.
my wrenches?”
Tyson giggled, then suppressed it because that was part of the game.
“I’ve come to buy a racing car, good sir.” He did his best to imitate the low boom in Harold’s voice, and Paul broke into a grin.
Harold Price was five years younger and a good six inches shorter than his sister, Mildred, but his warm blue eyes matched hers and, although he was married and had a family of his own, he cared equally about Green Valley and the people who lived there.
“I’m actually here to get my tools,” Paul said. “I promised someone a favor.”
Harold considered that briefly, then nodded. Paul knew the older man was an astute businessman but that he would also understand that being a Good Samaritan was beneficial to everyone in the long run.
“Since you’re here,” Harold said. “There is something I’d like to talk to you about.”
He reached down and lifted Tyson up, swinging him onto a high stool behind a workbench.
“Mind the shop, good sir?” he asked. “I’m just going to have a quick chat with your uncle.”
Tyson sat up straight and proud. “You got it, good sir,” he replied.
Paul felt the relaxed, enjoyable feeling of the moment slip away into apprehension. But he quickly reasoned that he was a good mechanic and he knew he worked hard.
Back in Harold’s office, a small room crammed with a desk, one chair and shelves filled top to bottom with binders and stacks of paper, Harold indicated that Paul should sit.
“This won’t take long,” Harold promised. “First off, you’re a fine mechanic, Paul. I don’t know if I’ve worked with a better one.”
“Thank you,” Paul said, feeling the thread of tension in his shoulders begin to unravel.
“However...”
The thread pulled taut again.
“Competition in this business is fierce,” Harold continued. “Sure, folks will come here because they know us and it’s convenient. But there are garages being set up all over the place, so it’s very important that we offer excellent customer service.”
He leaned forward, linking his hands together and studying Paul’s face intently. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Paul couldn’t think of a single time when he’d done less than his best work. “I’m not sure I do.”
“You do great work,” Harold reiterated, “and the customers do like you. It’s just that...” He stopped, looking as if it pained him to say what he had to say. “Mrs. Meissner had a bit of a complaint about you yesterday.”
“A complaint?” Paul repeated, trying to think of his dealings with her. He had fixed her car, which hadn’t been an easy job. Also, in the short time he’d known Mrs. Meissner, she struck him a chronic complainer.
“Maybe complaint is too strong a word,” Harold amended. “Let’s say she had a concern about you.”
“What was it?” Paul asked, wishing that his boss would get to the point. He didn’t want to leave Tyson waiting too long.
“Well, she always likes someone to review her invoices with her,” Harold explained, “and she said that you refused to do it.” Harold looked at him, as if sure there was a logical explanation.
Suddenly Paul remembered the incident. Mrs. Meissner had said something about a price being higher than usual. Paul had remarked that inflation seemed to impact everything and then had gone into the shop to let the next customer know he was ready for him.
His mind raced, like a mouse going through a maze after some elusive cheese. He would have to apologize and give some kind of reason. He had to make sure that he bonded with the people of this town, for Tyson’s sake, even if his own inclination was to run away as soon as the pressure was on. Maybe he would take Ms. Connelly up on her offer of Ty and him joining in those Wednesday night activities at church.
There was only one thing he was sure of. There was no absolutely no way he could tell Harold, or Mrs. Meissner, or anyone else that the reason he hadn’t reviewed the invoice with her was because he couldn’t read.
Late Saturday morning, Charlotte was sitting with her cousin Bridget at Seth’s Café. As always, the place was busy, and Seth was cooking, calling out orders and chatting with the customers. His black hair spiked out in all directions, regardless of what he was doing but, inevitably, one of the regulars was bound to call out, “Look at Seth, he’s working so hard his hair’s standing on end!”
The familiar joke, as well as the coffee, lightly flavored with nutmeg, and an order of pancakes usually soothed Charlotte, but she had a restlessness that she couldn’t quell.
Sometimes she liked to imagine different directions her life could take. She loved music and poetry and she’d always been fascinated by history. Of course she could teach about those things, but that wasn’t the same thing as actually experiencing them. Maybe one day she would travel more, go to concerts and shows and see first-hand some of the things she’d only read about.
But she had also made a promise to the uncle of a grieving little boy...
Charlotte’s father and Bridget’s father were brothers, both businessmen who commuted daily to Regina. Less than a year apart—Charlotte ten months older, almost to the day—she and Bridget had always been close. They were more like sisters than cousins. People always told them they looked like sisters, too, although Bridget’s eyes were more denim than violet blue, and her hair was a shade lighter.
“So, what do you think?” Charlotte asked Bridget, having filled her in on her possible mission work. Bridget hadn’t been at church on Wednesday night because she was on a date. Since they’d been teenagers, she and Bridget had shared their ideas of what their perfect lives would look like. Marriage and family were definitely part of the plan.
“I don’t know, Char,” Bridget said, twirling a piece of toast through an egg yolk. “I can’t imagine you going so far away. You’ve never even left Saskatchewan. How are you going to handle living thousands of miles away?”
“Maybe it’s time to change all that,” Charlotte said quietly.
Bridget shrugged. “Maybe,” she said. She finished the rest of the food on her plate and sighed. “That was so good, but I am not going to eat anything else until supper time.” She looked around the café. “It’s busy this morning.”
“It always is,” Charlotte said. She accepted that the conversation about missionary work was over for now. She knew that Bridget would miss her terribly if she went away, even if she had a hard time saying it.
“Who’s sitting in the back corner?” Bridget asked in a lowered voice. “Don’t make it obvious that you’re looking.”
Charlotte laughed and turned around to look. “If they’re strangers here,” she said to Bridget, “I won’t be the first person to stare.”
She briefly took in the sight of a woman who looked like she was in her early to mid-thirties, with a tired face and a distant gaze, and a boy, who looked to be about six or seven, listlessly pushing a toy car back and forth across the table.
Charlotte turned back to Bridget. “I’ve seen them on Wednesday nights at church, so they must live somewhere close by, but I haven’t seen them Sunday and the little boy isn’t at our school.”
“They don’t look like they feel at home here,” Bridget observed.
“Maybe we should do something to make them feel welcome, then,” Charlotte suggested. But she had no