but to hell with it.

            Varga was at the crowded bar. He spotted Tim trying to make his way through the bustle and waved. The man sitting next to him got up and offered his seat. “It’s okay,” said the businessman. “This is Stefan, my driver. He was saving you a seat.”

            “Thanks for that,” Tim said. “Yeah, it’s nuts to butts in here.”

            “Nuts to butts?”

            “Never heard that one?”

            “I don’t believe so. Too many American colloquialisms. When it is not your first language, it’s a challenge to keep up.”

            “We have a rich linguistic tradition.”

            Tim his drinks from the busy bartender, a pretty twenty-something named Jane with tattoos poking out of her white shirt sleeves. “Hiya, Tim. Be a second.”

            “I know you’re swamped, so take your time. Whenever. Get Mr. Varga another as well, when you can.”

            Varga turned and smiled. “You may regret that,” he said, holding up the glass. “This the good stuff.”

            “I thought the high-end booze was wasted on you.”

            “Perhaps I was playing up my proletarian propensities for effect.”

            “And now that I’ve let you down…”

            Varga interrupted with a raised hand. He didn’t seem upset. More like distracted. “When she brings us the next round, I’d like to go into the private dining room. It’s so—nuts to butts.”

            “Sounds good to me, but it’s probably booked solid for the day.”

            “I talked to Gable. It’s clear.”

            “Oh, okay. Did you bribe her?” Tim asked, half joking.

            Jane eventually came with the drinks and they set off for the room at the end of the bar. It was an easier journey than expected. People seemed more than willing to make room for Varga. He was a well-known rich guy, sure, but so were half the people in the place. This was first Tim was seeing of the man’s stately aura, the sheer command. Things were almost quiet as they made their way. Tim thought it was weird, but after dealing with Transplants all these years, he wasn’t all that surprised by weird. Fancy people were wired different. Not better or worse, necessarily. Just their own brand of strange.

            “That was nice,” Tim said, closing the mahogany sliding doors to the private room. “Following you makes things easy.”

            “Interesting choice of words,” said the smooth businessman. He was wearing a gray t-shirt and a bluish casual suit made of something lighter than air. Tim figured it was worth more than he’d made most years of his life.  

            “A bad choice of words,” Tim said. “I owe you an apology.”

            “Sit with me. Take me through your thought process,” he said, white teeth even more pronounced in the darker private room. “If you care to. Of course, it’s not necessary.”

            “Yeah it is. To tell you the truth, when I said blurted that out in front of Merritt Lennox and everyone else, I hadn’t decided anything for sure.”

            “So, it was impulsive. Heat of the moment.” He leaned forward onto his arms. “Tim, I’m more than happy to forge ahead as agreed. I’ll even add another twenty thousand a year.”

            His posture straightened and he cleared his throat. “Well,” he started, interrupting himself to take a sip of beer, thinking about what he would do with that kind of money. Maybe he was right the first time, it best to go with Varga. Nate said running for mayor was a bad idea. He could take the job, take money, and be back on good terms with his buddy. No losers. Everybody happy. Maybe he’d have enough to finish remodeling and sell the house.

            Freedom.

            Yeah.

            “Geez,” he said, setting his beer down gently on the fine wooden table. “You’re very kind, but I think my mind’s made up. For good this time.”

            Varga closed one eye and tilted his head, pointing a long finger between Tim’s eyes. “I won’t bother you about it anymore. Besides, you’ll be a fantastic mayor.”

            “I appreciate that, sir. Truth is, I’ve been kinda dreading this conversation.”

            “You’re too hard on yourself, Tim. And please. Baz.”

            The rich man put his hand out to shake. Tim felt a giant burden lift. Varga genuinely seemed cool with his decision. “Again. Thank you for the opportunity.”

            “We’ve moved on, Tim.”

            “Sorry.”

            “Do you know who else will run?”

            “Haven’t heard anything.”

            “Everything will work out.”

            “Absolutely,” Tim said, happy to agree, no matter what he actually thought. He wondered if that was part of Varga’s success—being so sure of a fortunate future. It seemed like an almost comical way to look at things, but what did he know? What great benefits had doubt and trepidation bestowed? Not a lot. Then again, optimism had its flaws. He knew more than one optimistic officer who never came home from Afghanistan, who got other men killed. Confidence and a sunny outlook could you shot or blown up damn quick. But that was war. Survival. This was supposed to be life. He promised himself right there he’d try to live more like Varga.

            “And Gable will get over it.”

            “What’s that?”

            “You turning down the job. She’ll come around.”

            Tim was confused. “Sorry, she said something?”

            “Not much. Oh no. I think I spoke out of turn. Forgive me, Tim.”

            Before he could figure out what to say next, Gable slipped into the room. “I’m going to lose it.”

            She was pressed up against the doors with her eyes and fists clenched, sweat filmy on her flushed face.

            “What can we do to help?” Varga asked. Tim stood up and moved toward her with his arms out but awkwardly stopped. An embrace would be inappropriate. In front of Varga. At her place of business. God, he wanted to touch her.

            Instead, he found himself hauling extra chairs and tables from a storage shed behind the restaurant onto the grass behind the patio. Stefan was fetching fancy portable fans and outdoor air coolers from Varga’s place up on the mountain while Tim worked to erect a tent that would allow ten more tables to be served in relative comfort. In less than an hour everything was up and hoisted and positioned and plugged in, ready to go.

            “I’m not sure it’s up to code,” Varga said, slapping Tim on the back. They surveyed their work in sweaty satisfaction, taking it in the way people do when something is better than nothing.

            “If I get to be mayor, I’ll think about letting her off with a warning.” Tim grabbed his church shirt and wiped his face with an unused napkin from one of the tables. Standing around a classy place in a sleeveless undershirt wasn’t the look, even he was the help.

            “Favoritism,” Varga said, sipping a fine whiskey. He’d worked as fervently as Tim to make Gable’s impromptu extended patio a reality, but you’d never know. Not a hair out of place, not a spot on his fancy suit. It was impressive. “If you start looking the other way for your friends and loved ones, perhaps you do have a place in politics.”

            They shook hands one more time. “Glad we got a chance to talk,” Tim said. “I’m gonna go in the kitchen, see if I can find a towel.”

            “It was fun,” Varga said. “See you soon I hope.”

            Tim hoped so too. He liked Varga, figured he could learn truckloads from him. Business. Politics. How not to sweat. Maybe they’d be friends. Always nice to have a few billionaires for buddies.

            “You seen Gable?” he asked Carter, her dutiful, always impolite sous chef.

Carter momentarily paused from yelling at a porter to yell at Tim, “Smoking!”

            “Thanks!”

            Moving through the kitchen was like running a gauntlet. Flames spurting without warning and blades moving furiously on the flanks. He reached the side door to a tiny outdoor break area with a feeling of accomplishment.

            “Take your life in your hands when you walk through that kitchen,” he said to Gable. She was lighting a fresh cigarette with one burned down to the filter.

            “You’ve made that comment before,” she mumbled, breathing to make sure she was lit.

            “Sorry.”

            “For what?”

            “You know…”

            “Not really. Sorry for using old material? Sorry for me being so out of the loop it’s almost impossible that it’s not on purpose? Sorry for what?”

            Tim was a little surprised at how upset she was. He’d hoped the thing with patio might’ve bought him some goodwill. “Sorry for all of it. Things have been coming thick and fast. But that’s no excuse. It wasn’t on purpose. Phil, quitting, the thing with Lennox last night.”

            “Can’t believe you didn’t break his shit,” she said, tapping out her cigarette on the arm of a rotting wooden lounge chair.

            He dropped his head. “It wasn’t my best moment, Gabes. Stupid.”

            As the smoke dissipated, he felt another change in the air. Gable hopped up and put her hands high on his naked arms. “Don’t sell yourself short, Semple. The video I saw had you looking like a badass with restraint. Had him looking like—well, pretty much what he is.”

            She moved her strong hands, rubbed his shoulders. It felt good. He closed his eyes and lowered his face into the mess of her pulled-up hair. “I’ve needed this.”

            “Bet so. I smell like crap. A thousand courses, cigarettes and sweat. Every man’s dream.”

            “My dream,” he said, pulling his head off to speak clearer. “We should’ve talked about the mayor thing. I know you were pumped about me working with Varga.”

            “I was excited because you were excited,” she said. “You get that, right?”

            He got it. She wanted him to be happy. To have goals and achieve. That’s what she was doing. Gable came from nothing, the only daughter of a struggling single mom. They’d moved away from Mere Valley when she was thirteen and bounced around, taking up with one lost cause of a guy after another. She got away and moved to New York as soon as she could, begging for any job in any kitchen. Made her way from diners to the finest restaurants in the city, never wasting a moment. Tim liked how she spoke about her work, the passion in her words. It was inspiring to know someone could make it on their own steam.

            When she moved back to Mere Valley to start her own place, she had a sterling reputation and a ton of skills but not a lot of money. That’s how they got close, closer than they ever were growing up. He helped her put the place together. Called in a lot of favors, did a lot of it himself. Not like he could offer her a loan.

            “This is something I have to do. Think it’s what Phil wants.”

            “Okay.”

            “Okay?”

            “I’m not going to argue with you.”

            “No?”

            She let out a long breath. “I understand you want to do right by the town. To make Phil happy. It’s not for me to argue with a sick man wanting to pass the torch.”

            “Thanks, Gabes,” he said. They kissed quickly, then again and again until it turned into a continuous production. Tangling feet, they landed rough on the wooden lounger, causing its back legs to collapse from the sudden weight. They kept going at it until they had to stop so they could laugh, breaths hot and faces messy. “When I built—this little space—I didn’t think about people using it for fooling around.”

            On the end of a giggle she said, “We’ve done this—before—here.”

            “Oh yeah,” he said, lowering himself gently to resume making out.

            “Easy, boss. I have to get back to work.”

            “You really don’t,” he whined. “Carter’s got it covered.”

            “Sorry buddy.”

            He knew the look. Her mind was set. “Damn, woman. I’m all wound up.”

            “Later. If you’re not snoring when I get home.”

            “I’ll make sure to crack open that new bottle of amphetamines. Gotta get me some.”

            “It’s like being in a relationship with a poet sometimes,” she said, making sure everything she was sufficiently covered. “Thanks for helping, Semple. You and Baz really saved my butt with that tent.”

            “His idea. We actually had fun. Good guy, I think.”

            She yanked down her double-breasted top and pulled up her fallen hair. “I think so.”

            “Before you go back, can I ask you something?”

            “Sure.”

            “How much you talk to Varga?”

            “Not a bunch, but it’ll be different now, with him investing.”

            “What’s that mean? Investing?”

            “A new restaurant. Maybe more than one. Marketing. He’s got big influencers coming in this week to give their endorsements. Knows a lot of people. Knows a lot about everything.”

            “Geez,” Tim said. “That’s great.”

            She wiggled his chin and buttoned her top button before stepping up to the door. “We’ll talk about it some more when there’s time.”

            After a sweet goodbye, Tim felt okay, but a little mixed up. Gable went back to her duties and he took a tentative seat on the arm of the busted chair.

            It was weird, casually mentioning going into business with Varga like that. Weird how Varga hadn’t said anything. There’d been plenty of time.

            Or maybe he was overthinking things. Overall, the night went better than he could’ve hoped. Gable wasn’t mad at him, and he was on good terms with Varga.

            He decided to text Pop, asking him to come up to Gable’s for a few more drinks. Just a few. He needed to stay awake.  

Chapter 8: Captain Carefree

            There were around fifty people in front of the library when Tim pulled up across the street the following morning. Word had made its way around town.

            Tim spotted Nate and several deputies near the front door of the old building. The sheriff appeared characteristically unflappable, six feet of muscle and pragmatism, same outfit. Blue jeans and a badge poking through a brown denim shirt. He had his thumbs tucked under his belt like an old-time gunslinger. It was a picture sure to dissuade any would-be agitators from taking it beyond words. No doubt, emotions were high. Little groups of Townies and Transplants in sandals and sneakers solving the problems of Mere Valley and the rest of the world. A couple protest signs. One had Semple Sucks painted on it.

            Nate left his post in front of the door to cross the street. They hadn’t spoken since their robust exchange at church. Tim offered a feeble hey to break the ice. “We can talk about yesterday later,” his friend said, checking over his shoulder. “Let’s get you inside.”

            Tim assented with a quick nod. “Whatever you say, Sheriff.”

            As they approached the library, the crowd began to bunch. Deputies made a little room for him. The door was a few feet away. Nate held it open and told him good luck. Tim saw the sign by the door: Candidate signups today and tomorrow, 10-2. Library closed during these hours.

            He heard a man ask why he didn’t finish Merritt off at the fair. Heard a woman ask why he was such a horrible person. Someone else said he needed to get a haircut.  

Inside the library, he wiped his brow and embraced the sudden quiet. He was alone except for Mrs. Benter. The old librarian was wearing a violet dress he recognized from his elementary school years, pushing a prehistoric book truck toward the southeast corner, a section she called “The Darkness” because the shelves there were full of romance novels. That they ranged from Jane Eyre to current trash didn’t matter much to the little ever-gray librarian. She believed only three authors were of any value to the history of literature. For her it was God, Margaret Atwood, and Joseph Conrad. Turning around to address Tim she said, “Hello, young man. What have you been reading? Suppose the best I can hope for is you buying whatever the amazons recommend, since you darken our door so infrequently.”

            “Hi, Mrs. Benter,” Tim said, but she rolled away her burden without letting him give an answer. Just as well; he wasn’t currently reading anything by God or those other two. He made a note to pick up something on the way out. Stories were healthy, mainly because they weren’t about him.

And thinking always came easier when he wasn’t always thinking about himself.

He made his way toward the private reading room in the back where the city council was waiting for anyone wishing to throw their hat in for mayor. The rules were simple, outlined in the original Mere Valley Charter. If four out of the six members didn’t like the way you walked or talked or that you went to a fancy college or didn’t go to one at all, they could bar you from candidacy. He felt mostly confident he’d pass muster. Pop, a mainstay on the council, ensured Tim beforehand that only two hated his guts. One was a Transplant and the other was Brenda Teale. She was a Townie who never forgave Tim for not marrying her daughter, Martina. Never mind Martina had gotten over Tim in the ninth grade and happily hitched Barry Lake six months out of high school. Damn woman holds grudges for fun was the way Pop liked to put it.

            Tim gave a light knock and told them he was coming in before gently opening the flimsy door, lifting it so it wouldn’t catch on the fraying carpet. The council’s greetings were fairly consistent with their respective opinions of his character and standing in the community.

            “Good morning,” he said, feeling a sudden rush of nervousness. He knew them all, some better than others, but he’d never been tight in a room with the whole bunch at once. “Should I sit?”

            “We already talked about you,” said Brenda Teale with one of her tailored-for-Tim sneers. Turning away she highlighted the true extent of her nose. “Just fill out the form and drop it in the box.”

            “Yes, ma’am,” he answered, trying not to be distracted by their mumblings as he finished his application. “Have you had many other candidates?” he asked, looking up at Pop. It went silent as outer space. “By the looks of things around here, not many. Or am I not supposed to ask? Sorry.”

            “You can ask,” Pop said. “So far, you’re going to be running against Maggie Grayson and—”

            “It would be nice to have a woman in command around here,” Brenda Teale inserted.

            Tim nodded. Maggie Grayson was a kind, honest person. She was born in Mere Valley a decade or so before Tim and lived there most of her days. Her and her husband were partners at a small accounting firm, doing their legal best to keep folks’ money away from the government’s eager fingers. “Maggie would be good,” he said.

            “Does that mean you’d like to withdraw?” asked Brenda.

            “No, Mrs. Teale. I think quitting after a few seconds might come off a tad yellow. I wouldn’t want Martina to think less of me.” He winked to annoy her some more. “So, who else?” Merritt Lennox and his partners were backing someone, and it certainly wasn’t Maggie. “Hello?”

            Pop took pains to answer. “Frank Millhouse left a few minutes ago. He’s running.”

            “You’re kidding.”

            “He’s been approved,” said Brenda, enjoying herself too much.

            As Tim processed the information, there was enough room in his head for imagining what he might do to wipe the haughty look from Brenda Teale’s face. Lots of horrible things shot up into his immediate consciousness—comments about her thinning hair or her comically liberal use of cosmetics to fight a losing battle with time and bad genetics. Or something more personal, like how she never would’ve gotten a seat on the town council if it hadn’t been her father’s dying wish. Mr. Teale was a good man, though not good enough to make Brenda pleasant. He hoped his daughter might find a shred of humility by doing a little public service. The community obliged him because back then it didn’t much matter. Notions of ski resorts and site permits and multinational corporations would’ve sounded crazy to Mr. Teale or anyone else in town. Your dad didn’t understand the curse he was hoisting upon us, Tim wanted to say. Instead, he cleared his throat and tried to breathe out the vindictive swell. “Okay, then,” he said. “Y’all have a nice day.”

            Mrs. Benter stopped him with her librarian whisper, practiced and perfected over the decades, quiet and still able to cut to the core. He remembered a lifetime of rebukes and smiled. “I don’t think I was talking too loud,” he said, looking down at her disapproving face. Amazing what such small features could express. “Wasn’t talking at all, Mrs. Benter. As a matter of fact, I’m gonna need you to keep it down. This is a library.”

            “A shame,” she scowled. “You were always so close to being a nice young man. Are they going to let you run?” she asked.

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            “God help us,” she said, pulling a little blue book from her cart. It had no jacket and by the scratchy hardcover looked old as the one holding it. She put it in his hand. “Here. You’ll probably need this.”

            Tim squinted incredulously as he read the spine. “Studies in Greek Mythology?”

            “They’ll be at least two or three tales applicable to your impending travails.”

            “That’s… very kind. But I suppose I always knew you cared.”

            “Of course, if you’d read Heart of Darkness, you might learn a thing or two about what really tries the soul.”

            “Read it a couple times. Love the short ones. But are you sure the Belgian Congo maps onto our current situation in Mere Valley?”

            The old woman put a dry hand on his cheek and left it there. “I made a mistake tolerating your attempts at humor so many years.”

“Yeah,” Tim whispered. “You blew it. All that license and now look at me—Captain Carefree.”

She frowned, showing different cracks and wrinkles. “Don’t louse this up, Mr. Semple. Good people are counting on you to rise above your self-defeatism. Others are counting on the opposite.”

            A memory came back to him as she removed her hand and wheeled away the rusty cart. Decades ago, he was standing in about the same place, complaining about the teachers at school, how they didn’t “understand” him. Mrs. Benter gave him a book that day as well, along with some unadorned truth about dealing with harsh realities. Tim didn’t take her advice the way he should’ve back then, but this time he wouldn’t let her down.

            If he did, there wouldn’t be a library anymore. It’d be deemed “useless” by Merritt’s puppet. Him and his cronies would have it bulldozed and replaced by an “essential” business.

            So he had to win.

            So be it.

Chapter 9: Candidate

            Frank Millhouse, Tim thought, over and over as he left the library. He had to give it to Merritt. The guy knew how to turn a beef into something weapons-grade. Driving away from the library and passing through Old Mere Valley, he decided to drive by the now repurposed hardware store. The reasons weren’t clear. Maybe to punish himself. Maybe to stop in and see Reny Davies. Maybe because he’d do anything to try taking his mind off Frank Freaking Millhouse.

            He hadn’t spoken to Millhouse in twenty years. Hadn’t ever spoken to him, really. What do you say to the guy your mom chooses over everything else in her life?

            She packed up when the boys were in third grade, about a year after Hoyt was adopted, after the car crash that killed his young mom and dad. Every now and then he’d talk about her leaving  with his brother, but no one else. Hoyt didn’t hate her the way Tim did. That wasn’t his way, after all. “No matter why she left,” he joked more than once, “I think it’s because she’s racist. Half-Mexican-half-Navajo, no thanks.”

            She was still around. Still living a life somewhere, likely sporting dyed hair and fake teeth, staying “active.” Doing all the things she should’ve when she was younger. What a load of crap. It wasn’t fair, especially now that dad was gone.

            The Frank Millhouse thing, true or not, didn’t last long. She got the hell out of Mere Valley as soon as possible. Made sense. Nobody was handing out medals for being overwhelmed back in those days.

            It was why Tim still had no social media. He didn’t want to see a picture of her smiling on a boat or in the mountains with an arm around some man or woman, see her with a family she liked better. Or worse still, he might receive a message from her, asking to meet up so she could see how he was getting along, how she hoped they could form some kind of relationship moving forward.

Forgive and forget.

Patch things up.

            Screw that. Someone selfish enough to run out on a good family was capable of all kinds of psychological shenanigans. He could see it—she’d beg forgiveness, play the gentle matron, he’d say no, and somehow she’d make it so he was the one to leave feeling bad.

            Not that he gave it much thought.

            “Are you well, Tim?”

            The question startled him up enough to hit his head on the ceiling of the truck cab. Rolling down the window, he said hello to Reny with red cheeks and a stung scalp. “Hey, Reny. You caught me daydreaming.”

            “I saw you on the way back from my car. Do you want to come have a look around? Or is that—weird?”

            He smiled and hung his head.

            “What’s funny?”

            “I was thinking I’d try lying my way out of looking weird, sitting here in my truck, but I don’t have the brainpower. Sure, I’ll come in for a bit.”

            It should’ve been stranger than it was. For ten minutes she walked him around a place he’d known his whole life like he’d never been there before. She explained how her aunt made some of the sculptures, what the pictures “meant.” Tim found some of it fascinating, some of it impenetrable. He would’ve listened either way. Reny’s passion came through with every observation. She knew style and form, why certain things worked, and she knew the history behind every movement, why certain methods caught on. There were entire worlds behind the pictures. The thing about a thousand words was an understatement.

            “Cool,” he said.

            “Oh no,” she frowned. “I’ve bored you terribly.”

            He looked at her and shook his head. “You’d think I would be, but I’m intrigued. Overwhelmed maybe, but it’s interesting. Should’ve had you with me at the Art Institute that one time. Would’ve made things a lot more fun.”

            She tilted her head and clasped her hands like she was paying homage. “It’s a fantastic place. I love Chicago.”
            “Me too. Lots of it, anyhow.”

            “No place is perfect. There are parts of London I wouldn’t survive an hour, but I still love it there.”

            “Must be strange, coming out here.”

            “A little. But it’s been busy. Haven’t had loads of time to think.”

            She was right about it being busy. Tim had to remind himself that they’d met only a few days ago, her with her boxes, him nothing besides sentiment. “You’ve gotten a bunch done, that’s for sure. Can I ask you something?”

            “Please do, Mr. Semple.”

            “Well, I don’t have gentle way of asking—are you any good at this stuff? Maybe as good as your aunt?”

            She seemed surprised, though not offended. She paused before coyly saying, “I don’t lack skill.”

            Tim smiled and clapped a single clap. “Had a feeling. But you should take some advice.”

            “Any would be most welcome.”

            “You need to swap out your good nature for something darker. All the greats were miserable.”

            “I’ll take it under advisement,” she said, rubbing the gentle curve of her chin, “though for every Van Gogh there are many geniuses who managed to avoid self-mutilation.”

            “Good point. Forget everything I said.”

            After helping her hang two large paintings, she asked him if he’d signed up to run. He told her that’s what he was doing in the neighborhood.

            “Not to reminisce? Or to visit?”

            “Since you were nice enough to put me to work in my old store, I’ll be truthful. You caught me brooding.”

            “That looks perfect,” she said with one eye closed and a bit of her tongue poking out the corner of her lips as he adjusted a framed photograph taken by her aunt in Ethiopia. “Yes, right there. You are something of a brooder, aren’t you?”

            He nodded. “I’ve brooded once or twice.”

            “You don’t want to go into it.”

            “More like I don’t want to bore you.”

            “Never. You’re my oldest friend here, remember?”

            “Yeah. That’s… true.” He was tripped up. It was what she said and the way she said. Calling him a friend with an expression that suggested more. Those green eyes. Even with one of them shut silly like that. “I’ve taken up enough of your time,” he said flatly, scratching his hair. The heckler was right. He did need a cut.

            She stepped to him with both eyes open, leaving a little space. There were only inches available for retreat. He came close to knocking a picture worth more than his house to the floor. “How does it work?” she asked, as relaxed as he wasn’t.

            “Uh. How does what work?”

            “The election. Is there a campaign or something?”

“Ah,” he said, stepping to his right to get some space. He angled away, pretending to study a painting that looked like three boxes floating in a dirty pond. “The election is next Tuesday. No time for campaigns, really. Just a debate on Thursday at the rec center. The whole town is invited.”

            As he stayed fixed on the dirty pond and the boxes, he realized it wasn’t a pond at all. He didn’t know what the hell he was looking at. “This one’s nice.”

            “Have you ever been in a debate?”

            He looked at her over his shoulder. “I haven’t. Been in arguments, fights, even battles. Never a debate.”

            “If you’ve managed all that, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

            “That’s what I was telling Hoyt. He said he’d pray or me.”

            “My aunt really likes Hoyt. They’re having coffee later.”

            “Coffee. What, like a date?”

            “I’m not sure. She said they got to talking at the fair. Apparently ‘he’s interesting.’ And obviously, good looking.”

            Tim couldn’t argue with any of that. But the famous artist was too old. He didn’t know the exact number, but she might’ve been fifty. “I doubt it’s a date, Reny. She’s probably just needing someone to talk to about her kinds of things. He’s the only one in town who’s properly educated on this highbrow stuff, far as I know. Well—besides you.”

            She covered a little laugh. “If you say so, Tim.”

            He was eager to change the subject, so he asked if she could offer any advice for the debate.

            “Oh, I’m not sure. It’s just that I’m not one for making a case. I like to let my work speak for itself.”

            “Amen to that. Only if I ask people to assess my recent work, they’ll be looking here. A hardware store converted to a temporary art gallery on account of the guy couldn’t keep the family business going.”

            “You can’t do that to yourself. I bet you did everything you could to keep it going.”

            Tim didn’t say anything. He just looked down at the billion chips and scratches in the hardwood, hoping to be hypnotized into forgetting the year or so leading up to the store’s shuttering. Lennox undercutting their prices. The increasing property taxes. The faithful customers steadily chipped away by Lennox or the convenience of buying online. He took handyman jobs wherever and whenever he could find them, but when his dad got sick, the bills were too much. Hoyt did everything he could. Shayna offered to help more than once, even though by then they were already divorced. She had money and then some, but Tim’s dad wouldn’t have it. Didn’t understand why she had left his son. Nobody that knew the truth had the heart or the balls to tell the father the boy was a no-good cheater.

            The place would’ve closed eventually, most likely. The tides of time and all. And it was true, he did everything he could to stop it. Everything except stay faithful to Shayna. Or being honest with his father. He pulled the shame every day, dragging it like a bag of rocks. Hoyt and Nate pulled as well. They huddled around Tim’s lie, protecting it from the rest of the community. Shayna never said anything to anyone about his infidelity. She was either too proud or just too damn good to blacken Tim’s name. There were rumors, but they stayed rumors until people just sort of let it go. A minor miracle in Mere Valley, one that served an undeserving servant.

            “Just remember to focus on the positive, how hard you tried.”

            It was like the words were perfectly calibrated to make him feel the weight of his mistakes. A loving condemnation delivered by an angel. “Thanks, Reny. Sounds like sound advice.”

            “I hear that heavy tone, but in the short time I’ve been here I’ve seen the way people look at you. It’s respect.”

            “Not sure I deserve it.”

            “Don’t be that way. Whatever you’ve done, people aren’t just one thing.” She put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “That’s what my aunt says.”

            “People are complex,” he said quietly. “That sort of thing.”

            “That’s right. And not just people. Almost everything in life. Complex and simple, all at the same time.”

            “Uh huh.” He pointed up at the mystery painting again. “Think I’m beginning to understand the mind behind this work.”

            She used the hand on his shoulder to turn him her way, looking up with at him with something more than a friendly face. “It will all work out.”

            “Are you real?” he couldn’t help asking. Why was this talented beauty going toe-to-toe with him? It seemed she was willing to take every dark thing he’d ever felt and done and turn it around, make it into something useful. “Why aren’t you married to a billionaire scientist male model or some such?”

            “Is that what I should do?”

            “Yeah,” he said. “I mean no, but yeah. Obviously you got your own thing going, your own goals.”

            “Perhaps a billionaire scientist male model would try to overwhelm my ambitions. Have you thought of that?”

            “I think a lot. About a lot of things. I think you could have everything.”

            Tim wondered what she was hoping for right then. It seemed clear, but he had to be wrong. He wasn’t any kind of fit for someone with her storybook charm. “I’ve enjoyed showing you around.”

            Right on the verge, he took a slow step back and smiled. “Very much. Thanks for the lessons.”

            They traded complicated goodbyes and he headed toward the door feeling like a weary hero, more like an escapee than a guy leaving. Stepped up on the little raised entrance, his progress was stopped by Dru Davies. The door almost him on the head when she flung it open, but he was able to catch it. “Mr. Semple. Are you okay?”

            “Quite alright, ma’am. I might ask you the same.”