Page 4 of Holding Ground

“Well, I say God bless modern science. Maybe it’s the feminist in me, but if a woman wants to enhance things, I say so be it.” Clyde grins, completely ignoring me.

Sam and Jimmy laugh, and I shake my head. No wonder Baylor talks like a full-on teenager half the time. She’s around adults who don’t have a filter around kids.

“Heard someone’s thinking of doing something down on the lakefront,” Jimmy says, his eyes on me.

Alarms go off in my head, and my blood heats.

“Who’s doing what where?” I won’t get the whole story. The Thermos Crew gets bits and pieces, just enough to tease, but never the full story.

Jimmy shrugs. “Not sure. Just heard rumblings. You know, Rita Milltown’s land?” He lifts his thermal mug to his mouth to sip his coffee.

Fucking developers. They’re always coming into small towns like this and trying to turn them into something they’re not. Not every paradise has to be paved over.

“You guys mind if Baylor hangs with you for a few minutes? I have to go place an order for some stuff I need at the camp to shut ’er down.”

“’Course not.” Clyde heaves himself up from his chair. “Why don’t you take my seat, Baylor? I could use a stretch. If I sit too long at my age, I’ll freeze up.”

Baylor’s eyes narrow into the cutest confused face as she walks toward the chair.

I head next door to the hardware store, the bell chiming above the door. The scent of this place—a mix of raw wood, machine oil, and sawdust—always brings me back to my teens. All my siblings and I had a mandatory stint working here.

Though my teen years were tough ones, something still pulls at me every time I walk through that door.

“Roy?”

“Yeah, just give me a sec.” A minute later, my uncle ambles up from the back of the store. He’s a little heavier than he used to be, and these days his hair is more salt than pepper, but he hasn’t gone entirely gray yet.

I guess that Mercer Hardware T-shirt we got him for Christmas was a worthless purchase. He’s wearing his tried and true black Pink Floyd T-shirt. He has quite the collection of T-shirts dedicated to various musical entities and wears one almost every day. And they’re not all rock bands. They range from New Kids on the Block to Luciano Einaudi.

Once, Baylor asked him why he always wore them, and he told her it was because they made him happy, which I suppose is as good a reason as any.

“Hey, everything go well today?” He takes his spot behind the counter.

“Yeah. No surprises, which is always good.” One year, two sets of parents forgot it was pickup day, and since they were from out of state, their kids had to stay an extra night.

“Glad to hear it. Give it to me?” He grabs a pad of paper and a pen.

“What?”

“Your end-of-the-season order.”

God, is this how predictable I’ve become?

“Yup. I’ll grab it all with my truck Tuesday morning after I get Baylor settled at school.”

He arches a wiry eyebrow. “Tuesday, not tomorrow?”

“Nah, gonna spend the weekend with her since she’ll be starting school next week.”

“You are becoming a changed man.” He props up on the stool my siblings and I got him for his birthday three years ago when he complained about his back hurting while he’s checking out customers.

My forehead wrinkles. “What?”

“Putting something off? Delaying your checklist?” His sarcastic smirk says more than the words coming out of his mouth.

“It’s not every week your daughter starts school.” My voice belies the actual feeling in my chest.

For five years, Baylor has been my sidekick. The idea of her being gone all day brings into perspective how much I’ve relied on her for companionship, which is pathetic that my best friend has been my five-year-old daughter.