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His eyebrows arch. “You’re arguing with me about this?”
“What the hell is this, the 1920s prohibition?”
“No. It’s Western Alaska, where alcoholism is a serious problem,” he says, his voice carrying with it a condescending edge. “People will drink so much, they pass out in snowbanks and freeze to death in winter.”
“So no one can buy any alcohol, then?” That seems a bit drastic.
“Nope. Not even you.” He’s enjoying this way too much.
“Well, how does my dad get beer, then?” I counter. “You said he drinks beer.”
“He brings it home with him when he goes to Anchorage or Seward. And no . . . I’m not flying there to grab you a damn six-pack.” His perfectly straight, white teeth glint with a wide, spiteful smile. “I guess you’ll have to forgo proper dinner etiquette for tonight.”
“That’s fine. I’ll buy her flowers.” I eye the green pail next to the cash register, where three sad-looking bouquets of lemon-yellow daisies sit, the bright dye in the petals unable to hide the browning edges. My florist mother would die witnessing this, I think, as I grab one and trail Jonah to the last cashier, all while glaring at his back.
A dry community? What do people order at the bar on a Friday night? Cocoa and cream sodas? Come to think of it, I didn’t notice any flashing neon lights or the word “bar” anywhere.
So what the hell do people do around here for fun?
“Shouldn’t you be working?” the cashier—a white woman in her fifties, with blonde hair, soft blue eyes, and a slight Southern accent, the kind that’s faded with time—smiles up at Jonah, while stealing frequent, curious glances at me. I’ll take that over being blatantly stared at by every other person in this place. Elderly women hunched over bins of discounted canned vegetables, staring at m
e through cataract-clouded gazes. Stock boys, pausing with their hands in midair, gripping produce, staring at me—my face, my chest, my shoes—as I edge past. Middle-aged ladies in unflattering jeans and clunky shoes, their hair pulled into messy ponytails, quieting in mid-conversation, staring at me like I’m some sort of circus sideshow. Or, more likely, like they know I’m an outsider and they’re trying to figure out what on earth brought me to Bangor, Alaska.
I’m quickly sensing that everyone knows everyone around here, and if they don’t directly know them, then it’s through one or two degrees of separation at most, and they’ll strike up a conversation to find out exactly how. Coming to Meyer’s seems to be a social activity as much as a life necessity. Shoppers meander up and down the aisles, blocking paths as they slow to comment on the sale on ground beef and lettuce, or the forecasted break in the rain, or who’s coming in from Anchorage. No one is in much of a hurry.
No one except Jonah.
“Hey, Bobbie.” Jonah starts chucking produce onto the belt. “Yeah. I’m supposed to be. I was ambushed on my way in.”
I roll my eyes. Jonah’s gone from babysitter to hostage. “Thanks. I’ve got this.” I yank the green pepper out of his hand before he can toss—and bruise—it, too. “Do you mind bagging things? Over there.” Away from me. I punctuate my words with a little push against his bicep, rock hard beneath my palm.
The cashier—Bobbie—continues ringing things up, her fingers flying over the keyboard with memorized vegetable codes. “George said they’re calling for a few clear days this week. I’m tired of getting my hopes up. Still, it’d be a nice change from all the rain.”
“You should be used to the rain by now,” Jonah says gruffly, stuffing my groceries into brown paper bags.
“Is anyone ever used to it?” There’s a pause and then, “So, is this your sister? Or a cousin?” She’s asking Jonah, but she’s looking at me.
“This is Wren’s daughter, Calla.”
Her quick fingers stall. “Oh . . . right! George said something about you going to Anchorage to pick her up. George is my husband,” she explains, now addressing me directly. “Him and Jonah’s dad used to fly together in the air force. Now he flies for Wren.”
I’m guessing this George guy was the connection to Alaska Wild that Jonah mentioned earlier. And this Bobbie lady has also given me another piece of information—Jonah’s father was a pilot in the US Air Force, and it sounds like Jonah followed in his footsteps, as far as flying goes, anyway. That must be his father’s hat.
Bobbie shakes her head. “I forgot Wren had a daughter all those years ago. Gosh, it’s been forever. You and your mom ended up in . . .” She lets that hang, waiting for me to fill in the blank.
“Toronto.”
She gives a small nod, like that answers an unspoken question. “And this is your first time here?”
“Since we left, yeah.”
“So . . . you figured it was time for a visit?”
“As good a time for a vacation as any, right?” Jonah answers for me, his piercing eyes on mine, the warning in them clear.
From what Agnes said, my dad doesn’t want people knowing about his cancer diagnosis yet. I guess that includes his employees.
“Yeah. Had some time to burn and I’ve always wanted to see Alaska,” I add, solidifying our lie.
