his shoulder-length hair hung in greasy clumps.
Playing to a man beside him with a shaved head, he said, “Bet you’d love to know what I sleep in.”
“That a feeble attempt to flirt, or are you trying to be obnoxious? I’m in no mood for jokes today because I didn’t get much sleep last night, Kenny. Want to know why?”
“Bet I can guess what you were doing all night.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that. Instead, I’m going to remind you of Francis Cyr. Remember him?”
The incident had taken place during their junior year, close to twenty years earlier.
“That stupid look on your face tells me you haven’t forgotten it.”
“You broke his nose. Some karate move.”
“I was a brown belt then. I’m a black belt now. He laughed at my family. Dad had lost the farm, had to take a job at the town dump. Francis Cyr called him a ‘dump picker.’ I don’t like being made fun of, Kenny.”
“Relax. I was just kidding.”
“Come with me. I’ll buy you a coffee.”
“Can’t. Break ends soon.”
“You can buy me a coffee, eh,” the guy next to Radke said in a French accent. About Radke’s age, he had ARMY tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand, CHRIST on the knuckles of his left. He looked vaguely familiar. “Eh, Peyton, you don’t remember me? Christ, that hurts.”
“Tyler Timms?”
“The one and only.”
“You look different.”
She remembered Timms. A burnout in high school, he’d joined the Army a week after graduation. She hadn’t run into him since returning to Garrett.
Behind them, the bell jingled. Morris and Margaret Picard entered. Mo Picard, her former US history teacher, spotted them, made a just-a-secondgesture to his wife, and walked over. Judging from his attire, he was still teaching.
“Peyton Cote, I read an article about you in the paper. ‘Star Agent Returns.’ ”
She grinned. “That wasn’t the headline, Mr. Picard.”
“But that was the gist.” He smiled, and she gave him a hug, eyes returning to Radke.
Mo Picard had to be nearly sixty, but his brown hair curled at the nape, forming a single boyish flip near his collar. Small and lean, he could pass for forty, and he knew everyone in Garrett, Maine.
“How’s your mom, Peyton? It was terrible when your father passed, very tough on her. They’d been through a lot together. I know having both you and your sister out of state was rough.”
Was that a criticism? Elise had been in a different city each of the past three years. Now her husband was four for four, working for Picard in the high school history department. Peyton had been in Texas but made it back to see her father in the hospital before he died. The farm and farmhouse had been lost long before then. Maybe that helped the bankers to sleep at night; maybe it didn’t. She hoped not, hoped they realized that when you take a man’s way of life, the clock starts ticking.
“I’m about to beg Peyton, here,” Timms said, “to go out with me before Kenny can ask her.”
Chuckles all around.
“Be careful, Tyler,” Picard said, still smiling, but his voice dropped an octave. “She’ll discover your true colors.”
Peyton smiled. “That doesn’t sound good.”
Timms looked at Picard for an awkward moment, then both men smiled.
“Well,” Picard said, “with the economy struggling and jobs downstate paying more than anything up here, it’s good to see some young people staying and others even returning to Garrett.”
“Why do you guys stay?” Peyton asked.
“I like helping people,” Radke said.
“At the public works department?”
Radke turned his attention to the floor.
Picard coughed once, a loud, deep smoker’s rumble.
“You okay?” she asked. “Want some water?”
He shook his head.
“I’m here because I got shot in Iraq,” Timms said. “Been home about a year. Wore St. Christopher around my neck every day over there, and I still got shot, eh. Lost thirty pounds.”
“Sorry to hear
Playing to a man beside him with a shaved head, he said, “Bet you’d love to know what I sleep in.”
“That a feeble attempt to flirt, or are you trying to be obnoxious? I’m in no mood for jokes today because I didn’t get much sleep last night, Kenny. Want to know why?”
“Bet I can guess what you were doing all night.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that. Instead, I’m going to remind you of Francis Cyr. Remember him?”
The incident had taken place during their junior year, close to twenty years earlier.
“That stupid look on your face tells me you haven’t forgotten it.”
“You broke his nose. Some karate move.”
“I was a brown belt then. I’m a black belt now. He laughed at my family. Dad had lost the farm, had to take a job at the town dump. Francis Cyr called him a ‘dump picker.’ I don’t like being made fun of, Kenny.”
“Relax. I was just kidding.”
“Come with me. I’ll buy you a coffee.”
“Can’t. Break ends soon.”
“You can buy me a coffee, eh,” the guy next to Radke said in a French accent. About Radke’s age, he had ARMY tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand, CHRIST on the knuckles of his left. He looked vaguely familiar. “Eh, Peyton, you don’t remember me? Christ, that hurts.”
“Tyler Timms?”
“The one and only.”
“You look different.”
She remembered Timms. A burnout in high school, he’d joined the Army a week after graduation. She hadn’t run into him since returning to Garrett.
Behind them, the bell jingled. Morris and Margaret Picard entered. Mo Picard, her former US history teacher, spotted them, made a just-a-secondgesture to his wife, and walked over. Judging from his attire, he was still teaching.
“Peyton Cote, I read an article about you in the paper. ‘Star Agent Returns.’ ”
She grinned. “That wasn’t the headline, Mr. Picard.”
“But that was the gist.” He smiled, and she gave him a hug, eyes returning to Radke.
Mo Picard had to be nearly sixty, but his brown hair curled at the nape, forming a single boyish flip near his collar. Small and lean, he could pass for forty, and he knew everyone in Garrett, Maine.
“How’s your mom, Peyton? It was terrible when your father passed, very tough on her. They’d been through a lot together. I know having both you and your sister out of state was rough.”
Was that a criticism? Elise had been in a different city each of the past three years. Now her husband was four for four, working for Picard in the high school history department. Peyton had been in Texas but made it back to see her father in the hospital before he died. The farm and farmhouse had been lost long before then. Maybe that helped the bankers to sleep at night; maybe it didn’t. She hoped not, hoped they realized that when you take a man’s way of life, the clock starts ticking.
“I’m about to beg Peyton, here,” Timms said, “to go out with me before Kenny can ask her.”
Chuckles all around.
“Be careful, Tyler,” Picard said, still smiling, but his voice dropped an octave. “She’ll discover your true colors.”
Peyton smiled. “That doesn’t sound good.”
Timms looked at Picard for an awkward moment, then both men smiled.
“Well,” Picard said, “with the economy struggling and jobs downstate paying more than anything up here, it’s good to see some young people staying and others even returning to Garrett.”
“Why do you guys stay?” Peyton asked.
“I like helping people,” Radke said.
“At the public works department?”
Radke turned his attention to the floor.
Picard coughed once, a loud, deep smoker’s rumble.
“You okay?” she asked. “Want some water?”
He shook his head.
“I’m here because I got shot in Iraq,” Timms said. “Been home about a year. Wore St. Christopher around my neck every day over there, and I still got shot, eh. Lost thirty pounds.”
“Sorry to hear
Similar Books
Hard Candy Saga
Amaleka McCall
Punk Like Me
JD Glass
Almost Zero
Nikki Grimes
Remember Me
Lesley Pearse
A Man for the Summer
Ruby Laska
The Plot on the Pyramid
Terry Deary
The Battle Within
LaShawn Vasser
Hypocrite's Isle
Ken McClure
The Last Hellion
Loretta Chase
Liquid Smoke
Jeff Shelby