Don’t I know that?
“Thanks for the advice, Theo.” I tilt my head. “What’s your last name?”
“Morton.”
“Theodore Morton,” I repeat slowly. “No, I remember Theodore Morton. Gruff, graying, and he wore a uniform.”
“Theo’s the name.” He winks. “Theodore is my dad.”
“Your dad is part of the sheriff’s department?”
“One of the three deputies.”
Well, that answers my earlier question.
Leaving the two twenties on the bar, I stand. Thankfully, the dinner soaked up most of the two doubles. “Nice to meet you, Theo.”
“I sat behind you in algebra, Jillian.”
Jillian, my forever Blue Gil name.
My neck straightens as I recall the skinny, straggly kid who sat behind me. “No, he was...”
Theo’s blue eyes shine as his smile widens. “Secret’s safe. And for the record, I wanted to call you pretty back then, but you never noticed me. Let’s say my confidence has grown.”
His confidence isn’t the only thing.
“My advice,” he went on. “Avoid Main and Highway 40. That’s where my dad hangs out watching for people as they leave here.”
“Thank you. I need to make a stop at the Dollar Store.”
“Then you better hurry. Mary closes at eight sharp, and she won’t hesitate to throw you out.”
With a nod and a smile, I turn away. It isn’t until I’min the car, approaching the Dollar Store from the rear to avoid Main and M-40, that I realize my cover is blown. I’ll need to face my parents in the morning.
Chapter
Four
The road I’m driving west on is called Old 44 because years before I was born, the state of Michigan created a jobs project to upgrade some of the state’s highways. During that time, more direct routes were completed from town to town. One of the funny parts of the story is that even some of thosemore directroutes contain hairpin or ninety-degree turns where some farmer said, “You aren’t going through my land.” Even so, the newer two-lane highways connect larger cities to one another, such as Kalamazoo and Grand Rapids.
Blue Gil isn’t a larger city.
The new Highway 44 is north and east of Blue Gil, not coming close to the village limits.
That didn’t matter. In their ultimate wisdom, the village council dreamt of future growth, deciding that it would be confusing to have another Highway 44 down in Mills County. Over fifty years ago the road—because it is barely that, much less a highway—was renamed Ninth Avenue.
Ninth Avenue in itself is quite a demotion from Highway 44.
Half a century later, no one—other than the postal service and GPS systems—refers to this road as Ninth Avenue. To everyone familiar with the area, even the outsiders, it is Old 44.
The windshield wipers move with a slow, mundane rhythm, clearing away the light rain that began as I left the Dollar Store. Thankfully, Mary, the store clerk, was busy with another customer when I entered, earning me only a huff instead of a rebuke. Securing coffee, creamer, bread, margarine, and wine I made it to the counter before she could ask me to leave.
I’m aware that Dollar Store wine isn’t well-known in the upper echelon of wine enthusiasts. Restaurants in California do not highlight Dollar Store or Spring River wine. Nevertheless, returning to my hometown has renewed my desire to allow alcohol to calm my tattered nerves, and the time of night left me few options.
Ironically, there are multiple wineries in the area that produce delicious wine. St. Julian was my grandfather’s favorite. It’s located twenty minutes north in the small city of Lawton with all the amenities, such as grocery stores, restaurants, multiple bars, and even a single-screen movie theater.
If Dollar Store Mary knew my identity or family, she showed no indication. When she looked at my identification, she simply said, “California, huh? This store opens and closes at eight. Best to remember that.”
