Lifeline: Caribou River, #3

By Alexa Gregory

Two lost, wandering souls and the chance encounter that could rewrite their future.

 

After a devastating heartbreak, Denton Bell is looking for a fresh start. Again. He vows to live as a reclusive carpenter on his new property by the Caribou River. Unable to ignore his caretaking and social nature, he joins the volunteer fire crew. His plans of solitude begin to crumble when he meets Maëlle, a local who doesn't quite fit in.

 

It's a rough year for Maëlle Haubois. She's lost her beloved grandmother and her home. The last thing she needs? A surprise pregnancy. Isolated and shunned because of her past and her family's history, Maëlle stands alone between her unborn child and her unpredictable ex. But Denton, a newcomer to town – and her landlord – shows her a side of the river she never knew.

 

Both adrift and searching for a place to belong, Denton and Maëlle lean on each other to recover from their respective heartbreaks. But some wounds can't be healed by hope and love, especially when the past can't be easily erased.

 

This small-town exceedingly slow-burn romance is the third book in the Caribou River series. Though it can be read as a standalone, there are spoilers from the previous books.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexa Gregory
• Release date: Feb 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781990514029

Book preview

1

POORLY SHOD SHOEMAKER

DENTON

One Year Ago

January

I’ve gone through my life firmly believing that the worst has passed, that the best is yet to come. I have no idea when or why I chose to hold on tightly to that notion, but it’s how I’ve managed to survive.

Every single time life threw me for a loop, I took the hit and told myself, at least it’s all uphill from here on out.

Because it had to be true.

Because it was the only way through the pain.

Because I hoped to make better choices.

Was moving to Eastwood an error? Maybe. Time would tell if packing up all of my tools and driving away from my life was a good call.

I’d done it multiple times before to shitty results, but I was at a loss. I drove and drove some more.

Three hours of road brought me to the banks of the Caribou River.

All on a pain-induced whim after finding my girlfriend in bed with another man.

Tonight, it was harder to hold on to the bitterness tightly wrapped around my heart like suffocating ivy.

All of the charming small towns lining the Caribou River were layered in heavy sheets of crystalline snow, glimmering by the light of the moon. Eastwood’s never-ending fields and forests were peaceful.

There was a promise in the village’s atmosphere, lulling me calm, nearly bewitching me with hope. In the vastness of the frozen river and snow-topped trees, my heartache felt insignificant, connecting me to something so much bigger than the pain and betrayal heating my blood.

The river’s suspended current called to me to be still a moment, to stop running away, to settle in the immense beauty that surrounded me.

Why? I didn’t know, but the ache gripping my heart eased a bit as I filled my lungs with the crisp, refreshing air.

Please. Let this be where I belong.

I blinked my eyes open and up toward the slate-gray night sky. Large, fluffy flakes fluttered down, further blanketing the narrow pathway that led back toward the house.

My house.

It was by no means the prettiest. The wooden structure had seen better days a decade and a few owners ago, but I was confident I could work it back to its original mediocrity with some elbow grease and sheer determination.

I had the skill and a bit of savings to undertake the project. Maybe I could even make it better than it ever was.

It would really help if the foundation was sound. A man could hope. Especially since said man hadn’t actually done a thorough inspection of the property. It was ill-advised. I gave my clients crap when they did this.

Don’t ever buy a house without getting some professional opinion on it.

I had credentials, but that didn’t mean my purchase wouldn’t come back to bite me in the ass. It was way too spur of the moment to be a sound investment, no matter how badly I had to believe it was the right move.

What’s that adage about the poorly shod shoemaker? There needs to be a comparable proverb for this carpenter.

Can I build and restore beautiful homes? I sure can.

Do I have one?

Have I ever had one?

Solid no on both accounts.

Tonight, though, peace settled inside me for the first time in two weeks. Hell, probably for the first time, full stop.

I was never one for omens, but I could pretend the fresh snowfall heralded good things. It could snow for hours if each flake promised to bury a lie. If they announced a better future, one as luminous and incandescent as the snow.

I had to believe that nearly as much as I needed to move out of Haxby’s Maple Leaf Inn.

Talk about a poorly shod shoemaker.

From a temporary rented room to a battered house.

At least, this was all mine.

My view. My space.

My choice.

My home.

Structurally, the house wasn’t too beat up by the elements. A few of the logs had to be swapped out, and the masonry needed some work. The swooped roof would need to be replaced. Nothing too demanding.

I let my imagination run wild, picturing the house once it was remodeled. I would paint the front door a nice shade of blue and change out the windows. Maybe I’d add a few accents to the narrow porch. A swing for the summertime with a plaid cushion to match the house. It was too late now, but next winter, I’d string up Christmas lights on the cornices to illuminate the whole place.

Oh, yeah. I could see it so clearly. My limbs twitched to get to work on the thousands of renovation projects twirling through my head. They were as numerous as the snowflakes.

I poured all of my life savings into this property. The house was a decent size that could easily be made bigger with an addition or two if I wanted more room in the future.

I winced as the thought snuck up on me.

Doubtful.

There would be no wife. No kids. No need for more space.

Stacey pretty much guaranteed that when she broke my heart and blew up our — my — future.

Maybe I’d get a dog and a couple of cats to keep the mice away, but that was it.

As the snow continued to fall around me, I let the ivy wrap itself more tightly around my heart, extinguishing its dangerous hopefulness. Things would not get better, but I wouldn’t let them get worse.

The river had called to me, and she would be my one and only mistress.

Maybe it was foolish to buy a place that sat vacant for a couple of years. At least I could move in right away and leave the Maple Leaf Inn for good. Besides, it wasn’t the house that caught my attention. It was the two external garages.

I had plans.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t have to check with someone. Not with foster parents or overbearing keepers or cheating girlfriends.

I made the decision for myself.

I didn’t ask anyone if turning one of the garages into a small apartment for extra income was a good idea. I knew the second and larger space would be one badass woodworking shop. It was bigger, older, rougher, and definitely impacted by its long solitary years.

That’s what happens when you abandon things. People. Places.

Time doesn’t stop for them.

In fact, time feels heavier for things left behind. I learned that time and time again, but my past didn’t belong here.

I would build myself a life in this place, with no one and nothing to make it better or worse. I would dedicate my strength to building and repairing.

Hopefully, as I worked, I would manufacture a life worth living.

All by my lonesome.

This was a fresh start. I would reinvent myself into a reclusive carpenter, grow old and gray amongst my projects.

I fought long and hard to have a different end. Silly. This was always the way my story would go. I was just late to the punchline.

I was born alone; I was left alone.

Now, I accepted that I would die alone.

This time, I wouldn’t screw it up by falling for the wrong woman.

For any woman.

Beads of sweat rolled down my temples, and I quickly brushed them away. The garage’s furnace was old and in desperate need of repairs. Either it didn’t run warm enough or it got so hot the devil himself would be comfortable in my woodshop. I was at the mercurial heater’s mercy until I received the right parts to refurbish it. Holding with my luck, they were on backorder.

For two weeks, I spent my days and nights fixing up my properties. The only two functional spaces in the main house were the master bedroom and the bathroom. I focused most of my time on the woodshop and the other garage, slowly turning it into a studio apartment. I took breaks from demolishing and gutting the place to build some necessities.

A kitchen table with a single chair, a bed frame.

I could’ve gone out and purchased these essential items, but I needed busy hands more than a depleted wallet.

I didn’t have any furniture, having left all of my possessions with Stacey. I didn’t want a single thing we bought together.

Something the other guy might have touched.

He had definitely had his paws all over my stuff.

Thinking of Stacey and Robbie started a fury in the pit of my stomach. I grabbed a scrap of sandpaper and discharged all of my anger into smoothing down the woodgrain on a sizable piece of pine. I was so angry my vigorous rubbing might as well have been powered by electricity.

I stopped around two when my stomach grumbled louder than the country playlist streaming over a small speaker. I poured water into a cup of dehydrated noodles and stuck it into a shitty microwave I bought at a thrift shop in Saint-Canton.

With a shudder, I slurped down the still-crunchy noodles, dried-out flecks of carrots, and something that was meant to be chicken. I hadn’t touched the kitchen because it wasn’t my priority.

Eating alone was one of my least favorite things. Drinking a shitty lunch in the woodshop in between tasks didn’t count as a solitary meal. It was simply ingesting calories to keep up my strength.

The mound of energy bar wrappers in the trashcan reminded me that, eventually, I would need decent and fresh food. Sooner or later, I had to face that kitchen and get used to a lonely table.

I chose this life. There was no going back, no changing my mind.

As I battled with the heavy implications, the whirring of a truck and crunching snow reverberated down the laneway. I shut off the music and lumbered over to the shop door, peeking through the old, dirty window. A blue pickup rolled down the drive, despite the deep layers of snow.

I knew who it was.

My potential boss.

Big Al Roy leaped down from his parked truck, a cigarette puckered in his droll smile. It wasn’t a good sign. What kind of future employer showed up at your place to give you a job?

Hey there, Denton. The older man flicked his butt into the snow, where it hissed out of life with a small tendril of smoke.

Hi. My greeting was a croak of nerves, my voice rough from disuse. I hadn’t talked to anyone in days. Actually, the last time I spoke was to Big Al earlier in the week when I applied for a job in his construction company.

Came by for a little chat. He jutted his chin toward the woodshop. You gotta second?

I tried to swallow as I nodded. Blowing all of my life savings on an abandoned property was merely one of my less-than-stellar decisions lately. I should’ve secured a job before choosing to settle down. If Big Al didn’t hire me, I was royally fucked with no recourse but my scrappy – yet exhausted – survival instincts.

We made our way to the atelier, not a word between us. He wasn’t a big talker, but his silence freaked me out. Especially while he took stock of my workspace, running his hand on a rocking horse I finished in the middle of the night.

You do really good work, kid.

Thanks.

So I called Mike Taylor.

Those five words made my lungs stall. Yeah? I barely managed to grunt.

Big Al whistled low, shaking his head. His grin was downright confusing, so at odds with my expectations for this conversation.

"That man does not like you."

I shrugged. There was nothing I could say. I warned Big Al. Mike Taylor would never give me a good reference. Not after all that happened.

Hot tip: do not fall for your boss’s daughter. Do not move in with her, and no matter what you do, do not come home early from work.

Good thing I can spot anger from a mile away. I’m real familiar with it. Most days, just gotta look in the mirror, but I’m looking right at it.

My jaw clenched, my grip tightened on the chisel in my hand.

Big Al smirked and crossed his arms. You’ve been in town for a few weeks now. I’m sure you’ve heard some grumblings about me. Who I used to be. All that shit.

I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that I hadn’t heard a damn thing, but starting our professional relationship on a lie wasn’t ideal.

I heard a story here and there, I admitted. I might’ve only been in the Caribou River region for a short while, but Big Al was a favored topic of conversation. Some talked about his past; others praised him as an Eastwood success story as if the town was responsible for the man turning his life around after a lengthy prison sentence. The environment sure helped, but a changed life came with making the best call from one moment to the next.

That came from within, and it took one hell of a strong person.

You know what I’ve done, Big Al stated. You also know I’m a part of this community now. There are grumblings, but I still have my place here. That’s my point, Denton. I don’t give a fuck what happened in your life before today. If you’re a good man and work hard when you’re on the clock, we won’t have a problem. It’s all up to you. We gonna have issues?

No, of course not.

Was Big Al actually giving me a job after Mike Taylor trash-talked me for leaving his daughter? It sure sounded like it, but I wouldn’t hope until I heard the words flat out.

I needed cold, hard facts.

Eastwood is a good place, he went on. For the most part, the Caribou River towns are fine, decent people. You can start over here if that’s what you want. I’ll hire you despite Taylor’s warnings. His griping felt more personal, anyway, he added with a wink. Good thing I don’t have a daughter, hey?

I nodded. If you’re more comfortable giving me a probationary period, I get it.

Big Al frowned as he grabbed a smoke from his jacket pocket. He slipped it between his lips and toyed with his lighter. You start Monday, kid. Let’s keep business and love separate from now on, yeah?

My heart clenched before kicking up at warp speed.

There won’t ever be love in my life. Not again. Not ever.

Sure thing, boss.

He threw his head back with a deep belly laugh. I like you already. You’ll work just fine. Big Al was so damn sure; it gave me a flash of confidence. He reminded me of Kurt Brown, the only father figure I ever knew.

I wouldn’t let him down. Not after he gave me a shot despite Taylor’s scathing review of my character.

This was good news. The best I‘d gotten in a long time.

I wouldn’t bleed out money. I could make a decent wage working for Roy Construction, and little by little, I’d make this property my home.

No one and nothing was going to mess with my plans. The days of letting my hopeful heart lead were long gone.

Finding the love of your life in bed with your best friend will do that to a man.

2

WRONG SONG IN THE WRONG KEY

MAËLLE

All. Alone. All. Alone. All. Alone.

The church bells’ morbid and languid song announced the beginning of the funeral. The gunmetal-gray clouds trapped the slow ringing in the frigid winter air before throwing the sound back down to me.

Every toll, separated by seconds, tightened my lungs. My ears thundered from the incessant noise, and I knew.

The bells’ cacophony mocked me.

They could judge from on high all they wanted.

It wouldn’t change my new reality.

I was alone in the world.

My teeth wanted to chatter against the subzero temperature, but my jaw was clenched too tightly. I spun a thick silver ring around my middle finger over and over again, hoping the rhythmic and familiar sensation would give me enough strength to walk into the church.

The pallbearers stood by the entrance, ready to make their way inside. I didn’t recognize half of them, which fanned the flames of my anger.

Good.

Rage I could do. I was a pro at dealing with fiery ire.

Sadness? That I couldn’t cope with, at least not in front of this particular crowd.

If Grand-Maman were here, she’d tap my cheek, grinning like an imp, and remind me who we are.

The villains of the Caribou River.

The small sips my lungs allowed were hardly enough, but it was all I could manage. Any more, and I’d do something stupid like weep.

That led to straight-up sobbing.

Not. Happening.

I wouldn’t give Saint-Canton any more ammunition against me.

To the gathered vultures — because I refused to call them mourners; that’s not what they were — I was the dangerous and slutty rage monster from Forget.

An Haubois.

Basically synonymous with trashy, tawdry, and trouble. As forgettable as the tiny little non-town I hailed from.

Like Forget, sandwiched between Eastwood and Haxby, I was caught between my grief and appearances.

If I bawled because my grandmother died, I’d get no sympathy.

Judgmental looks? Yup.

Barely whispered comments about my past? Obviously.

Eye rolls so deep they’d do permanent damage? Absolutely.

With a shaky breath, I made a vow. I would get through this without a single tear. Funerals aren’t for the dead, anyway. They’re very much for the living, but this one? It wasn’t for me.

It was so far removed from what Grand-Maman and I planned. She wanted to be cremated and her ashes scattered into the Caribou River while a cigarette burned beside a can of Diet Coke.

This church thing, with sickly sweet flowers and overeager spectators, wasn’t her scene.

Grand-Maman hadn’t set foot in a church since the one in Forget closed more than two decades ago. Most French-speaking folks drove into Saint-Canton for services nowadays, and if there was something Noëlla Haubois didn’t do, it was going to Saint-Canton for anything.

Actually, she hadn’t left the house for years before she got sick.

She always teased I could hold a grudge like nobody else, but really, I learned that from her. The Haubois women weren’t known to be cuddly softies. We were known for our family legacy. Crooks, liars, drunks, and thieves, the whole lot of us.

It was farcical and proof that no one really knew us or what hid under those false labels. They saw poisoned apples, but we grew in their orchards.

Appearances saved us as much as they harmed us, forever teetering on a knife’s edge. Yet, no matter where we fell, the blade cut. Deep. So deep, it sometimes took years before blood welled from the wound.

If I weren’t surrounded by a crowd who would erase my existence without batting an eye, I’d smile through the tears as I shared stories about my grandmother’s life. Tough lady she was, no one knew the extent of the knocks — metaphorical and literal — she’d taken.

It was hardly the time or place to lose myself to grief. My heartbreak wasn’t for anyone to witness. The hurt slicing through my heart with every beat wasn’t a show for them to judge.

Not this time.

I desperately needed something to focus on, but there was nothing. If I looked straight up, all I could see was the coffin. That gaudy varnished monstrosity Grand-Maman would’ve mocked.

She didn’t even want a coffin.

Once, after a particularly difficult day, she joked that I should stuff her ashes into a pack of smokes. It was (mostly) a wisecrack.

Thinking about that moment in the hospital, I could almost hear Grand-Maman’s dry, throaty cackle. If I strained my ears, its hushed echo might drown out the doom-abhorring bells.

Grand-Maman would laugh at my anger with some hilariously and tragically misplaced advice. I already missed her raspy voice and strange superstitions.

I would miss a whole lot about the woman who raised me.

Blinking back tears, I spotted a few lurkers who should have known better than to come. They were never kind to Grand-Maman, and they’d single-handedly kept the rumor mill running with their hot, venomous breath.

Oblivious of the spectacle unfolding all around us, my aunt clutched her husband as he walked them toward the front pews with my cousins close behind. Aunt Anaïs led the grief procession in tears as if she hadn’t ignored her mother for months.

Years, even.

Who took care of Grand-Maman? Which one of us bathed her, tended to her bedsores, fed her, changed her diapers?

Me.

Alone.

Yet there I was, closing out the cortège as an afterthought, as if Noëlla Haubois hadn’t raised me.

Aunt Anaïs and her family filled out the first row of pews, leaving me to sit amongst the fake mourners, remanded to share a seat with people who hated my grandmother and me.

Like I wasn’t part of the so-called family.

Like I didn’t love Grand-Maman, my only parent.

I was furious with a fresh, hot side of indignation. Maybe a pinch (or twenty) of bitterness thrown in for good measure. I clung to it with the desperation of the drowning. Anger was the key to my survival. It always was.

The choir, nothing more than four regular churchgoers and their blissful ignorance that they were tone-deaf, stood and began to sing the wrong song, in the wrong key.

When I die, you make sure no one sings ‘Ave Maria.’ It’s overdone, and it’ll make ‘em cry for nothing. I could almost see Grand-Maman beside me, speaking between deep pulls from her cigarette. Check moé ça le monde icitte. Hypocrisie pure.

She was right, of course. Most came to gawk. These hypocrites never lifted a finger to help her, but here they were, ready to lower her further still, as deep as humanly possible.

Some only came to see if my grandfather showed up.

If my mother made an appearance? Bonus. That cameo was sure to fuel the rumor mill for a good month or so.

Neither would show, though.

If I believed in a higher power, I would thank them for that small miracle. Yet, it wasn’t divine providence that kept Paul and Joëlle away.

It was their selfish streaks. Those ran longer, wider, and deeper than the Caribou River.

I managed to track down my grandfather a few days after Grand-Maman died. They hadn’t spoken in years, and he stopped caring for her a long time ago — probably around the time I pressed charges against him. He wouldn’t mourn the wife he lost to his affairs with the bottle, gambling, and violence.

My mother, on the other hand, was an entirely different story.

I hadn’t tracked her down.

All I had was a name and a twenty-year-old address. Joëlle wasn’t known for her stability. I hadn’t heard from her since my fifth birthday, and I was unlikely to ever see her again.

It was the perfect reminder.

The Haubois cycle of abuse and abandonment would end with me.

I would definitely not have little Haubois of my own. If my cousins chose to breathe new life into our poisonous bloodline, I wished them well enough, the poor fools.

I barely paid any attention to the ceremony as the priest droned on about a woman he didn’t know. His eulogy sounded nothing like my grandmother, who was as vibrant as the cherry on the end of her beloved cigarettes.

Grand-Maman was tough. A survivor even when a series of strokes slowly stole away her capabilities. You couldn’t tell that from the stuff the priest spewed. Pious and Noëlla Haubois weren’t words that were uttered in the same sentence before. It wouldn’t happen again unless chain-smoking and guzzling Diet Coke suddenly became a religion.

Finally, the sham of a funeral came to an end, and once again, I had to follow behind Aunt Anaïs and her brood.

I wanted to laugh at the folks with red-rimmed eyes. Not a real laugh, but one full of disdain and rage.

Hell, even the river’s main gossip, Mrs. Reid, was there. She dabbed her tears with a cloth handkerchief.

Sure, the people mourned Grand-Maman now.

The same people who gave her shit for standing by my side after the assault and the resulting consequences.

No one would take her place by my side.

And then, somehow conjured by my thoughts, I spotted him.

Pierre Toussaint.

He sat in one of the backbenches bouncing a little baby on his lap while his wife held on to a little girl who couldn’t have been more than three.

My stomach rolled, and violent anger made my whole body quiver. The last time we were in a room this austere together, my life changed dramatically.

He lied.

The charges were substantiated by my forced confession.

The victim was held accountable for defending herself.

That’s what happens when you’re the little girl who cries wolf too often.

It doesn’t actually matter if the wolf sleeps one door down or if he nips at your heels every time you take a step outside the house.

It doesn’t even matter if the wolf comes upon you on a dark and deserted road in the middle of the night.

Folks don’t see the wolves. They choose to ignore what is painfully confusing in its obviousness.

Keep your mouth shut and just go through it. Be a good girl.

I learned that lesson a long time ago, and I didn’t need a refresher.

It took some gall for Pierre to show up here of all days. He tried to give me a sympathetic nod, but I looked away before I shouted at him, spinning my ring around my finger to keep my hands busy.

The very last row was filled with the friendly faces of the Ross family. John, Sheena, their three adult children, and Rowan Walker had come. Theirs was the only presence that felt right, almost comforting.

A single tear pushed against my defenses and rolled down my cheek. I quickly brushed it away before toying with my ring again. I didn’t want to throw myself in my boss’s arms, desperate for consoling.

Yet, I needed someone to hug me and lie. Tell me it would be okay. That I would be fine. I didn’t know how to ask for what I needed, so I bit my cheek and pretended the sharp sting was the same as a gentle embrace.

Grief’s iron grip on my lungs eased when John clasped my shoulder. You’re all right, Maëlle.

I’ll drive you to the hall, Tavish declared.

I shook my head. I drove here.

Father and son exchanged a look. I’d known them for a long time. John owned Tankard, the pub where I’d been working since I turned nineteen, Ontario’s legal drinking age. Back then, Tavish was a bartender and waiter like me, but he’d since become my sort-of boss while John wavered on retirement.

The Rosses were good, decent people. I shouldn’t have been surprised by their thoughtfulness, but decency always shocked me more than humans’ vile nature.

My own boyfriend wasn’t even here for me today.

Tav will take you. You shouldn’t drive when you’re upset. Sheena gave me a sweet motherly smile that made spikes sprout in the back of my throat.

That’s exactly the kind of thing Grand-Maman would’ve said to me if she were here. Of course, she would have been more sardonic about it. "You can’t drive when you’re pissing tears, Maëlle. They don’t make windshield wipers for eyeballs."

Relieved and reluctant, I handed Tavish my car keys. I didn’t have it in me to argue with a Ross.

We’ll stay as long as you need us to, Tav mentioned as we walked toward my car, but I barely heard him.

My attention was stolen away by a blue jay.

The bird fluttered its wings on a bare tree limb, the lively azure feathers the only color left in my drab life. The brave little guy didn’t migrate, choosing to remain in the frozen Canadian climate for reasons that were all his own.

I understood the bird’s determination to stay even when everything in the world was trying to spit it out. It was probably why they were Grand-Maman’s favorite songbirds.

Stubborn, resilient, almost frightfully ruthless in their fight for survival.

Since she’d died, they popped around everywhere. Not merely in the print of her favorite sweaters, many of which featured a blue jay, but out in the world, too. Their loud chirps and bright blue feathers almost comforted me.

If I were superstitious like Grand-Maman, I’d think it was her way of watching over me. I didn’t believe that, though.

I was alone.

It was a truth colder than the Ontarian wind blowing off the Caribou River, but it was still accurate.

Tavish and I settled in my crappy little clunker, waiting for the heat to thaw the engine. He fiddled with the rearview mirror, but his gaze flicked to me a few times.

I don’t want you coming in for a few days, he instructed as we drove away from the church. We’ll cover your shifts.

I swallowed a sob. Thanks.

He shrugged like it was nothing, but his understanding meant a lot. If anyone knew grief, it was the Ross family. They had more than their fair share of pain and loss.

I’ll be fine to work next weekend, I assured him.

He nodded. Feet up. That was Tavish’s own personal motto, something his deceased older brother used to say. No matter what happened, Tavish was on his feet and behind the bar at Tankard. He’d probably stay there, standing like a statue, when the apocalypse started. If you need more time, that’s okay, too.

And do what? Sit alone at the house? Not a chance.

I would never get rid of that ugly old place. It might be held together by scar tissue and ghosts, but it was home. I had the worst times of my life there, but also the best. It was where Grand-Maman taught me to read, count, and bake. It’s where we bonded and loved each other, protected each other.

Those were the memories I would keep alive.

The rest? The bad stuff?

That could stay in the past where it belonged.

A thousand hours later, the community hall was mostly empty. The vultures, having pecked at the very last triangle-shaped sandwich, scattered on the winds of chatter.

They hadn’t gotten the showdown they expected, but they had a free luncheon. Small consolation prize, but they made up for it by leaving