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“Like, I think he’s been out there in the trees, watching me.” A shiver runs down my spine at the thought. “I told you how sometimes I sense something out there. And that day I thought I saw movement in the trees? I’ll bet that was him.” He’s the right size and color.
Jonah shakes his head. “Doubt it, Calla.”
“I’m serious!”
“So am I. Zeke keeps gettin’ out. Don’t you think that dog would have slaughtered him the second he had a chance?”
Jonah does have a point.
He goes back to his clipboard and I let my gaze roam the hangar. Why Phil needed a place big enough to house two planes when he’s only ever owned one, I have to wonder. “I still think I’m right.”
Jonah doesn’t answer, too focused on his clipboard. Or ignoring me.
I wander over to Phil’s blue-and-white Beaver that sits on a trailer off on the far side, the panel for the engine pulled off. He told us he hasn’t had it in the air for three years because his eyesight issues. What does lack of use do to a plane after that long? “What year is this, again—’69?”
“Fifty-nine.”
“Even better.” I use the narrow ladder propped against the pilot’s side to open the door and climb in. I let my feet dangle out the side while I take in the silver strips of tape holding together the red fabric on the seats. Phil and his duct tape.
The control panel of dials and switches is a replica of Veronica in my opinion, but I’m sure Jonah could point out a thousand differences between the two with a glance. “What do you think is wrong with it?”
“For starters, it needs a new propeller. Phil said I could probably get another three hundred hours on the engine, but I’ll leave that to Toby to figure out.” They finally met today, under less than ideal circumstances, and shared a few quick words before we parted ways. At least Jonah seems lukewarm to giving him a shot, happy with how well the snow machine and ATV engines have been running since Toby worked on them.
“You two should go out for a beer sometime.” It’d be nice for Jonah to make a local male friend, and soon. It seemed everyone in Bangor knew—and liked—him, but my father and Max were the only guys Jonah hung out with, outside of work. Now my father is gone and Max is back in Portland, suitably occupied with baby Thor.
Jonah merely grunts in response.
I drag my fingertip over one of the plane’s gauges, and it comes back with a thick layer of dust. She’ll need a good clean once she’s ready to go.
That’s when it hits me. “We need to name her!” I holler. It was my grandfather’s tradition, then my father’s. Now, it needs to be ours. I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of this before.
Jonah has finished his checks and is dangling half out of Veronica as he stretches to reach for something inside. His boots make a heavy thump against the ground as he hops out of the plane. In one hand, he clutches a crinkled brown paper bag and another package wrapped in newspaper. “I already did.”
“Seriously?” An unexpected prick of disappointment stirs inside me. “How could you name her without—”
“Wren. I named it Wren.” Jonah reaches up to smooth a hand over the fuselage. “It’s a he.”
“Oh.” I bite my lip as a smile emerges in tandem with a bubble of emotion. “That’s a good name.”
“Yeah. I thought so, too.” Jonah’s blue eyes are sad. It reminds me, yet again, that I am not the only one who lost—and still feels the loss—of my father.
“Help me down?” It’s far too high to jump with the plane on floats and a trailer.
Jonah obliges, stretching out his arms and opening up his broad chest.
I lean down and, wrapping my arms around his neck, let myself drop, knowing he can bear my weight.
He grunts but barely shifts, easing me to the ground with an arm roped around my back.
I steal a kiss from his lips on my way down.
“Here.” He hands me the awkwardly shaped package that’s wrapped in newsprint, secured with twine. There’s weight to it. “It’s a housewarming gift from Ethel.”
“Ethel? When did you see her?”
“Today.”
I frown. “What was she doing up in Crooked Creek?”
