“Greg’s got a tab,” she noted gruffly. “It’s the best o’ the best.” Aly nodded as the odor of teriyaki salmon jerky prickled her nose. Grabbing the brown paper bag, she fled the building, stepping into a pleasant breeze.
A series of chants drew her attention across the street. In an enclosed lot, attached to portables, men and women danced across a wooden platform.
As an audience of children observed the presentation, they fidgeted and cast glances amongst their peers. Aly couldn’t remove her gaze. With cloaks draped across their backs, the performers spun in unison. Their coordination resembled the formation of migrating flocks.
A fierce array of colors whirred together as they moved. The troupe had seamlessly timed pauses, granting viewers a moment to absorb the details woven into the fabrics. Natural curvature brought dimension to the animalistic features. The cloth on their backs became wings and paws. Each time they turned a new mask claimed their faces.
With a thunderous clap, they concurrently dropped onto one foot. Gloved hands collided, and they balanced one another throughout the chain. With whispered prompts from chaperones, the small spectators applauded. Trading bows, the group shuffled from the stage.
Withdrawing an enraptured stare, Aly returned to the parking lot. She found Greg leaning against the hood, engrossed in an array of papers. As she approached the vehicle, he scribbled a final sentence. Whipping the binder shut, he shoved the evidence into the duffle at his feet.
“Did Terri give you a hard time?” he coughed, an accent choking his self-conscious stutter.
“I didn’t realize you wanted me to run in alone.” Unspoken accusations tainted her tone. “There was a call from an elder,” he mumbled, as though the vague title justified him. The set of his jaw suggested irritation. It was the same expression he used with her mother before spitting, ‘I am a grown man,’ like it was a threat, a sentence, and a rationalization. She wondered if he really felt he was so untouchable, like he had single-handedly earned the right not to be questioned.
An elder? Aly suppressed a startled smile. She could only imagine Greg sprinting towards the towering chapel in Kingsley, or even pulling on the lab coat tossed over the basement door and secretively descending into the Ministry of Magic. Despite the series of guest rooms upstairs, he insisted on dragging a futon into the cellar and constructing a slapdash man cave.
Just one more unnecessary means of isolation.
After pausing, Greg added, “I have business with Lee Locklear. You hungry?” He nodded down the street. She resisted the urge study the elaborate murals along the raised foundation of the building. Squinting to distinguish the letters wrapped around the hook of a thrown line, she made out the faded title ofYazzie’s Seafood and Dining.
“I figure we’ll get some food, since you wouldn’t eat anything earlier.”
That’s the most you’ve said to me all morning.
“Okay,” she murmured, pausing to evaluate her snarling stomach. Adding the groceries to containers in the trunk, she labored to ignore Greg’s glare. His behavior reminded Aly of her mother’s when sharing lanes with an oil rig: as though something unremarkable was on the verge of an explosion. It altered his motions, posture – even speech. The agitation, and uneasiness was disturbing. raw mixture of distrust,
If not insulting. She distracted herself with the seaside horizon until she could shake off the observation. As she followed his hurried gait, she focused on beachside couples picking through tidal debris until they were out of sight.
Her fingertips trailed a corkboard coated with event flyers as they ascended the ramp wound around the building. She felt archaic paint chipping beneath her feet until they stepped inside.
As she entered the diner, glass doors swung shut and amplified murmurs of jovial chatter. Weaving around an easel-mounted chalkboard, they obeyed the handwritten direction to seat themselves.
The most animated groups were dispersed amongst the booths. Along the bar, hunched coffee drinkers stirred their brew. The aroma pierced the greasy odors of morning comfort foods.
As they eased into beige seats, the awkwardness of their lack relationship continued to be discomforting. Despite the close proximity, neither made attempts to converse. Furrowing a bushy brow, Greg shielded paperwork in his lap.
Aly faked captivation with the table setting. Painted coasters bearing reindeer and caribou, framed coffee cup stains, were strung across the table. Pinned beneath each was a tattered card stating the restaurant had proudly supported local fisheries since 1968. The backs listed the contents of the to-go freezer, composed of Siberian sausage and pepper sticks.
A flash of a black tee and jeans announced the approach of the waiter as he slipped out of the kitchen. His tan skin paled as four men exploded through the entrance with thunderous hoots and booted footfalls. The boy stiffened as they receded into an unmarked hallway in the back.
In their wake, an older man, clad in fishermen’s rubber and plaid flannel, met Aly’s gaze. His shoulders straightened as Greg exited the booth. With a firm pat on the shoulder, they led one another to an empty table.
Aly tightened her jacket, surprised to feel unprepared. Alone again, business was becoming a synonym for desertion.
The same choice he made seventeen years ago. Smacking Moosetard: Alaska’s Finest Mustard on the table and balancing a tray on Greg’s abandoned seat, the server pulled a notebook from the apron at his waist.
“Welcome to Yazzie’s, I’m Noah and-” he paused, glancing up during the habitual introduction, “-you’re new.” “Alyson Glass,” Aly revised, meeting a striking set of chestnut eyes. He appeared to have fully recovered from the disturbance, his faltered smirk now a relaxed grin.
Sporting tousled chocolate brown hair, Noah was put together in a seemingly accidental way. Handsome features flattered a strong, clean-shaven jaw, and a fitted tee stretched across strong shoulders and muscular build. Paired with a charming smile, his gaze was both cautious and curious.
“Glass…” he mused, biting his lower lip. “Like the doctor?”
Wow.
Dazed, she smiled and quickly nodded. She thought of her father’s profession, something along the lines of researcher and field biologist. It was amusing to imagine Greg, with his flannel and hiking boots and permanently attached baseball cap, introducing himself as ‘Doctor Glass’. She couldn’t recall if his degree was high enough for the scholarly title, but she had heard him toss around the term before.
“So Greg Glass is your dad?” Noah raised an eyebrow. “You don’t seem much like him.”
“He’s lived here for a while. You’ve probably seen him more than I have,” she confessed, tucking a stray tress behind her ear.
“Wow. Where are you from?”
“Kingsley, New York.”
“That’s a bit far,” he agreed, laughing. “So what do you think of Alaska? Were you expecting twentyfour hour darkness?”
“No,” she said, “sunlight.”
“Right,” he breathed. His amused half-smile twisted into an eyeshining grin. “Are you an Alyson-Alyson or AlyAlyson?”
“Just Aly.” “Understatement of the year,” he smirked. Squinting, his expression was unreadable. A burst of air ruffled her hair, drawing her attention to the table at her back. One of the dancers from the school had lifted and flattened a cloak across the table, showing another woman a frayed seam.
“Their performance was beautiful,” Aly confided, meeting his gaze.
“You saw their show?”
“Some. The masks, the totem poles, the murals… The arts – the culturehere is amazing.” “You noticed all of that?” Noah asked, surprised. “That’s awesome. You know, if you’re interested in it, there’s these murals inside the old train tunnels up byGrimsby’s. Every year the teens here go up and add to it– there’s all sorts of stuff about the legends. A few of us are taking some ATVs on the trails up that way tomorrow night. You in?”
“Definitely,” Aly agreed, unable to contro
l the smile flooding her face.
“Cool. Anyway,” he continued, waving a pack of order slips, “What can I get you?”
“Something normal, boring… that has nothing to do with fish.” A burst of laughter erupted from his chest, receiving pleased looks from other high-spirited patrons who seemed to find him wellliked.
Me too.
“I’m pretty sure they have omelets in the lower forty-eight, Aly.” He offered a knowing grin.
“Sounds wonderful.” She sighed.
“Coffee?”
“Please.”
“Alright,” he smiled, “I’ll be back.”
CHAPTER 4 | NOAH
“Your dad lives on the outskirts, right? On Thorne Ave’?” Noah clarified, setting a steaming plate on the table behind Alyson Glass.
The booth fit the curve of her back, her long brunette waves tucked between them.
“Yeah, on the edge of that bustling metropolis you’ve all got here,” she teased, flashing perfect teeth.
Noah smiled to himself, blinking as she raised her gaze. She sparkled with laughter.
“Right, right. Are you headed back up there today?” “I doubt it. Maybe to change or put groceries away or something. Greg made me sell my car before we moved, so he’s my ride.” Her blue eyes flickered as she spoke.
He had never met someone who seemed so incredibly controlled and totally relaxed at the same time. Ashland locals were one-sizedfits all. There were archetypal alcoholics and unnecessary gossips – most people were both. Everybody knew everybody: their names, their parents, closet skeletons, monumental failures, awkward phases and all. It rarely got more exciting than a death or a drama queen.
New identities belonged to fleeting tourists – mostly families in their own worlds and venturing elderly or the occasional wildlife photographer, always ‘just passing through’.
The ships in the night. The researchers were interesting enough, but they were ghosts. He’d met exactly four, and of those only recalled Glass, Smith, and Walker. They dressed like hikers and introduced themselves as doctor-this or professor-that. They had assorted accents but barely spoke. They ate too fast and tipped poorly. It was the end of the story.
Demanding regulars desperate for scandal had pried it out several times, voicing their distorted interpretations, but the vagueness lead to rumors and eventual lack of interest. The mysterious strangers were the concern of the elders and under the eye of the fish, game, and wildlife warden.
It’s not like they ever stick around, anyway. Though the doctor had bolted half an hour ago, Alyson still sat before a slowly eroding breakfast. She seemed irritated in the moment. Her father sketched an address onto her napkin under her direct request, dropped cash on the table, and moved through the doors so fast they swung with the net force. She was good natured about it, but Greg was clearly a jerk. Noah knew he got under Lee’s skin often enough, too.
I look at this girl, and I have no idea who I’m taking to.
It was fascinating.
“Ouch. I can text you when I get off around two and we can carpool,” he continued, sliding the phone from his back pocket. Rising from her seat with grace, Aly revealed soft curves, delicate features, and a lithe frame, quite unlike the rugged and weather-worn women of Ashland. She pulled her hair behind an ear, the deep brown a dramatic contrast to her skin. A wave of lavender and vanilla hit him as they swapped. Relieved to see she didn’t have any difficulty with his ancient prepaid cell, he glanced at the flashing screen.
Her background was a photograph of herself and an older woman who looked uncannily similar. Long hair, pale skin, pretty eyes, happy smile, dressy shirts. The other woman wore the same silver necklace, a set of overlapping charms unevenly twisted beside a freckle on the woman’s exposed shoulder. In the photograph, it looked like leaves. As Noah glanced at the same chain hung loosely between Aly’s collarbones, he could distinguish a pair of wings.
Parting gift?
“Is this your mom?” he asked, twisting his wrist.
Aly smiled, but he could tell it made her sad. Peering at the screen, she squinted like there was a glare. He stifled a groan.
Like she doesn’t know what her own phone looks like.
“Yes, that’s my mother.”
“You miss her,” he said carefully, noting her reaction. “Did she stay in New York?” Her eyes watered, just for a second, as she swallowed, nodded, smiled. Her gaze darted away from him, at the phone in her hands, at the ceiling, towards the patrons. She wrought her hands. It was like she was gathering courage or looking for words.
Something. Before he could dismiss the question, Aly winced. “She passed away six months ago. Cancer.” She forced a hallow laugh, clearing her voice. Gently waving towards the window like a gesture to all of Ashland, she added, “That’s why I’m here. In Alaska, with him.”
I’ve been talking to this girl for all of two hours and I already pulled cancer out of her. What the hell’s wrong with me? His fingers flinched around the phone, unsure what to do with his hands. If it was his sister, he’d offer a comforting embrace and some easy words. They would sound cliché and wise but she’d laugh and it would make everything better. But this was Alyson Glass, some weird and amazing girl he’d just met. A girl he was totally unprepared for.
Cancer. “I am so sorry. I honestly didn’t know,” Noah apologized, uncertain how to respond. Everyone knew everything in Ashland, but no one heard about Doctor Gregory Glass’s dead wife or ex- girlfriend or whatever Aly’s mom was. No one had heard about his daughter showing up. An unexpected visit was understandable, but it was remarkable that a total move went undetected.
If her mom’s dead, does that mean she lives here now? “Of course.” She shook her head, hair falling over her shoulders. “I didn’t mean to be so... It’s… it’s really okay. Um, here’s your phone.”
He dropped his number into he r contacts, thankful it didn’t require much figuring out. Luke had a similar model he paraded around enough to figure out the basics. Noah and Aly traded again. He resisted the urge to see what she had written.
“I better get going.” Smiling, she glanced over his shoulder. He turned, suddenly aware of the demanding calls of a regular. Rita Kelley waved an arm wildly, her expression twisted somewhere in irritation and glee. Her craggy features were always like that, predictable. At her side, Charlie Mitchel hung his head in his hands. His crusty eyes were closed and he had a messy handlebar-goatee explosion covering his mouth.
Rolland Hunt, Owen’s dad, sat across from them. With arms crossed over his chest, his legs stretched out too tall for the seat. With his greasy hair disheveled most of the way down his back, there were sure-fire signs he was hung over. His signature hatchetfaced scowl looked as miserable as ever.
This morning, Noah had luckily knocked on Luke’s window before trying the Young household. Owen had spent the night. Noah distinctly remembered his friend describing a swollen wrist as ‘trouble in paradise’ with a grim snicker.
“Cool. I’ll see you soon then,” he said with a grin.
She smiled and rested a hand on his arm as she moved past, leaving an impression of heat though his shirt and brushing his skin. Watching her as she left, he ignored the costumers watching him. Collecting plates, he shoved the doctor’s cash into his pocket with a handwritten receipt.
“Alyson Glass,” he murmured, catching a glimpse as she passed the last window.
It didn’t sound so wrong. Not wrong at all.
~
“What?” Noah demanded. He felt his sister’s stare the moment she walked into her shift. He expected to find her blurry eyed and half-asleep, but instead she seemed bored and alert. It wasn’t difficult to assume her tardiness was intentional. Mary-Agnes was down five cups of black coffee and had the kitchen radio blasting on an oldies-country-western station fogged with snow from the waves, slightly out of range. He couldn’t imagine his mother had noticed.
“Nothing.” Sarah shrugged, raising the tray over the c
ounter as she darted around Melvin Toledo. He was hunched over cold home fries and a Belgian waffle with silver plastic pressed to his ear, probably muttering on the phone to his infamous on-again-off-again, Nolee Crawford.
Noah turned back to his notepad. Reggie and Kendra Hudson continued to argue about the menu they’d seen a thousand times. Feeling her eyes on his back again, he turned around, catching Sarah wiggling her eyebrows, her tongue pointed out of her mouth in his direction. As their eyes met, she turned to a booth, sharing giggles with Frankie Miller. Upon getting caught, the five-yearold’s face clouded with a deep blush, his fingers slapping over his ketchupcovered mouth.
“Hel -lo. Earth to Sarah,” Noah repeated, waving a hand. She straightened her back and turned around, cocking her head innocently. “What are you doing?”
“What are youdoing?” she echoed, winking at Frankie. She dropped a quarter onto a drawing he was completing on the mat beneath a half-eaten chicken burger. It appeared that the child was working a circle of airplanes around the greasy meat and spills of what was probably drying orange soda. As he ran towards the ancient neon vending machines, Sarah called after him, “The gumballs are broken, Frank’, I’d go with the plastic bubbles. This month is mood rings.”
Noah quirked his brow expectantly, waiting for explanation. She closed the yards between them with skips, tugging on her hair tie. Her sleeve fell down, revealing the stains of purple markers where she’d been tracing her veins. Noah rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to drop comments about ink poisoning and urban legends. It usually ended in an argument about hypocrisy and the tattoo of a tribal-style serpent curling around his wrist.
Leaning on the nearest empty table, she crossed her arms, casually inquiring, “So who’s the new girl?”
“Are you serious?” Noah groaned, running a hand through his hair. Sarah shrugged, her fingers curling into her palm, motioning ‘bring it on’ like it beckoned a reply. “The researcher’s kid, right?” She continued. “Is she from out of town, or something?”
Something Of A Kind Page 3