Return to Oak Valley

by Shirlee Busbee

  Shelly's heart ached for him. He reminded her of Josh in so many ways—or at least the Josh she'd thought she'd known, and in her mind, there was no doubt that he was Josh's son. She felt closer to Nick than she did to anybody else in the world. There was a bond and a trust between them that she couldn't explain—not even to herself. Some of it, she knew, came from their shared childhood, but some of it…well, there just wasn't an explanation for it. They understood each other. And, she thought with a wry smile, they shared a dream—Granger Cattle Company. But Nick had another dream, she admitted painfully. A dream that somehow she had to help him obtain—impossible though it seemed right now.

  Shelly reached over and gripped his arm. He looked at her, his features barely discernable in the growing darkness.

  “I don't know how we're going to prove the truth, but I promise you one thing,” she said fiercely, “we will do it. Whatever it takes.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wednesday Shelly drove into town to pick up M.J. at McGuire's for lunch at the Blue Goose. It was a late lunch—after 2:00 P.M., but it was the only time M.J. could escape from the demands of the store.

  M.J. was waiting at the front entrance. The instant she spotted Shelly's vehicle, she came running up. Climbing into Shelly's Bronco, she said, “Step on it—before they discover I've escaped.” Shaking her head, she added, “Man, if anybody had ever told me how hard it is to run your own business, and a grocery store at that, I'd have run screaming to the hills.”

  Shelly grinned. “Liar. For as long as I can remember, running McGuire's has been your dream.”

  M.J. made a face. “Which will just teach me to be careful what I wish for. But, you're right, it is what I've always wanted to do. It's just that sometimes….”

  “Sometimes, it gets a little complicated?”

  M.J. nodded. “Lots of things to keep track of and anticipate. And the help situation is terrible. No one wants to work—having the reservation in the valley with half its inhabitants on welfare doesn't help. And when I do get someone, they never last for very long. You hire someone, just get them trained so they know what they're doing, and bang! They're gone, or they're having a baby or they're getting married, or moving away. Any one of a dozen reasons why the six, eight months you've invested in them is wasted. If I could just hire and keep reliable help, it would eliminate one headache.”

  “What sort of wage are you paying? It's amazing how loyal money can make an employee.”

  The Blue Goose was less than two blocks from McGuire's Grocery, and M.J. shot Shelly a dark look as she pulled into the gravel parking lot at the side of the restaurant. “Are you being sarcastic? Everyone knows that McGuire's only pays minimum wage—can't afford to pay more.”

  “Well, that's understandable and only fair for beginning, untrained help. They have to start somewhere. It's the pay of your experienced employees you need to look at—pay them enough, and maybe they won't be so inclined to leave.”

  “I know. And I don't disagree with what you're saying either,” M.J. muttered as, like Shelly, she pushed open the Bronco's door and prepared to get out of the vehicle. “It's my grandfather—he still keeps a hand in the store, and every time I try to explain that paying more to trained help is just good business and could actually save us money in the long run, he nearly has a heart attack. When he found out that I was paying Tom and Debbie Smith, who have worked at the store forever, a wage comparable to what they could earn in Willits, I thought that Granddad would bust a gut—or drop dead right in front of me. He's still stuck in the fifties somewhere when it comes to wages, and I can't get him to understand that you got to give a little to get a little.”

  Over the hood of the Bronco, Shelly sent her a commiserating smile. “Nothing's easy, is it?”

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  Shelly had not tried the charms of the Blue Goose yet, and she was looking forward to lunch. The small, squat building had undergone quite a bit of renovation in the years since she had left the valley. Seventeen years ago, it had been a dilapidated wreck falling into decay, with a leaky roof, plywood-boarded windows, peeling paint, and some god-awful stonework around the windows. These days it was painted a crisp blue and cream, sported a new roof, a covered walkway around two sides of the building, and the tacky stonework had disappeared from around the windows. A dozen or so redwood half barrels filled with pink petunias, blue pansies, and white ageratum were scattered in front and along the parking lot side of the building. There were five or six other vehicles besides her own in the parking lot, which in Oak Valley constituted a crowd and a sure sign that the place was popular.

  M.J. went first, stepping from the gravel onto the cement walkway. Looking back over her shoulder at Shelly, she said, “I hope that Megan has cooked up a great special for your first time.” Hand on the handle, she pushed on the door, expecting it to open, but the opposite happened; her arm crumpled and she slammed full force into its unyielding surface. Stunned, she stared at the heavy wooden door. She gave it a shove, but it remained shut, resisting her efforts to open it.

  M.J. tried again, this time putting all of her slender weight into it, but the door didn't budge. Impatient, she jiggled the handle. “I don't know what's going on—I know the damned place is open.” She really put her shoulder to the door this time, thinking it was stuck, and pressed down hard on the latch. Zip.

  Puzzled, she stepped back and glanced at Shelly. Just as puzzled, Shelly shrugged.

  Looking at her watch, Shelly said, “They're supposed to be open—the sign says until 3:00 P.M. and it's just 2:10 P.M. now. And there's all those vehicles in the lot…”

  The door swung open, and Sally Cosby stood there grinning at them. “Don't blame me,” she said. “It's that bunch of yahoos at the big table in back. One of them locked the door when they saw you coming.”

  Even from where they stood they could hear the guffaws and laughter coming from inside the building. Both women peered around the edge of the door and caught sight of several males looking ridiculously pleased as they sat around a long table in the rear of the small room.

  Recognizing Danny Haskell, Jeb Delaney, Bobba Neal, and the others, M.J. shook her head and walked the rest of the way inside the restaurant. “I should have known.” Hands on her hips, M.J. said, “Very funny. Don't you dickheads have anything else to do than to harass poor hardworking women?”

  “Ooh, she's talking dirty,” Danny said, his eyes dancing. “Don't you just love it when she does that? Makes my little ole heart go pitter-patter.”

  “I know, I can't hardly stand it,” Jeb said, clutching his chest, a big grin on his handsome face.

  All of them, except for Jeb and Bobba, were in uniforms of some sort—Danny in his sheriff's office khakis, the other three wearing the green of the Forest Service. Everyone wore a grin. Shelly thought she recognized two of the others—Rick Hanson, who'd been a couple years younger than her crowd, and Mingo Delaney, Jeb's younger brother, who was just about three years older than she was. The other man, about Jeb's age, had a sprinkling of gray at his temples and looked sort of familiar, but she couldn't place him. Probably a friend of Jeb's.

  Wiggling his eyebrows, Danny teased, “Are you gonna spank me for being a baaad boy?”

  M.J. put a finger to her bottom lip as if she were considering it. “I might,” she said, “if I can remember where I left my whip and chains.”

  Hoots and catcalls greeted this sally, and, chuckling, Shelly took M.J.'s arm and said, “Leave them alone—you'll only encourage them. Come on, let's find a table.”

  Waving her fingers in their direction, M.J. allowed Shelly to guide her to a table in the corner. Once they were seated, Shelly had a chance to look around.

  The entire restaurant was not large, and at this time of day, except for Jeb and the others, there was just one couple, a dark-haired man and a blond woman, sitting at a table at one side of the rectangular room. The eating area only held about ten tables, most set up for four occupants, a
couple for just two—the table where Danny and the others sat was the only one big enough to hold more than four people. The tables were made of thick slabs of redwood finished with a gleaming coat of urethane. The chairs varied from barrel-shaped covered in rust-colored Naugahyde, to spindle-legged steel framed with bright blue-and-rust patterned seats and backs. The walls were white, with strutting blue geese stenciled around the top and around the windows and door; white lace curtains hung at the windows, and the carpet on the floor was a short pile in electric blue tweed. The far wall behind the table containing Jeb and the others was made of an imitation stone in shades of russet; a squat, black, wood-burning stove stood on a stone hearth. Through the wall of glass separating the restaurant and the kitchen, Shelly recognized Megan, Hank's sister, as the cook. They'd met at the party Shelly had held when she'd first come back to the valley. She watched as blond-haired Megan glanced up at the paper order tabs above her head and slapped something on the big black grill with its huge, equally black hood. That task completed, Megan turned to face the room and began to put together something on the counter in front of her.

  “Well, what do you think?” M.J. asked, having watched Shelly's inspection.

  “It's…nice,” she said, still looking around, noticing the pitchers of ice water on each table as well as the other condiments and ketchup and Tabasco sauce. “Rustic, cozy, yet with touches of sophistication.”

  They looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Wow,” Shelly said. “Did I ever sound like some sort of snobbish food critic.”

  “That's OK—just as long as you know it.”

  Sally walked up and laid two menus on the table. Her brown eyes smiling, she said to Shelly, “Welcome back. Sorry I couldn't make your party. I wanted to come in the worst way, so did Tim—he's heard tales of our wicked past and was looking forward to meeting you.” She grimaced. “But girls both had a flu bug, running a fever, achy and mis-erable—we just wouldn't have felt right leaving them home alone while we went to a party. Even your party. Heard we missed a good time.” She grinned. “So are you adjusting? Bet everything seems really different after living in New Orleans.”

  Sally Adams, as she had been then, had been part of their crowd, and her parents and grandparents had been friends with the McGuires and Grangers for years. Sally hadn't changed much over the intervening years: a sprinkling of freckles still dusted her nose, her cinnamon brown hair was still cut short with a curly perm, and her sturdy shape hadn't expanded by as much as one pound. From M.J. Shelly knew that Sally had married a local logger about fifteen years ago and was the proud mother of a pair of twelve-year-old twin girls. Smiling back at her, Shelly said, “It's different, but it's wonderful to see how little the town has changed.” She made a face. “I'd have hated it if there had been a McDonald's or Burger King in the valley.”

  Sally laughed and shook her head. “That isn't likely to happen—they need a big population. As it is, there's barely enough business for the three restaurants in town and the Burger Place and Rolle's. And you gotta keep track of everyone's hours of operation or you'll starve—we only serve breakfast and lunch—same as the Inn. They're open seven days a week, though; we're closed on Sunday and Monday. River Bend, I think it was called Hunter's Meet when you lived here, is only open for dinners Wednesday to Saturday.” She grinned. “Don't even think of going out to dinner on Sunday, Monday, or Tuesday nights. Never happen.”

  “I'll keep that in mind,” Shelly replied, glancing at the menu. It consisted mainly of sandwiches, some cold, some hot, like chicken and steak. Nothing jumped out at her, and she asked, “What would you suggest?”

  “The special today is pretty good—Megan makes a mean wrap—ham, turkey, lettuce, tomato, onion, and gua-camole—she's not stingy with the guacamole either. It's fill-ing—you might want to split one. Comes with soup or salad; today's soups are tomato basil or creamy potato—both equally yummy. Or you can choose a salad from the refrigerator case near the cash register—macaroni, potato, green, carrot-and-raisin, and bean are the usual, but I think Megan made a couple of new ones for everyone to try out. If you want a sample, just let me know.”

  After a brief consultation, M.J. and Shelly decided to split a wrap and each ordered a green salad.

  After their salads had been served and Sally had left them to their meal, M.J. said, “So, how's it going? I saw you at the parade with Sloan. Want to tell me about that?”

  Subtle was not a word that applied to M.J. Digging into her salad, Shelly mumbled, “There's not much to tell—Acey blindsided me.” Honesty made her add, “Sloan too. We were kinda stuck with each other. Nothing much happened.”

  “Oh, yeah. I believe that. This is me you're talking to, remember? You and Sloan could never be within five yards of each other without spontaneous combustion. I remember the few times I saw you together.” M.J. waved a hand like a fan in front of her face. “Hot. Hot. Hot. Now give.”

  Shelly chewed on a mouthful of spring greens, trying to think of a way to sidetrack M.J. Nothing occurred to her. And she certainly did not want to mention the date coming up on Friday night. Just as had happened seventeen years ago, she wanted whatever was happening between her and Sloan to proceed without the avid, eagle-eyed interest of everyone in the valley.

  As she fumbled for some sort of an answer, the front door opened and Hank ambled in, a red baseball cap on his head and a white apron around his waist. Spying Shelly, a wide smile crossed his face. “Ah, me darlin', you finally came in.” Rubbing his hands together, he walked to their table. “Now tell me, what did you order?”

  “The special,” Shelly said with a laugh, delighted to see him, not only for his own sake but also for the distraction he provided.

  “A good choice. Too bad this isn't one of the days when Megan has whipped up something really exotic. Everyone seems to like the wrap, so we have it often. We try to keep the menu simple and easy, but sometimes, Megan'll pull all the stops—like a turkey dinner or roast pork with all the trimmings.” He winked at her. “Saturday morning is when you should come in—that's the day I get to create, and I modestly admit that I have come up with some tasty offerings.”

  M.J. piped in, “Not to make his head swell any bigger than it is, but he does these special potatoes and a spicy omelet with jalapeño jack cheese and ham and onions and green peppers—great stuff.”

  “I'll remember that,” Shelly said. She indicated the interior. “The place looks great—not at all what I remember. When I was a kid the place was an eyesore and all boarded up—I never even had any idea what it looked like inside.”

  Hank laughed. “It looked like a rat's nest when we first bought it. Took us months of painting and cleaning before we could even think of furniture or equipment—your brother was a great help. See these tables?” At Shelly's nod, he continued, “He found them somewhere near San Francisco and haggled a good deal for us. Helped finance the place, too, and when we opened, sang our praises to everyone in the valley. I don't think we would have been as successful as quickly as we were if Josh hadn't badgered nearly everyone in town to give us a try. Megan and I owed him a lot.”

  “You're not the only one either,” M.J. said, pushing aside the remains of her salad. “Josh was willing to help just about any legitimate new business get started in St. Galen's. And if he didn't finance it himself, he'd go sit on the bank manager's desk until the necessary loan was approved.” M.J. smiled softly. “When I first took over the store, and things would get me down, he was always there to hold my hand and tell me what a great job I was doing. I miss him.”

  Swallowing the lump that rose in her throat, Shelly said, “I do, too. He was always just, Josh, my big brother—some-times I forget that he helped a lot of people. I know he was always trying to think of ways for St. Galen's to prosper. The poverty in the valley bothered him—I remember him trying to think up ways to make the valley more profitable without changing the very things that make most of us love it. It troubled him that the young people hav
e to leave the valley to find a job that pays a decent wage.”

  “Still do,” M.J. said glumly.

  “Of course,” Hank said, with a gleam in his eyes, “being one of the biggest employers in the valley, if McGuire's would pay more…”

  M.J. snorted. “Talk to my grandfather—you're one of his cronies.”

  Hank shook his head, grinning. “Not a chance, me dar-lin'—he'd swat me down like a pesky fly. Very opinionated, your grandfather. I respect and admire him, but there's no denying higher wages is a sticky subject with him. I don't envy you trying to bring him into the twenty-first century.”

  The door opened, and M.J., who was seated facing it, glanced over to see who was coming inside. Her gaze dropped almost immediately, and she said under her breath, “Oh, damn. Just our luck that she'd come in today. Brace yourself. Here comes Reba Stanton.”

  Hank looked over his shoulder at the new arrivals. Glancing back at M.J. and Shelly, he murmured, “The Queen Bee and her lady-in-waiting have arrived. Excuse me while I go ingratiate myself.” Ever the affable host, he left M.J. and Shelly to their salads and walked up to the two women who had just entered the restaurant. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said. “Your timing is perfect, the rush is over, and you have your choice of tables.”

  “Oh, we're not here to eat,” Reba said. “I noticed Shelly Granger's vehicle outside, and since I haven't had a chance to say hi since she returned, Barbara and I thought we'd stop in.”