I do, Isaiah thought.
Like his father and grandfather, he’d gone from Wintersage Academy to the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis. Isaiah had graduated a commissioned officer and dedicated the next seven years of his life to the navy, proudly serving his country.
Now, for the first time in over a decade, he was a free man. No longer weighed down by tradition, expectations or duty, he was finally going to follow his own life plan and fulfill his long-held dreams.
Ambitions he hadn’t shared with anyone.
Actually, there was one person who knew, he thought. They’d even made plans to pursue their goals, together.
But that was a lifetime ago.
Before he could banish it, a faint recollection of a teenage girl with deep chocolate skin and a long raven mane swept up in a high ponytail popped into his head.
Sandra Woolcott.
Isaiah felt the corner of his mouth quirk upward in a half smile at the sweet memory of the first girl to claim his heart. He’d driven along this same road, in this same truck, with a brand-new driver’s license in his pocket and Sandra in the passenger’s seat.
He could almost hear her laughter as the wind freed her hair from her ponytail and her hair whipped around her face that long-ago spring day.
Isaiah had traveled the world and dated his fair share of women, but he’d yet to come across one more beautiful than Sandra.
Curiosity replaced his musings, and he wondered how her life had turned out. Had she pursued their big plans on her own, after he’d put family expectations and tradition ahead of his own desires and her?
“Hey!” His father’s strident tone jarred him out of his reverie. “Have you been gone so long you forgot your way home? You were supposed to make a left at the intersection.”
“I know, Dad.”
Staring through the windshield at the gray skies, and trees nearing the end of their autumn peak, Isaiah banished thoughts of Sandra to the back of his mind, chalking up the out-of-the-blue flashback to being back in Wintersage.
Ben heaved a drawn-out sigh. The one he used when he was on the brink of losing his patience. “Son, if you say ‘I know, Dad’ to me one more time...” His father’s voice trailed off.
“Sorry,” Isaiah said.
“Well, aren’t you going to turn this heap around?” Ben groused. “Or do I have to drive us home.”
Isaiah shook his head. “We’re not going home yet. So just sit tight.”
“We’re headed downtown?” Ben asked after Isaiah made a left turn.
He nodded, bracing himself for inevitable blowback.
“For what? To give the town busybodies something else to gossip about?” his father protested. “‘Poor Ben Jacobs. He looks like a scrawny chicken,’” he mimicked. “Then they sanction their tongue wagging by tacking the words bless his heart on the end of every juicy tidbit.”
“You may have lost a few pounds, but you look fine,” Isaiah said.
His father rested his chin on his chest. “I have my pride, son,” he said finally. The volume of his usual booming baritone was so low Isaiah strained to hear.
He swallowed hard, pushing a lump of emotion down his throat, and along with it the urge to turn his truck around and take his dad home.
“Give me ten minutes. After that if you still want to go home, I’ll be more than happy to drive you.”
Isaiah slowed the truck to the lower posted speed limit as they approached the downtown area near the waterfront. Main Street, usually bustling with tourists and traffic during summer and early autumn, unfurled before him, with only a few residents walking along it.
As his father appeared to be mulling over his offer, Isaiah continued, “Life is short for all of us. Don’t let something as trite as pride keep you from enjoying every moment.”
He caught his dad’s nod in his peripheral vision as he pulled the pickup into an open parking space in front of the bakery. The place had changed ownership in the years he’d been away. A purple awning hung over the storefront window, which boasted a red, white and blue placard asking citizens to vote Oliver Windom to the state house of representatives in the upcoming election.
Both of his parents had raved about the new baker in their emails. His mother was partial to the cinnamon rolls, while his father was wild for the cupcakes. Their enthusiastic reviews had Isaiah raring to try one.
He climbed out of the truck. His first instinct was to go around to the passenger side and help his father, but he decided not to push his luck. Instead, he leaned into the cab.
“Coming?” he asked.
“But what about your mother and that miserable diet?”
“You telling her about this?”
A blast of cold wind and the aroma of cinnamon-laced baked goods wafted through the truck’s open door. His father’s nose twitched.
“No. I don’t think I’ll mention it to her, son.”
“Good,” Isaiah said. “Neither will I.”
Ben bounded from the truck with more energy than Isaiah had seen in the few days he’d been back. His father stopped short at the bakery door. He frowned, and then grunted at the sign in the window. “I wouldn’t vote to elect Windom dogcatcher,” he grumbled.
A rush of heat and more heavenly smells greeted them inside the bakery. Isaiah’s stomach rumbled, reminding him he’d only picked at his breakfast and skipped lunch altogether.
“Ben!” A woman clad in a purple apron with the bakery’s logo etched on the front greeted his father with a warm smile. “Long time no see. Where have you been keeping yourself?”
His father mumbled something about being busy, not quite meeting the woman’s eyes.
“Well, it’s good to see you. I thought I’d lost one of my best customers to some cockamamy low-carb diet.” She turned to Isaiah. “And this must be the son you’ve told me about, because he looks just like you.”
His father perked up, any self-consciousness pushed aside by his deprived sweet tooth and the array of cupcakes on display behind the glass case. He briefly introduced Isaiah to the middle-aged woman called Carrie, before the two launched into a discussion about her latest culinary creations.
“I know you’re partial to the red velvet.” Carrie held up a cupcake heaped with white frosting and red sprinkles. “But you’ve got to try my new salted caramel and corn candy cupcakes.”
Ben pressed a finger against his lips as he glanced from the cupcake in her hand to the ones in the display.
“I’m only baking the corn candy ones until Halloween, on Friday. After that they won’t return until next year,” she coaxed.
“I’ll take two of the corn candy,” Isaiah said, not sharing his father’s indecisiveness.
Carrie put two cupcakes smothered in orange icing and topped with corn candy on a purple plate. Isaiah’s stomach rumbled again as she placed them on the counter.
“Okay, give me one of the salted caramel,” his father finally said.
“One?” Carrie raised a brow. Ignoring his request, she placed two of the oversize cakes on a purple plate and handed it to Ben.
Isaiah retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a twenty to pay.
Carrie shook her head, refusing it. “It’s on the house. Thank you for your service, son.” She