A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(40)

“Thank you, pastor,” she said, withdrawing herself. “Beautiful sermon.”

“Then, I thank you. I lack confidence in getting them ready. They’re a struggle. Come back and see us.”

“Sure,” she said, removing herself.

She went and waited by the truck, and while she was there, she watched Ian make his way to the pastor, shake his hand, speak to him, even laugh with him. And she thought—there are two of him! He is that guy who seems so alone and a guy who’s made his way in the world just fine. It’s just that his world is a different kind of world; it’s not that rushing, heavily populated world of demands and connections so many of us have. His is mostly a quiet world and his relationships seemed to be the same. The way he seemed to like it.

When she’d been looking for him, she had asked probably a hundred people if they knew an Ian Buchanan and the answer had always been the same. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.” Ian probably made his way through life, friendly enough, without anyone asking his name, without him ever offering it.

When Ian got to the truck and fired it up, she asked, “Did the pastor ask you your name?”

“No,” he said. “Why?”

So that was part of it. That and the fact he didn’t look anything like the picture she’d been flashing around. “No reason, just curious,” she said.

“I think we should have a nice, big breakfast. Do you feel like eating before we hit the library?”

“Sure,” she said quietly.

“You all right, Marcie?”

She shrugged. “I think I got a little sentimental there for a minute. A good strong cup of coffee should do the trick.”

“Well, you’re in luck—I know just the place.”

It was a truck stop, of course. Ian was quite proud of the place. There must have been a dozen eighteen-wheelers parked outside and when he walked in, a middle-aged, heavyset, bleached-blond waitress said hello rather familiarly. “Hey, Bub—you doing okay? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Doing great, Patti,” he answered. She wore a big name tag so Marcie couldn’t assume they were friends. But Ian had been seen around after all—in plenty of places. Coincidentally, none of the places she’d been looking.

Patti poured their coffee and said, “Need a minute?”

“Yeah, give the lady some time to decide,” he said.

After Patti had gone, Marcie said, “I guess you must get the same thing every time?”

“Just about. Yeah,” he admitted.

“Okay.” She studied her menu. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll have a cheese omelet.”

“Sounds good,” he said. He lifted his hand to Patti.

When she arrived he said, “A cheese omelet for the lady, trim it, and for me—”

“Four eggs, side of bacon, side of sausage, hash browns, biscuits and gravy, wheat toast, orange juice and coffee till you float,” she finished for him.

He smiled at Patti and it was most definitely a smile. If I were Patti, Marcie thought, I’d think he wanted to ask me out on a date. But all Patti said was, “Gotcha, Bub.”

By her first refill of coffee, Marcie started to get right with the world. Nothing straightened her out like caffeine, she thought. Hot coffee, not that stuff Ian left warming on the woodstove when he went to sell wood in the mornings. And this was good and strong. She came around. “So, are you and Patti friends?” she asked.

“Patti’s my waitress about once every two months,” he said. “She does a good job.”

“Why didn’t you sing in church?” she asked boldly.

He put down his cup. “I didn’t want to.”

“Why?”

“Look, don’t make me act all conceited. I was in choir in high school. I was in our high school musical—we did Grease. I have an okay voice. I don’t want to join the choir.”

“Who were you in Grease?”

“It’s not important.”

“Who?”

His hand went over his mouth and he mumbled something.

“Who?” she asked, leaning closer.

His eyes came up. “Danny.”

“You were the star! You were frickin’ John Travolta, except you sing better!”

His eyes shifted around nervously. “You just got a little loud there.”

“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry. But really…Have you ever studied music?”

“I studied military strategy. I thought you knew that.”

“Okay, sorry, brushing up against that forbidden territory. But Jesus, you sing like a god! Wouldn’t that be something you’d think about pursuing?”

He was quiet for a long moment and finally said, “I sing for myself. It’s nice. It passes time. You’re not going to save me, Marcie. You’re not going to pull me out of the hills and turn me in to a rock star.”

She was speechless. For a split second, that was exactly what she’d had in mind. Not a rock star, exactly, but a famous singer at least. “Well, it’s just a stupid crime that you don’t even have a radio,” she said churlishly. “No matter where you live, you should have music around you.”

And he laughed.

Their plates arrived, along with a check that Ian snapped up. She just stared at his huge breakfast with wide, startled eyes.