by Laura Kemp
“It could be,” I answered, thinking of the whole, wide world spread before me—the open road and the places it would take me.
“What does your Mom think of this?” Iris asked.
I shrugged. “She’s okay with it.”
“Well, miracles never cease.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Happy Birthday, by the way.”
You know?” I asked. Of course she did.
“Been keeping track of them for a while now.”
I looked away, unable to meet her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Too bad you have to leave today.”
I sat back on my stool and thought about Dylan.
True to his word, he had left my apartment at 7:30 to work a double shift, kissing me as though it were any other day and I’d stood at the kitchen window, sobbing as he pulled out of the driveway before finally pulling myself together and packing up my things.
“I can’t say it’s the best burger I’ve ever fried up, but it’ll have to do.”
“Thanks,” I managed as she spun on her heel, setting the food down in front of me.
“You still have that big cat of yours?”
I nodded, wondering why she was beating around the bush at a time like this.
“He like the open road as much as you?”
I shrugged. Joey liked me, but not necessarily the cat carrier I’d stuffed him into.
“What do you say he stays with me—just until you get settled.”
I felt my eyes widen and sat my burger down, took a small sip of Coke.
“Gives me an excuse to check in with you now and again.” She paused, her green eyes meeting mine for the first time. “If that’s alright.”
I nodded, tried to pick up my burger but found my hands were shaking. My grandmother circled the bar, sat down beside me. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
I looked at her.
“And I don’t just mean the last few days.”
I swallowed past the love clogging my throat.
“You’re going to be fine. You’re a Cook.”
“I know,” I said, trying to believe it.
“The end is sometimes just the beginning.”
I looked up at her, wondering if she knew something I didn’t when Mallard came swaggering back inside. “Checked your oil, Flats” he bragged, his smile wide and bright. “Might want to put a quart in when you get to wherever the hell you’re going.”
“Mind grabbing my cat,” I said while rising to my feet. “Grandma here seems to think she can take better care of him than I can.”
He glanced at Iris, scratched the back of his head and then did as I asked, and I found that letting go of Joey was easier than I thought because he was in good hands. Because I knew I would see him again.
Which couldn’t be said for the other man in my life.
Five minutes later we were standing at the bottom of the porch, and I was hugging Iris, then Mallard as he ruffled the top of my head. “Stay outta trouble.”
I couldn’t answer, just climbed into the Jeep and backed out of the parking lot before I changed my mind and made a career out of the place.
Which wouldn’t be half bad considering the location and clientele and opportunity for advancement. It was just a short drive from the lake house and we could make it work, especially while Dylan was in school and I had to support us.
I shut my mind to that thought, pulled out onto 23 and headed north towards Cheboygan with my load a little lighter and my heart a lot heavier, and glanced at the dashboard clock.
6:17 p.m.
Dylan would be breaking for supper about now, probably running up to the little diner at Hammond Bay—and if that were the case we might possibly pass on this lonely stretch of road.
I touched my cell phone, almost called him to meet up for coffee and then thought better of it because Lord knew where a small conversation could lead with our hearts still raw and tender and discombobulated and—
I glanced back at the road, saw something on the shoulder—something tall, with bronzed skin and dark hair. He stood looking at me and I realized who he was, what he was, as he stepped in front of my Jeep.
“Shit!” I screeched as I swerved across the center lane, grateful that the road was empty and I wouldn’t have to add a new car to my list of necessities.
Three hundred and sixty degrees later I was sitting on the opposite side of the road with my heart in my eyeballs. A quick glance out my rearview mirror told me the Shaman had vanished just as steam began to pour from beneath the hood.
Does a Shaman ever really die?
“Dammit, Butler,” I cursed while grabbing for the purple package that had landed in my lap—an open package I now kept because I understood its true meaning.
I looked at it and thought of the orange kitten in the party hat, the way I had torn it up—and the medicine bag, hidden inside. I wondered how my father had known the card would make me angry enough to tuck the present away.
But Dad knew everything…
Except how to say goodbye.
I looked at the box again, wondering why Butler had stepped into the road, knowing I would be forced to swerve, knowing the package would end up in my lap. Knowing it was my birthday.
Three months ago I would have written the whole thing off as a hallucinatory coincidence—but now I knew there was no such thing.
I looked at the box again, opened the top and saw something I had missed the night we found the medicine bag—a small note with five words printed on the outside in the neat, block letters I recognized.
To the Man You Love
At first, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, couldn’t believe I was holding it after all this time.
My father had thought of everything, and a part of me wanted to rip it open, read every last line, but I knew that wasn’t what Robert Cook had intended when he’d written it.
I thought of the man I’d kissed goodbye that very morning and knew he was the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, the one I wanted to father my children and the man I hoped would carry my cameo in his pocket, touching it from time to time when his thoughts darkened and I was no longer there to comfort him.
I thought of Dylan Locke and his fear of falling short.
Going long.
Jumping without a net.
And knew I didn’t want to live if I couldn’t fly.
Unfortunately, modern technology paired with horrible reception didn’t agree with me.
“Dammit!” I cursed again, throwing my cell phone over my shoulder as I slumped against the driver’s seat. Five minutes passed, then ten without a single passing car.
I glanced down at my feet, was mildly surprised to see the pink flip-flops and laughed to myself, knowing I would have walked a thousand miles to reach him, my heart lighting the way.
Opening the door, I offered a prayer to the God of small domestic pets that Joey was safe and sound and probably finishing up the leftover hamburger at Huff’s and stepped out onto 23.
Four paces and I saw a police cruiser approaching, six and his lights went on. Twelve and I knew miracles could happen.
He came to stop about twenty feet behind the Jeep, stepped out and closed the distance between us in a few brisk steps.
“J?”
“Yes,” I nodded as if his sudden appearance hadn’t shaken me to the core.
“What happened?” He asked, and I saw in him the same thing I’d just recognized in myself.
“There was someone,” I began. “At the side of the road. I think it was Butler.”
He nodded his head, used to these things by now and asked the requisite, “You okay?”
“I think so…but Dylan,” I touched his arm, brought the letter from my back pocket and placed it in his hand. “This was inside my birthday present and I don’t know how we missed it and I think it was meant for you,” I felt my cheeks go hot. “I know it was.”
He turned it over in his hands, looked at wh
at was written, and I saw his eyes widen as he glanced at me. “Your Dad wrote this?”
I nodded.
“Did you read it?”
I shook my head.
“Do you think I should?” he asked, uncomfortable and I felt my hope dying as quickly as it had appeared. “It’s kind of special.”
“And you’re not?” I snapped. “How can you honestly stand there and act like you didn’t save my life a week ago? That you didn’t tell me you loved me, wanted to be with me?”
“Justine,” one hand up, to calm the excited woman and I had to fight the urge to stomp on his toe and see if the superpowers were gone for good.
“Just read the damn letter,” I whispered, “Throw it away if you want but stop acting like what we had didn’t mean anything to you.”
He looked down at the envelope in his hands, turned it over a couple of times before fingering the outside edge. “I’m not acting like nothing ever happened. I tried your cell when I got a call that someone had broken down out here. I thought it might be you—thought you might need help—”
I narrowed my eyes. “How could anyone have called you? No one’s been by in the last twenty minutes which was why I was walking to town.”
He glanced down and I saw his jaw loosen into the smile I adored. “In those shoes?”
I fought the urge to laugh but looked away instead as he circled to the front of the Jeep and popped the hood. After a few seconds he stepped away and scratched the back of his head.
“Loose radiator cap,” he said matter-of-factly. “Was someone messing with the engine today?”
“No,” I answered, a picture of Mallard’s wide, bright smile playing through my mind—and Iris, suddenly so willing to fry me up the worst burger in town. “I stopped by Huff’s to see Iris—”
“And Mallard checked your oil?”
I nodded.
“Did they know I was working today?”
“Have you seen the new police scanner next to the till?”
He chuckled, leaned back against the side of the Jeep. “Guess we need all the help we can get.”
I smiled, the tension between us gone as he opened the letter, read the words my father had written so long ago. And when he had finished he folded it up, placed it in his front pocket and looked down on me through Robert Cook’s eyes.
And I couldn’t have imagined how wonderful it would feel.
“What did it say?”
He shook his head, his words measured. “That’s between me and him.”
I looked down, loving the sound of what he’d just said as he put an arm across my shoulder, turning me into his chest while resting his chin on top of my head. “I shouldn’t have mentioned Karen—shouldn’t have doubted what we had,” he paused. “What we have.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t if I’d wanted to.
“You can’t know how it feels to want something you’re afraid you’ll lose,” he paused, and I felt his fingers tighten around my shoulder. “Something you’ve loved since the first time you saw her.” He pulled away, tipped my chin with his index finger until our eyes met. “I’ll go with you.”
I closed my eyes, felt the loose ends of my life bind together at last.
“I’ll stay.”
He chuckled, emotion softening his voice. “You could have told me that yesterday.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
He pressed his lips to my temple, full of what I was feeling. “What now?”
I smiled, thinking of a bungalow by the eastern sea. A table at the lake house where we could play euchre with Holly and Dave on Friday nights and knew it really didn’t matter.
“Go get some cake and ice cream?”
He put his head back, laughed into the August sky and I knew that our ending had become the beginning—and that the beginning was everywhere.
I asked my father a question once, a man who now slept peacefully beneath the evening in a yellow wood.
His answer had been so simple.
Be happy.
And I was.
The End
Acknowledgments
Thanks to all who encouraged me on my writing journey: my wonderful teachers Darryl Smith, Jacque Andersen, Stuart Dybek, and Arnie Johnston who made me believe I might be a good at this thing. My amazing reviewers Lynda Curnyn, Steph Post, and Alexia Gordon. Special thanks to Cindy Taylor for her beautiful pictures and the many friends who became an army of positivity: Hayla Britton, Sharon Bippus, Trudy Camp, Bethany Hagner, Christa Braden, Danielle Oliver, Doloris Clark, Debbie Yoder, Lori Barczak (giving you my chapters is still the best motivation) Penni Jones (can I ever thank you ENOUGH?), Margy Eickoff, Kathy Rabbers, Karrie Frederick, Lisa Melville, Heather Nordenbrock, Sara Doe and Shone Rhyner. Thanks to everyone at Pandamoon Publishing who gave this little story a chance (Cheri Champagne, I’m looking at YOU) as well as Zara and Allan Kramer and the wonderful group of publicists (Elgon Williams and Christine Gabriel) and amazing people I’ve had the pleasure of working with since I signed. Thanks to Rachel Schoenbauer and Heather Stewart for your excellent insight and to Don Kramer for your GORGEOUS cover. Thanks to Meg Bonney and Matt Coleman for your general awesomeness. And to everyone in my Epsilon class—thanks for keepin’ it real at 9:15 on Thursday nights.
Thanks also to the people of Roger’s City, Michigan for welcoming me as one of their own and for planting the seed of this story in my heart, and to Squirrel (aka Mallard) for encouraging me to “write the damn book” that would one day become Evening in the Yellow Wood.
Last but not least, I’d like to thank my family for their support. Ron and Rachel, you’ve always been my soft place to fall. Cyndi and Teresa, even though we live on opposite sides of the country, knowing you believed in me has kept me writing. Mom and Dad, I hope the creative writing degree has now paid off! Ana and Aubrey, I know I spent a lot of late nights writing this book but I hope at the end of the day you think your mom is kinda cool. Meg and Stone, I wouldn’t be able to do what I do if you weren’t the kids you are, and to my husband, Scott, I hope you know how much your support has meant to me, how your love has illuminated my life, and how I look forward to one day buying our cabin in the northern woods where I can write stories and you can wrangle horses. Love you more.
About the Author
Laura is a teacher who loves to write about her home state of Michigan. She has a B.A. in Creative Writing from Western Michigan University where she studied under Stuart Dybek, and she has had her short fiction and poetry published in Chicken Soup for the Soul, Word Riot, Tonopalah Review, SaLit and SLAB: Sound and Literary Art Book. “The Pursuit of Happiness,” a short story she wrote while at WMU, was chosen as a finalist in the Trial Balloon Fiction Contest.
When not writing, Laura enjoys musical theatre, hiking, swimming, reading, and performing with her Celtic band, Si Bhaeg Si Mohr. She also enjoys spending time with her husband and children as well as her dog, two hamsters, two gerbils, ten chickens, two horses and eight (and counting) cats.
Laura loves to connect with readers on her blog: (Sea Legs on Land) [email protected], as well as on Facebook, Twitter @LKempWrites and Instagram lkempwrites.
Thank you for purchasing this copy of Evening in the Yellow Wood. If you enjoyed this book, please let the author know by posting a review.
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