The Return(14)

The engine was as ancient as the rest of the boat; to start it, you pulled a cord, much like a lawn mower. When I was a kid, my grandfather had let me give it a try, and after numerous failed attempts, I could barely move my arm. With my good hand, I gave the cord a couple of sharp jerks now, and when the engine didn’t catch, I guessed the problem was something as simple as spark plugs. My grandfather was a whiz at anything mechanical and I had no doubt he’d been able to keep the engine in good condition right up until he’d made the trip to Easley.

Which made me wonder again why he’d been there.

*



After ransacking the barn to find a wrench, I removed the spark plugs and got in my SUV. I’ll admit my vehicle isn’t good for the environment, but because it’s stylish, I like to think that it adds beauty to the world, which makes up for it.

I drove a mile down the road to Slow Jim’s Trading Post, finding that the place hadn’t changed a bit. Inside, I asked the cashier where I might find spark plugs, and sure enough, the store had the exact ones I needed. My stomach gurgled as I paid for them, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Overcome with nostalgia, I wandered toward the grill. The six small tables were taken—the place had always drawn a crowd—but there were a few empty stools at the counter and I took a seat. Above the grill was a chalkboard highlighting the menu. There were more choices than I anticipated, though few were remotely healthy. But I’d run that morning, so what the heck? I ordered a cheeseburger and fries from Claude, a man I recognized from previous visits. Despite the apron he was wearing, he looked more like a banker than a cook, with dark hair turning silver at the temples and blue eyes that matched the polo shirt he was wearing beneath his apron. His father had originally founded the store—probably around the time my grandfather built his house—but Claude had been running the place for more than a decade.

I also ordered an iced tea, which was as sweet as I remembered. The South is famous for sweet tea, and I savored every drop. Claude then slid a bowl of small, brown soggy things toward me.

“What’s this?”

“Boiled peanuts. It comes with every order,” Claude explained. “I started that a couple of years ago. It’s my wife’s recipe, and there’s a pot going near the register. You can buy some before you go. Most people do.”

I cautiously tried one, surprised by its salty goodness. Claude turned away and dumped some frozen fries from a bag into hot oil, before slapping a burger on the grill. Off to the side, Callie was stocking some shelves, but if she’d noticed me, she hadn’t let on.

“Don’t I know you?” Claude asked. “I think I recognize you.”

“I haven’t been here in years, but I used to come all the time with my grandfather, Carl Haverson.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he said, brightening. “You’re the Navy doctor, right?”

“Not anymore. But that’s a story for another time.”

“I’m Claude,” he said.

“I remember,” I said. “I’m Trevor.”

“Wow,” he said. “A Navy doctor.” Claude whistled. “Your pappy sure was proud of you.”

“I was proud of him, too.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. I sure did like him.”

I shelled another peanut. “Me too.”

“Do you live around here now?”

“I’m staying at his place until June or so.”

“Great property,” Claude said. “Your pappy planted some fantastic trees. Really pretty this time of year. My wife has been making me slow the car whenever we pass by. Lots of flowers. Are the beehives still there?”

“Of course.” I nodded. “They’re doing well.”

“Your pappy used to let me buy and sell some of his honey every year. Folks love it. If there’s any left from either of last year’s harvests, I’d be happy to take it off your hands.”

“How many jars would you want?”

“All of them,” he chortled.

“That good?”

“Best in the state, or so they say.”

“There’s a ranking?”

“I don’t know. But that’s what I tell people when they ask. And they keep buying it.”

I smiled. “Why are you at the grill? If I remember right, aren’t you usually working the register?”

“Almost always. It’s cooler and a whole lot easier, and I’m not covered in grease by the end of the day. But Frank is my regular grill man and he’s out this week. His daughter is getting married.”

“Good reason to miss work.”

“Not so good for me. I’m out of practice on the grill. I’ll do my best to make sure your burger isn’t burned.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

He eyed the sizzling grill over his shoulder. “Carl used to come here two or three times a week, you know. Always ordered a BLT on white toast, with French fries, and a pickle on the side.”

I remembered ordering the same thing when I was with him. For some reason, BLTs never tasted quite as good anywhere else.

“I’m sure he loved the peanuts, too. These are great.”

“Nope,” Claude declared. “Allergic.”