Annie’s eyes pleaded with William to not give her away. She couldn’t bear to imagine the look of disappointment and hurt in Joyce’s eyes when she learned what Annie had done. It would be too awful.
“Was it something you ate here?” Joyce asked, turning to Annie to help supply the answer. As Annie clasped her hands in a prayer and was about to explain, William shook his head.
“You can’t trust sushi from a gas station, Mom.”
Annie’s mouth dropped open as Joyce took her son’s arm and patted it.
“Golly, no. It had probably been sitting out for days, William.”
William allowed his mother to squeeze him in a long hug, but his body was rigid, eyes boring holes into Annie. Several moments passed before he finally responded. “Something like that.”
“I’ll bet you won’t do that again,” Annie said, cringing, knowing full well she was pressing her luck. William huffed at her as Joyce led him to the door.
Perhaps their long-awaited reunion hadn’t gone completely as Annie would have predicted, but she took satisfaction in William Kauffman knowing where she stood.
ANNIE POKED HER head into her children’s shared bedroom as Marjorie, her neighbor, helped them fumble into pajamas.
A nurturing widow in her sixties, Marjorie had proved to be a reliable confidante and babysitter in recent years. While Annie was prone to overreaction, nothing ever seemed to rile serene Marjorie. Her auburn hair had peppered to white over the years, and her face, a road map of heavy wrinkles and lines, was radiant because of the loving expressions it constantly displayed. A transplant from Tennessee, she carried a Southern hospitality and charm. Between Joyce and Marjorie, Annie was certain her own mother was in heaven, sending surrogates to stand by her side.
“Are you okay, honey?” Marjorie asked in her sweet, charming lilt.
Annie managed a negligent shrug, the day hanging heavy around her neck as she leaned against the doorway.
Marjorie kissed her tenderly on the cheek. “We’ll have a cup of tea on it another time. They’ve been watching the clock, waiting for you. I’ll let myself out.”
Annie climbed onto her daughter’s bed and sighed with satisfaction. Despite all her failures over the course of her adult life, the two little people tumbling over themselves to embrace her were certainly not included in the list. They were the only reason that the last few years had been tolerable.
Betsy was an outspoken eight-year-old with a round, expressive face and big brown eyes like hers. She had a goofy expression to match any occasion and had certainly gotten herself into trouble by an inappropriately timed raised eyebrow. James, on the other hand, was as fair and gentle as a light summer rain. With storm-gray eyes and moppy brown hair, he moved delicately through the world, examining it from his owl perch before cautiously dipping in a toe and joining the action.
While they didn’t share a father, the two were thick as thieves, and Annie, who had no siblings of her own, took solace in the fact that what she couldn’t give them in extended family, she had made up for by giving them each other.
James, following Betsy’s flailing pantomime directions, selected a Rapunzel storybook from the cupboard and sandwiched himself between Annie and Betsy on his bed.
“Wasn’t it your turn to pick?” Annie asked as James snuggled into her side. He shrugged as Betsy yanked the book from his hands and flipped open the cover.
“I love this book so much,” Betsy said, shuddering with excitement.
Annie tucked a pillow behind her back and prepared to read Rapunzel for the hundredth time. “Why?”
Betsy tipped her head back against her pillow before replying with a whimsical look, “I love how the prince saves Rapunzel and carries her off to his palace.”
“That isn’t how life works, Bets.”
“I know. I know,” her daughter grumbled, aware she had heard this talk before. “But I still like this story the best, and I want to read it a hundred more times. A thousand more times!”
“Well, I’m not so sure about that,” Annie said. She pulled the covers over the three of them. “But I’ll read it once tonight.” As her children melted deeper against her, she understood the allure of getting lost in a little fantasy now and again, especially a romantic one. Her children didn’t need to be privy to the disappointing ways of the world yet. Unfortunately, that was her job.
* * *
WILLIAM THRUST OPEN the rickety shed door and stood back to admire how everything inside was still meticulously placed just as Dennis had left it. It was a clear indicator his mother had not been inside since Dennis’s death three years ago. As the early-morning sun filtered in from behind him, thousands of dust particles glittered and swirled around his first hesitant step. The air inside hung heavy and musty. With his eyes closed, the stale scent of cedar chips, rusted-out gas cans and motor oil wafted over him. It engulfed his nostrils with a nostalgia he had long tried to bury. Only one whiff and he was back to the day his life veered off course.
Right on the threshold of this shed, when William hadn’t had any proof that he was the true victim and not the violent juvenile Dennis had claimed, his stepfather had tried to have him arrested. For as many times as he had recalled the altercation, the details had slowly begun to fade. Perhaps it was a way to cope with his anger and soften the hard edges, but standing in the shed again, the details came back to him: the dueling sawhorses Dennis had made him sand until his fingertips were raw and bleeding; Dennis’s apple-red tool chest he’d once innocently scratched and paid hell for later; and the wooden pallet he’d punched a fist through minutes before the cops arrived and Dennis had falsely accused him of assault. It took all his restraint to not boot the nearest thing just for the satisfaction of hearing it shatter and break against the wall.
Heaving a sigh, he jerked the corner of a dust-covered drop cloth to reveal one of his teenage fantasies in all its chrome glory: the classic 1981 Indian motorcycle. Fully restored, practically fawned over daily by the old man, it was a thing of pure beauty. And now it was finally his.
He gingerly ran his fingers over the smooth cinnamon-colored paint that had inspired him to nickname the motorcycle Old Red. He carefully swung his leg over the leather seat and firmly gripped the handlebars. The bike had been sitting cold for several years in the harsh Lake Superior winters, so he drew a breath and hoped for the best.
He shifted the transmission to Neutral and carefully set his choke. After pulling in the clutch, he pressed the starter button and waited for the crackle of the engine to tear through every corner of the tiny shed.
Nothing.
William double-checked that his kill switch wasn’t set at Off and tried again, but the engine was silent.
Perfect.
“Call The Chinoodin Chronicle! Hell hath officially frozen over.”
A grin leaped to William’s face at the familiar voice. “How are you doing, man?” His buddy Brandon Rodriguez strode into the shed and embraced him in a bear hug. “How’d you know I was back?”
“Son, please. I know everything happening in this town.” Brandon slung his suit jacket over a chair and loosened his tie. He stopped short to admire the vintage bike. “Are you fixin’ up Old Red?”
“It looks like I have to. I can’t get it started.”
“I’d love to buy it off you, but the hours I work at the mayor’s office wouldn’t leave me enough time to make it worthwhile.”
“Are you