Wild At Heart: A Novel

by Tucker, K. A.

  “Maybe you should invite Jonah’s family to Alaska, then.”

  I wince at the idea. “Yeah … I don’t know.” We have three bedrooms, so we could physically handle both sets of parents under the same roof. Mentally and emotionally is another story. “Have you ever met Astrid?”

  “No, I don’t think she’s been back to Alaska since they left all those years ago.”

  I wander down the cluttered aisle, pausing long enough to lift the metal handheld beater that I found buried in the depths of our corner cabinet. “I’ve said hello to her on the phone when they talk, but that’s about it.” Which is about once a month, the ten-hour time difference difficult to navigate. She seems nice—a soft-spoken woman with a heavy Norwegian accent who often cuts over to her native tongue, frustrating Jonah to no end, because he’s lost the language over the years.

  But what if she hates me? What if she doesn’t think I’m good enough for her son? Would that bother him? I know it would bother me. Jonah and I will have been living together for a year by that point. Will we have broached the topic of marriage?

  Will we be engaged?

  An unexpected, fluttery wave stirs in my chest at that prospect.

  “Well, a big family holiday in a log cabin sounds lovely to me.” There isn’t a hint of sarcasm in Agnes’s tone. “Have you found anything good in there?”

  “I have! An old ladder that I’m going to use for blankets and this big, ornate picture frame that I think I’ll paint and turn into a tray.” I’ll need to come back when Jonah’s home to load it into the truck.

  “I can’t wait to see the place.”

  I smile and nod, though she can’t see it. “How’s Mabel?”

  “Oh …” There’s a long pause. “She’s okay.”

  An alarm bell goes off in my head. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about. Just teenager stuff.”

  “Like?” I push.

  Agnes hesitates. “She quit her job at Whittamore’s last week, with no warning. And she’s been hanging around with a couple kids that I’d rather she didn’t.”

  “Sounds like teenager stuff,” I say in agreement. Unfortunately, I’m not sure that Agnes has the demeanor to parent a kid through the rebellious stage, especially alone. “When are you guys coming to visit?” It’s been more than a month since we moved here.

  “Maybe in a few weeks? George said he was flying that way. We’ll see. But I should let you go. Howard is wavin’ me down. Have fun upcycling.”

  “Talk soon.” I end the call and head toward the cash register, intent on paying for my finds and negotiating with the lady to keep them here until I can pick them up.

  A low table in a corner catches my attention, stopping me dead in my tracks. I bend over to trace my finger along the edge of raw wood to confirm it’s what I think it is, before moving the box of porcelain trinkets and lanterns cluttering its surface. Beneath is a beautiful, lacquered slab of wood, the rich markings in the grain mesmerizing. There are a few scratches on the surface, but I would think nothing that can’t be buffed or sanded out. It’s as fine a piece of furniture as the ones I was eying online, and it’s being used as nothing more than a place to hold a dusty collection of trash.

  “Is this for sale?” I call out, a thrill coursing through me.

  The woman working at the counter ambles around, a hobble in her step as if her hip is giving problems—to ease up beside me. “Which one?” She reaches for a rusted lantern.

  “No, not those. The coffee table.”

  “The table?” She peers over her reading glasses at it. “I mean, I guess I could sell it. Fit these things on a shelf somewhere else …” Her voice trails as she looks around. The little thrift shop is crammed.

  I’m wishing I hadn’t insisted that Jonah take Phil’s side tables to the dump. I could have offered them to her. But now’s not the time for regret. My stomach stirs with excitement at the prospect of getting my hands on this piece. “How much do you want for it?”

  “I dunno.” She frowns, waffling with indecision—on price or parting with it, I can’t tell. “How much you willin’ to pay?”

  Probably a hell of a lot more than she suspects. “Forty bucks?” I throw out and hold my breath.

  Her lips twist in thought. “How ’bout fifty?”

  “Done!” I blurt. Too fast, because the woman is peering at the table again, her eyes narrowed in thought. Probably wondering if she has something more valuable than she realizes.

  “Well, I don’t know. It is pretty handy to have around here for—”

  “My mother had one just like it,” I lie, schooling my expression as I think fast. “She’s going to be so happy when I give this to her. For her birthday.”

  The woman studies me shrewdly. “What happened to hers?”

  “House fire?” I nod somberly, even as my answer sounds doubtful. I can’t believe I’ve resorted to making up a horrific tragedy. I’m going to hell, all in the name of a coffee table.

  After another long pause of consideration, the woman turns and wobbles back to the counter. “You’ll need to carry it out. I can’t manage it with my hip actin’ up and Kent is out.”

  “No problem.” I press my lips together to contain my delight—I would have forked over ten times that amount—and dig the cash out of my wallet. Lifting the heavy, awkward table, I scurry out the door like a lucky thief.

  Until I get outside.

  “Shit,” I curse under my breath, as I eye the old snow machine sitting in the parking lot.

  I was so overjoyed, I momentarily forgot how I got here.

  I spend five minutes cursing Jonah for being at work and the moose for stepping into the path of my truck during my road test while trying to maneuver the table onto my lap in a way that will allow me to steer. I finally accept that I have no way of getting this thing home without risking either getting pulled over by the cops or crashing.

  I consider taking it back inside and asking the old woman to hold it for me but quickly dismiss that idea, afraid she’ll wise up and change her mind. I would deserve it, given I lied to her.

  Jonah won’t be home for hours.

  I call the only other person I know in Trapper’s Crossing.

  * * *

  Toby’s burgundy pickup pulls into the thrift shop parking lot fifteen minutes after I texted him. I haven’t seen him in two weeks, since I brought the second Ski-Doo in for maintenance.

  He eases in next to where I’m sitting on the seat of my snow machine, hugging my precious find. He cuts the loud, rumbling diesel engine and hops out, his boots landing heavy on the ground.

  “Hey. Thank you so much for coming. And so quickly.”

  “Yeah. No problem. That engine can wait.” He scratches the scruff on his chin—it’s grown even longer in the weeks since I first met him—as he surveys the coffee table on my lap curiously. “You said you needed my help with something important?”

  I pat the surface and drop my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “This table is worth a shit ton of money and I scored it for fifty bucks, which is insane, but I can’t get it back on my own and I don’t trust that lady in there not to change her mind about selling it to me.”

  “Moving a coffee table. That’s what you needed help with,” he says slowly.

  “Yeah.” I wince sheepishly and wait for annoyance to appear on his face.

  But he only shakes his head. “Why didn’t you bring your truck?”

  I groan. “Because I backed into a moose while parallel parking and failed my road test and, I swear to God, if you tell anyone, we are no longer friends!” Which would be more a punishment to me than him, I suspect, given he’s my only friend in Trapper’s Crossing and he’s barely more than an acquaintance.

  “You backed into a moose.” His voice drifts as his features transform with a grin. “Hey, have you ever watched Schitt’s Creek?”

  “No? Is that a TV show?” The name does sound vaguely familiar. “Does someone hit a mo
ose during their road test on it? Please tell me someone does.”

  “No. Nothing like that. This entire moment reminds me of that show for some strange reason.” He shifts his attention back to the table. “Can I throw that thing in the truck bed, or do you need it Bubble-Wrapped and swaddled in blankets?”

  “Do you have Bubble Wrap and blankets?” I’m only half joking.

  He chuckles. “No. But maybe Candace does? She’s the lady who runs the store.”

  “Why don’t we try sliding it into the backseat?” Because my guilt over my lie is beginning to fester, especially now that I know her name.

  He pops open the door and heaves the table off my lap. “Did you carry this out?” When I nod, he frowns curiously. “You’re a lot stronger than you look.”

  “More like highly motivated. There’s a table like this for a grand online that I’ve been dying to buy, but Jonah was giving me grief.”

  He lets out a long, slow whistle. “Don’t blame him. Especially since someone probably donated it to her. That, or she found it in the trash.”

  I gasp, which earns his laugh.

  Toby eases the table in carefully, whether to protect the table or his truck, I can’t be sure. The table just fits. “Candace gave me my first pair of skates when I was nine. Found them out in a dump, good as new. Then every year after that, she’d show up at my door in October with a pair one size bigger. She did that right up till I was like seventeen. She’s always been good to me.”

  “Well, I feel like a real asshole,” I mutter.

  Toby slams the door shut. “Why?”

  I pull on my helmet. “Never mind.”

  He reaches for the driver’s-side door handle. “Meet you back at your place?”

  “Go slow!”

  * * *

  Toby is sitting on our front steps when I speed up the driveway a few minutes after him, the table already unloaded and waiting by the front door.

  Zeke stands about twenty feet away, eying Toby, shifting on his hooves as if ready to bolt at any sudden movement.

  I groan as I cut the engine. Jonah must have forgotten to coil the wire around the latch this morning when he went to feed them. It’s the only thing Bandit can’t figure out.

  The second I slide my helmet off, the old goat trots toward me, bleating noisily.

  “I tried catching him but he wouldn’t come!” Toby hollers.

  “Yeah, he hates men.” I climb off the snow machine.

  “You probably shouldn’t let a goat wander around loose like that. He’s easy pickin’ for wolves and bears.”

  “We don’t let him. Our raccoon keeps letting him out.” I scowl as I sidestep to avoid Zeke nipping at my coat. At least I don’t have the same visceral reaction when I see him anymore. It’s worn off, replaced by general annoyance.

  Toby’s eyebrows arch. “Your raccoon?”

  “Unfortunately. Be back in a minute.”

  “If you unlock the door, I can put this thing inside for you,” Toby offers.

  I toss him my keys and then head around back, scolding Zeke as he trots after me, a spring to his step. When the goat is safely back in his pen—for the moment—I make my way inside, happy for the warmth.

  Toby is standing in our living room, his hands on his hips, taking in the relatively barren space.

  I feel the stupid grin stretch over my face as I eye the coffee table he’s already set in front of the couch. It looks even better than I’d imagined. The area rug I have sitting in an online shopping cart, waiting to be ordered, will finish off the room. “Thank you so much for helping me.”

  “Yeah. No problem.” He waves it off. “Man, this place looks so different.”

  “That’s the goal.” In the weeks since we moved in, we’ve managed to refinish the floors on the main floor—a messy, six-day process that involved renting a sander, knee pads that didn’t completely eliminate the ache, and gallons of stain and polyurethane that, despite wearing gloves, I’m still scrubbing off my skin. But the result is worth the effort. Our dark-walnut floors bring a fresh, new feel to the space.

  “I should consider shopping at the thrift store more often. Or the dump, maybe.” I toss my purse onto the kitchen counter. “Words I never thought I’d say.”

  Toby laughs and two dimples appear high on his cheeks, beneath his eyes.

  “Do you think I could find matching end tables there?”

  He shrugs. “Never know. Ask Candace to keep an eye out.” He pauses. “Or you could see if Roy would make them for you.”

  “Roy?” I frown. “As in my crotchety old neighbor with the gun and the wolf dogs Roy?”

  “Yeah. He’s a carpenter by trade. Makes furniture in that big barn on his property. Probably wouldn’t be too hard for him to make something like this. It’s not complicated.”

  “That’s why he was covered in sawdust,” I murmur, more to myself.

  “I’ve heard he’s real good, too, but he doesn’t take custom orders. He builds what he feels like and then sells them on consignment, here and there.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” I can’t see him working well with people. “What’s his deal, anyway?” Besides hating Jonah and me.

  Toby shakes his head. “That’s a nut no one’s been able to crack yet. He’s been here for years. Keeps to himself, building furniture, raising goats and chickens. Cheap as they come, too. Counts his pennies and doesn’t give out of neighborly kindness. He’s come out a few times to the town council meeting, if there’s a big vote on the agenda. Usually ends with a shouting match between him and my mother out in the parking lot. A few years back, during one of those fights, he dropped from a heart attack. We had to rush him to the hospital. He was lucky he wasn’t alone at home when that happened.” Toby smirks. “Then again, I don’t think he gets that worked up unless my mother is there to push his buttons.”

  The more I hear about Toby’s mother, the more I’m curious to meet her.

  “He’s always been alone out there?”

  “As far as I know. My mom said he was married before he came here, but his wife took off on him. Don’t ask me why or how she found that out.”

  I sigh. “Probably because he’s an asshole.”

  Toby grunts with agreement. “By the way, how’re your snow machines working? My dad was asking about you the other day. We haven’t seen you since you came in for the engines.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve been too freaked out to go running, even with the bear spray,” I admit sheepishly. “I keep getting this feeling when I’m outside, like something’s watching me.” I didn’t feel that eerie sense today, thankfully, but I’ve felt it more than once. “I know it sounds crazy.”

  “It takes some getting used to, I guess?”

  “You mean, not worrying about being chased by a bear or stalked by a wolf or trampled by a mama moose every time I go for a jog? Yeah.”

  Toby chuckles.

  “Anyway, I’m looking forward to getting my license so I can get to the gym again. I just wish it wasn’t a half hour away.”

  His gaze roams the stone fireplace. He doesn’t seem in any hurry to get back home to his engine.

  “Did you come here a lot before?”

  “A few times. Mainly to fix problems on Phil’s plane.” He wanders over to the bookshelf where I’ve lined up framed family pictures—the ones from Jonah’s place and a few of my own. “My mom and Colette were pretty close. She’d call me over to help, especially in the last few years, with Phil not able to handle so much.”

  “So, why are you working on small engines when you know how to fix planes?” I ask curiously. Jonah and Toby really need to meet, and soon.

  He shrugs. “Not a good setup for workin’ on planes at the resort. I’ve helped out a bit at Sid Kesslar’s, over at Mile 68 off the highway, but between you and me, he rips off his customers. I can’t stand the guy. Anyway, it wasn’t really part of the plan, me bein’ back here.”

  “Why’d you come back, then?”

 
“Shit happened.” He picks up the picture of Diana and me. “Your sister?”

  I’m momentarily distracted. “Best friend. I’m an only child.” Though there was about five minutes last summer when I had convinced myself that my father had a secret daughter—Mabel. “What about you? Any sisters or brothers?”

  “One brother. Deacon.”

  I recall that framed hunting photo on the wall in the Ale House. “Older? Younger?”

  “Younger. By two years.”

  “Does he help run the resort, too?” If he does, I haven’t seen him around.

  “He used to,” Toby says, setting the picture back. “Before he disappeared.”

  I frown, replaying that in my head in case I heard it incorrectly. “Disappeared, like, he moved to Miami and you guys don’t talk anymore?”

  Toby’s gray eyes flash to me, a hint of grim amusement in them. “Like he went out hunting one day five years ago and never came back.”

  A chilling feeling washes over me. “Oh my God. Is he … I mean … do you think he might still be out there, somewhere?”

  “Nah. Not alive, anyway. We spent months looking for him. State troopers, local Search and Rescue, volunteers.”

  My stomach has sunk to my feet. I feel like I’m prying—I don’t really know Toby—but I can’t help myself. “What happened?”

  “Well …” He perches against the arm of the couch, folding his arms over his chest, as if settling in for a story. “Him and two of his buddies drove up to a spot outside Fairbanks for the hunt. I tore up my MCL earlier that year and was recovering from surgery, or I would have gone with him. Anyway, the weather was shit and they weren’t having any luck. The other guys wanted to head back to camp early but Deacon, that stubborn ass, stayed out, alone. Said he’d be back to camp within a few hours and call them over the walkie-talkie if he bagged anything, so they could come out and help him dress it.”

  I assume “bagged” and “dress” are hunting terminology for killing and cleaning, but I don’t interrupt to ask questions, too engrossed in the tale.