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No, they aren’t in the big time yet, but around here, they might as well be. Harvest Hollow is very proud of its minor league hockey team. Last season, I waited too long, and I never did get tickets to see them.
But they’re here. At my house. Cleaning. Because of Owen.
I mentally stumble on that thought for too many seconds.
There’s a dumpster out front and a small, tented canopy off to the side with folding tables underneath.
I park in the driveway, and my parents pull in behind me. I get out of the car just as Owen steps out of my house. He’s talking to a group of three other guys, including Jace.
They aren’t dressed like firefighters, but this must be a service they provide.
“I hope you don’t mind that I lent him your key,” Mom says through my window as she walks by on her way to greet Owen’s parents.
She doesn’t give me a chance to respond. I reach into my backseat and pull out the box of pastries.
The Coffin Dodgers are on me in seconds, ready for free treats, and I’m starting to wonder if that—and the chance to form a peanut gallery—are the only reasons they came.
“Let us help you with that,” Ernie says, taking the box from me.
“Did you leave any back at the store?” John chuckles.
“Did you bring coffee?” Marco asks.
“There’s coffee under the tent,” Mr. Ridgemont says. “And good morning, Emmy.”
“Morning.” They head over to the tables under the canopy, where some of the ladies from church are bustling around. Looks like they had the food covered, but I’m glad I could at least contribute something. There’s a whole spread of bagels and donuts and fruit, along with juice and coffee.
The folks of Harvest Hollow really know how to do disaster relief.
I take a second to survey the scene, and I’m overwhelmed for a moment. They’re all here for me. The weight of that doesn’t escape me.
Owen spots me and separates from the others. His expression is stoic, as usual, and he’s all business. He stops in front of me, and I have to take a moment to right myself. His nearness, as of late, does a number on my nerves, but it’s the concern etched in his forehead that I’m really struggling with.
For me, it’s not a leap to think behind “concern” is “care,” and not far away from “care” is “love.”
I snap open the “Friend Box” and stuff all of that inside.
“What’s all this?” I ask, doing my best to keep up that friendly facade.
“It’s a big job,” he says. “Called in some help.”
I look around the yard. The Coffin Dodgers are standing around a table, drinking coffee and chatting with the church ladies. Reagan pulls up in her old VW bug, and magically produces a pile of boxes and a roll of packing tape.
“I can’t believe you got all these people to come,” I say. “You just texted me about the clean-up yesterday. No way you pulled this together in a day.”
He smirks. “It’s been in the works.”
He’d been planning this?
“Your captain is going to be very happy.”
He frowns. “I don’t think he even knows we’re here today.”
“Owen!” Jace is pulling more masks out of the back of his truck.
Owen looks at Jace, giving me a second to process what he just said. If the captain doesn’t know, then he didn’t assign this task to Owen. And if he’s not doing this because it’s his job, then. . .
Concern to care to love to. . .
