Bishop Ridge

by Cate Ashwood

  “You never thought about moving away?” he asked. “The town is so isolated. Belcourt’s remote too, but at least there are roads in and out. I can leave whenever I want without having to wait on a ferry schedule.”

  “The isolation doesn’t bother me so much. I get outta town a lot more often than most people around here. And I did move away. I went to medical school.”

  “And you didn’t want to stay?”

  I shrugged. “It was nice for a while. I was one of those kids who’d already packed his bags, months before high school graduation, but being away from my hometown, even after years, I felt like a foreigner. This is the only place that’s ever felt like home, ya know?”

  Jackson nodded, but there was a wariness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. I wanted to ask what that was about, why returning to your hometown was such a weird concept to him, but I didn’t want to push. There was a delicate balance we’d somehow developed, and dipping too deeply into heavy topics held the risk of tipping that equilibrium.

  Jackson

  A dead pilgrim had possessed whoever was in charge of decorating the town for the festival.

  The routes we’d taken between Logan’s, the hospital, and the coffee shop hadn’t taken us past the town square, so walking down Main Street was the first time I was getting a look at how all out the townspeople went for holidays.

  It was bordering on insane.

  The whole downtown core had been transformed from a quaint small town to epic celebration. Every streetlight was decorated, every shop window had been done up. A layer of straw had been put down to cover the snow in the square, and booths were set up around the statue in the center.

  The air smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg. Although the festival wasn’t officially supposed to start for another hour, the town square was already starting to fill up. As we walked through, Logan stopped no less than nine times to talk to people he knew.

  By the time Logan said goodbye to a woman, who from their brief conversation I gathered was a patient of his, I could tell he was getting antsy.

  “What’s up with you?” I asked. “If you didn’t want to make small talk with every person you’ve ever met, maybe we should’ve stayed home. You know, it’s not too late to head back. There are lots of ways we could get this holiday started…”

  “It’s not the small talk.” His tone was light, but his eyes were scanning the crowd. “It’s the apple cider.” Apparently, he’d spotted what he’d been looking for because he took off through the crowd, beelining for a table set up near the market.

  There was already a lineup five or six people deep, and Logan was practically hopping from one foot to the other as he waited to make his way to the front. “They always sell out early. I didn’t get any last year, and Cecelia only makes one batch per season. Plus, we still need to find a good spot to see the parade.”

  “Parade?”

  “Just a little one. It’s not impressive or anything; none of the floats are professional—mostly people in town who’ve decorated trailers hitched to their trucks—but it’s tradition.”

  I was shocked he’d even heard me, the way he was single-mindedly staring down the person in front of him as though he was mentally willing them to explode so they didn’t make off with the last of the cider.

  “Where’s the best spot to see it?”

  He snapped out of it for a second and turned, pointing to a building on the other side of the square. “There’s a bench in front of the library, over there. If we can score a spot behind it, no one can stand in front of us.”

  I couldn’t help wondering how many people were coming to this thing. There couldn’t seriously be enough people that we needed to find a special spot or our view would be blocked, but enthusiasm was oozing from Logan so thick I could almost see it.

  His gaze darted between the library and the cider table a few feet away. I chuckled. “I’ll find the spot. You get the cider. I’ll meet you there.”

  He beamed as he exhaled. “Deal.”

  I left him to grab our drinks and made my way down the street.

  The crazy holiday decorations aside, I was kind of blindsided with how Sawyer’s Ferry looked different than it had the first time I’d visited. Seeing it through Logan’s eyes had changed it for me.

  Rather than just a small town with a minuscule population, there was a history to it, backstory colored by Logan’s past. It seemed like every corner of the town held some sort of memory for him. There was an anecdote about every building. Even the fire hydrant in front of the market was a piece of his story.

  I had a hard time wrapping my head around it. Most of my childhood, I’d barely had a chance to learn my teachers’ names before shit went south—evictions or worse meant I was yanked out of school and moved to wherever, having to start all over again.

  Life hadn’t been like that for Logan. His history was the picture of stability—the perfect upbringing—picket fence and loving parents.

  I was too old to be getting jealous of shit like this that other people had. Especially people like Logan. I might not have known him long, but I knew enough to believe without a hint of doubt that he was a genuinely good person, and those were few and far between in life.

  The library was easy to spot—a large brick building that looked a bit like it had once been a church. There were already a few people who had started to gather in the area, but I found the bench Logan had mentioned and parked myself behind it.

  “New in town, or visiting family around here?”

  “Pardon?” I turned my head to see a man next to me, suspenders peeking out from underneath his puffy, fur-lined jacket.

  “I don’t recognize you. I know most everyone around here, so I was wondering if you’d just moved to town or if you were here for the holidays.”

  I shook my head. “Visiting a friend.”

  “Ah! Isn’t that nice?” He rocked back on his heels. “Not too often that we get tourists here in Sawyer’s Ferry. Such a shame.”

  And the way he smiled at me tipped me off to the fact that I’d just made a huge mistake.

  “It is a shame, isn’t it? I’ve been telling the town council for years that we ought to advertise, get some revenue coming in, boost the local economy, but no one seems to want to listen. All a bunch of half-wits if you ask me.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” I’m not sure he heard me. If he did, he didn’t acknowledge I’d said anything.

  “It wouldn’t kill them to put one little commercial on TV. How much can that possibly cost? And think of how much more money could be made if we were just a little more open to new ideas. Towns like ours, they’re just not sustainable long-term without forward-thinking people like myself to move things along.” His voice grew louder with each sentence. “Take my shop for example. With increased clientele, I could expand my business, but there are only so many people around here who want to buy wood carvings or need shoes repaired.” Seemed like an odd combination, but when he turned to me, pinning me in place with a pointed stare, I wondered how the town council had ever denied him anything. “You see my conundrum.”

  “I do.” I nodded, afraid he was about to launch into another speech if I didn’t. How had I ended up in this conversation? All I wanted to do was save a spot near a bench.

  “You found it,” Logan said as he walked up, four cups of cider carefully balanced in his hands.

  “Yeah. Not hard to spot when the place is this compact.” I gave him a look of gratitude as I took one of the cups from him. “You bought four cups?”

  He handed me another. “I told you, best cider you’ve ever tasted. You’re going to want more than one.”

  “If you say so.”

  Logan rounded the bench and came to stand next to me. Leaning past me, he tipped a nod to my new friend.

  “Hi, Ron. You keeping Jackson entertained?”

  “I was filling him in on just how shortsighted our town is.” He shook his head. “Such a shame,” he repeated, and I got the i
mpression I wasn’t the first to fall into this exact conversation with him.

  “Ah, yes. Tourism ads. I remember. Didn’t you say your granddaughter was going to help you start an online business for your carvings?”

  Ron’s face nearly split in two with the intensity of his smile. “She is. She’s already got me a website, and she even put an ad on the Google so people could find me. Have you heard of eBay?”

  “I have, actually,” he said, without a hint of insincerity. “Any sales yet?”

  “No, but I’m expecting the orders to roll in any day now.”

  Logan nodded. “Your carvings are beautiful. Once word gets out, I’m sure they’re going to fly off the virtual shelves.”

  It seemed like every single person who’d crossed our paths since we’d arrived at the festival had some sort of personal connection to Logan. He was such a huge part of the town, his life interwoven with so many others.

  From somewhere in the distance, I could hear music playing, and as the minutes passed, it became louder and louder. Logan shuffled in closer until the side of his body was pressed against mine. I had the strongest urge to hold his hand, but the cider I was still drinking kept me from giving into that impulse.

  Before I could think about it too hard, the music became even louder, and as it did, more off-key. The marching band rounded the corner by the flower shop, and all seven of them strutted into view. They might have been few, but they were mighty, the kid playing the tuba looking like he might pass out from blowing so fucking hard.

  “Is the band always this… large?” I asked, leaning in so only Logan would hear me.

  He shook his head. “Nope. Good turnout this year.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

  The band reached the end of the parade route, or at least I assumed it was the end because the tuba player and the drummer dumped their instruments on the lawn and plunked themselves down on the steps of the high school.

  The first float came into view a moment later—a shiny black pickup truck pulling a trailer with a girl riding in the back wearing the poofiest ball gown I’d ever seen. It glittered so hard I almost needed sunglasses, and topping off the entire thing was a set of antlers on her head. She was beaming, waving like she was the queen of fucking England.

  “That’s Miss Moose,” Logan told me.

  “That can’t really be a thing.” I didn’t figure anyone thought the name was all that flattering, but she seemed proud as hell to wear it. Her smile was almost as wide as the antlers.

  “Sawyer’s Ferry has a beauty pageant, but Betty, who runs it, doesn’t want anyone to feel excluded, so all the girls get titles. Miss Moose is the most coveted, though.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Yep. It was the original—the first pageant was held at Moose Hall—so it’s the one the girls want most.”

  Sure enough, the next three trucks that came through had girls in ball gowns and sashes. First came Miss Beaver, followed not far behind by Miss Bison and Miss Beluga. All three of them wore matching expressions of over-the-top happiness.

  “I’m beginning to think everyone in this town needs to be in rooms with padded walls.”

  Logan laughed. “You get used to it after a while. I can see how it might seem completely crazy to someone who didn’t grow up here, but for most of the people here tonight, this is just what happens every year.”

  The next string of floats came through, all looking very much like they’d been decorated by the town’s kindergarteners—colorful and covered in glitter. By the end of it, I had to admit that I was beginning to see the appeal. These people weren’t professionals. In fact, I had my doubts they’d ever seen a real parade, but Christ did they put everything they had into it.

  There was pride dripping from every person who passed by us.

  “So, what now?” I asked once the grand finale—a teenage girl singing a song about a turkey while standing in what I could only guess was supposed to be a cornucopia—had passed by us.

  “I dunno. There’s a pie-eating contest, a wreath-making class… Rosemary has a little café set up inside the gym at the high school with, well, mostly deep-fried stuff, and I think my friend Barrett said he was going to be doing a booth this year.”

  “Let me guess… he crochets quippy sayings?”

  Logan shot me a funny look. “Uh, no. Isn’t crocheting like knitting? Could you even crochet a saying?”

  “No idea.” I shrugged.

  “Barrett runs Copper Creek Brewing. It’s the best beer in the state, maybe farther. He’s won a bunch of awards for it. It’s what I was looking for in the cooler the night you took me home.”

  “So, in a way, I kind of owe him.”

  “Yeah. You should tell him that when you meet him.”

  We walked through a crowd of people, up the steps of the high school. Inside, it looked like every high school I’d ever attended—boring walls and rows upon rows of dented lockers. Even the smell was the same.

  Logan led me to the gym, where the interior was as enthusiastically decorated as the town square had been. Someone had constructed a huge plywood tree that had been fastened to the basketball hoop at one end, and there must have been thousands of leaves cut from tissue paper.

  Along the edge of the room, tables had been set up by a bunch of the businesses in town.

  “There he is,” Logan said, marching forward through the crowd. There were more people milling around in there than there had been outside, which made sense because it was cold as balls and getting colder the longer the sun had been down.

  “Tell me you have your mocha porter again this year.” Logan sidled up to the table with glasses neatly stacked on one side, bottles lined up on the other. The man who stood behind it was huge, broad and built, but not the type who spent their days in a gym either. I felt bad for his mother if she’d made it through the delivery.

  “Of course. We sold out of it before Christmas last year. It was our bestseller for the entire season. You can pretty much count on it from now on.”

  “Good. We’ll take two, please.”

  “You got it.” He grabbed two bottles from the back and cracked them open, pouring them into bright red plastic cups.

  “Jackson, this is Barrett. He keeps Sawyer’s Ferry in craft beer.” Logan put his hand on my shoulder. “This is Jackson. He’s visiting for a few days, so I thought I’d give him the full Sawyer’s Ferry experience and bring him out tonight.”

  “My sympathies,” Barrett said with a smile as he handed me my cup.

  “Not into the whole festival thing?” I asked.

  He grunted noncommittally. “Being here’s better than doing inventory, I guess. Mason was supposed to man the table tonight, but there was some non-emergency-emergency with one of the siblings, so I’m here instead.”

  “You want us to bring anything over for you? I thought I smelled Rosemary cooking her fried stuffed pickles when I walked in.”

  “Nah, I’m good,” Barrett said. “I’ll hang out here a while longer and stop by Pacey’s on the way home to grab a pizza.”

  At the mention of food, my stomach growled, and just then I realized how hungry I was. “This Pacey’s place… is it far from here?”

  Logan

  Mama Gianni had nothing on Pacey’s.

  It was the shortest festival visit I’d ever made, but I’d been more than happy to leave. Jackson and I had picked up take and bake on our way out of town, and now we were sitting in the middle of my living room, eating pizza on the floor, our feet warming by the fire.

  As much as I enjoyed being part of the town festivities, this suited me better—quiet, warm, and alone with Jackson.

  He hadn’t seemed all that comfortable while we were in town. There was a part of me that was slightly worried about taking him to Thanksgiving dinner at Gage and Holden’s. It was definitely a different dynamic than the town square, but it was still a group setting with a bunch of people he didn’t know.

 
We hadn’t spent a ton of time doing much other than hanging out in bed together, but he didn’t strike me as the type of guy who loved to be thrown into social situations. Even around his friends, there was a sense of tension about him.

  Then again, he’d been so good with the guys at the hospital. It was likely I was overthinking things.

  “God this is good,” Jackson said, lifting his hand to cover his full mouth. “What is it about pizza? Even the shitty ones are good. But this one is seriously good.”

  “Pacey knows what he’s doing,” I agreed.

  “I dunno why, but it’s always surprising to me when something in a small town is good. Maybe because they don’t have to be good. The audience is limited, so even if it’s terrible, people will buy it.”

  “That’s true of a lot of places. We’ve lucked out here, though. With the exception of Bud on the grill at J’s, you’re pretty safe with anything in this town.”

  “You really love living here, huh?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Some of the people are... eccentric, but everyone here is good people.”

  “Like Ron?”

  I laughed. “Ron can be a character. He’s just passionate about his business, though.”

  “Shoe repair and wood carving?”

  “Yeah. Kind of a weird combination, but it works for him. I can’t imagine there’s a ton of people getting their shoes repaired. I think most people just replace them nowadays.”

  “I should bring my old boots down the next time.”

  My heart lightened at the possibility that there might be a next time. I really had no idea what to make of what was happening between Jackson and me. All I knew was that the time I spent with him made me feel better than doing pretty much anything else. When he wasn’t around, I craved him, and talking to him on the phone was a decent enough Band-Aid, but there was nothing like the real thing.

  Jackson tossed a crust onto his plate, making a small sound of defeat.