Tuesday night, six o'clock sharp, I arrived at Sally's Diner. It was a little restaurant out on the neck of the Homer Spit. It had a carved wooden bench beneath the awning with eagles for armrests and an American flag painted on the backrest. It earned an impressed glance as I ambled by with deliberate slowness.
The front face of the diner was all windows filtering greasy-gold light as I walked up from the adjacent parking lot. Trying not to be too conspicuous, I peered in. I wanted to pick out my quarry among the diners, but there were too many rugged-looking loggers and hikers to try and identify a chief of police from among them.
Pocketing the directions Coach Carter had given me, I pushed inside. The thick scent of carbohydrate-heavy foods washed over me; starchy, buttery, and mildly mouthwatering. Anxiously, I glanced about; looking from table to table. Mustaches and beards appeared to be the popular style in this locale; Coach's brief description of Chief Murphy wasn't nearly descriptive enough. On top of that, there were three tables at which a mustached man had chosen to sit by himself.
"You can take any open table," a waitress behind the counter called as she loaded her hands with laden plates.
"Oh, uh, I'm actually looking for Chief Murphy," I explained, hooking my thumbs into my skirt-pockets.
She did a double-take, glancing back at me, "Oh, he's over there."
Her chin jerked toward a front corner of a restaurant where one of the three lonesome mustached men sat.
"Thanks," I said, relaxing a bit and making my way over.
Chief Murphy was a man just-over the cusp of middle-age with salt-and-pepper hair, a mild crinkle in the corner of his eyes, and a coarseness to his mustache. He gazed out the window, hand cupping a mug of steaming, rich-smelling coffee. As I approached, he broke his thousand-mile stare to appraise me.
"Sara?" he asked, straightening to stand and greet me.
"Yes," I said, taking his hand firmly in mine.
His strength was subtle, covered up by the loose-fitting button-down he wore, but there was an outdoorsman weather to his stern fingers. A hardiness that he likely needed as a small-town cop.
"It's nice to meet you, Chief Murphy."
I settled myself uneasily across from him. He'd taken my preferred seat: the one facing the entrance.
"Scott," he corrected, gripping his coffee mug with both hands now as he studied me, "It's always a good sign when I can meet youth in pleasant circumstances like these."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that some teenagers I get to meet as I detain them," he sighed, a bitter chuckle on his breath.
"In Homer?"
"Oh, yeah. We may not have big-city, 'Los Angeles' type of trouble here, but we still get trouble. Usually drugs, partying - the like."
"None of the company I keep, right?"
"The company you keep... Alissa Brown? Trevor Locke?"
"Catalina Romero, Will Cheng, Anthony Madsen, and Tim Garrison too."
"Trevor and Anthony..." he trailed off, squinting pensively, "They're trouble. Alissa I've never caught, but her mother lets slip occasionally that her daughter has attended various parties."
He huffed with disappointment, "That gossip probably thinks this is one big game that she's helping her daughter play."
"A little judgmental of you to call her a gossip," I noted with a small smile, "Given that you knew who some of my friends were before I told you."
His mustache ruffled a bit in embarrassment.
"It's alright," I assured him as the waitress walked up with a glass of ice-water for me, "No one's been mean. It seems like you all look out for one another here."
Scott's chest puffed a bit at that.
"Can I get you anything?" the waitress prompted, looking at me expectantly.
"Uh, oh, you can go first, Sir - "
"Sir?" he chuckled, "Again, Scott works just fine, Kid. Don't sweat it."
"I already know the Chief's order," the waitress - her nameplate stated Rhonda - said with a good-natured roll of her eyes, "He's a regular."
"Right, right," I mumbled, quickly picking up the menu and scanning it frantically, "The chicken Alfredo, please."
"Coming right up!"
"So your dad's away on business?" Scott probed, re-gripping his mug.
"Yes. I think that's his way of dealing with... everything."
"Where are you located?"
"At the Eastern end of Skyline Drive."
"Not too much up that way," he frowned, concern creasing his brow.
"It's not even fifteen minutes from the high school."
"But if anything happened, it's just you out there."
"I'm getting used to being alone," I lied softly, stirring my straw around the glass, "I walk the property every morning before school."
"How big is it?"
"Hundred-sixty acres, give or take."
He whistled lowly, "You walk the perimeter?"
"Yes, it's good exercise. It's only about two miles."
"You ought to be careful. There's all sorts of wildlife out there to be wary of."
"Oh, I had a close call already," my eyebrows and shoulders rose with tension as I remembered, "A few weekends back - "
He started, "You were the girl attacked by the bear?"
"Not attacked, really, but yes," I stammered, surprised by his sudden chagrin.
"Shoot," he rubbed his forehead, "I completely forgot to check in on you."
"I heard about the more fatal animal attacks that happened after mine," I soothed, attempting to backtrack out of the topic; I didn't want rangers or officers out in the forest more than they needed to be right now, "It's no big deal - "
"Park rangers never found the bear," he said worriedly, "It's still out there."
"Rabies runs its course quickly. No way it's still alive."
His eyes narrowed, "You could tell how far gone it was?"
"Hunter's instinct."
Scott leaned in, intrigued, his dusty-brown eyes twinkling, "A hunter? And from Los Angeles?"
"My father taught me."
"Your father who lived in Los Angeles?"
"He wasn't originally a city man. In his heart he stayed country."
Scott's expression resolved.
"I apologize for not following up with you on the incident," Scott leaned back, "That was unprofessional of me. I try to let the Park Rangers have space to do their job, especially since my hunting skill ain't what it used to be. I leave the deer blinds empty for the guys in Valley Point; they'll still fish with me though."
"I know how to fish," I volunteered excitedly.
"I'm heading out this Saturday with them," he said slowly, thoughtfully, "If you don't mind a bunch of grumpy old farts, then you're welcome to come along."
"I'd love to," I gushed warmly, pulling in the cold, sweaty glass of water to take a sip; being around adult humans would be a welcome change of pace, "Fair warning: hunting large animals was more my specialty so I may be a little rusty with a fishing pole. And I don't really know how to properly clean a fish, only how to cook them once they're clean."
"We'll give you a refresher, don't you worry," his mustache ruffled in amusement as he watched me, relaxing his shoulders as he noticed the mellowing of my mood, "This is easier than I thought."
I furrowed my brows and cocked my head.
He sighed, leaning forward on arms he'd crossed over the table, "I thought you'd be... stubborn. I've been around troubled families before, around kids who've lost a parent. They're not usually this composed."
"I understand hunting so I understand death. And I understand how unfair the world can be as I have... experienced it even prior to my mother's and brother's passing. I know how to compartmentalize."
He nodded, readjusting his grip on the near-empty mug. The earthen-brown color of his eyes solidified as he stared into the cup, thinking on what I'd said for a moment before resurfacing.
"What can I do to help?"
I chewed on my lower lip, "Listen, I guess. And share."
"Sharing," he chuckled awkwardly, "I'm great at listening, but..."
"I know," I nodded, repeatedly weaving my fingers in and out of each other, "They also say nature's good for the soul. So as long as you don't mind, I'd like to come out fishing with you whenever I'm welcome."
"You'll always be welcome."
An uncomfortable stinging sensation sprung up into my lower lids and I sniffed it back as subtly as possible.
"Thanks," I said thickly.
Scott cleared his throat in acknowledgment.
"If it's alright with you, I'd like to take down your address," Scott said, pulling out a little notepad and pen from his leather-jacket pocket to hand to me, "I don't like the idea of you being all alone while your dad's out."
"Maybe we should exchange numbers, then," I suggested, penning down my address as I spoke.
"Right," he rumbled, as if this hadn't occurred to him initially, "Here."
He set an old, weathered flip-phone in my outstretched hand. I smirked as I pried it open.
"Don't laugh. I don't need anything fancy."
"I think this has gone over the edge of the pier a few times," I observed, trying to suppress a giggle as I typed my number into the salt-crackled keys.
"Only once or twice."
I handed the device back after texting myself, "Did it go over on its own or did you accompany it?"
"No comment."
I laughed, leaning back in my chair.
"Don't make fun," he chastised half-heartedly, "I'm old. I'm allowed a few missteps."
He started, remembering something, "Just to check: you'll be staying up to date on your homework despite these fishing trips, right?"
"Yes. It'll work out."
He raised his eyebrows.
"I'm a B student," I argued, "The only thing I'm really not doing so well in right now is English."
"I guess I can't complain," he pondered, tapping a thick, weathered finger on the ceramic side of the mug, "I can't help much there. I was miserable at that too; all the analysis and the creativity. The most I use English for anymore is writing incident reports."
"And talking to people, I imagine."
"See, now that's a helpful skill: public speaking. Why don't they offer more of that in schools?"
"There's plenty of opportunity. We had a popcorn discussion just the other day!"
"A... what? You had popcorn? Is this what taxpayer dollars are going toward?"
"Oh, nevermind," I giggled, "What about reading for fun? "
"Science Fiction for me," he nodded, as a plate of steak and potatoes was placed in front of him, "Mystery and thrillers, too. Though I don't have much time for it anymore."
"What about audiobooks?" I suggested.
A fork and knife fell from my napkin as I unrolled and placed it onto my lap. The thick, greasy alfredo sauce steamed and choked out my nose.
"Don't know how those work," he sighed.
"I can help you figure it out," I quickly amended that; "Well, not if you only have the flip-phone."
"Mayor Brennan says I need to get a touch-screen," he grumbled, "Says it reflects badly on the town when our police department ain't with the times."
"I did notice that the website is out of date," I commented mildly. "The last public service announcements were two to three years ago..."
"You wouldn't happen to know how to fix that, would you?"
"Uh, I could ask a friend. Tim Garrison talks about coding a lot; maybe he knows something about web design. I could suggest that it's his senior project; make the police website more user friendly for you and your colleagues."
"You're already thinking about your senior project?"
He raised his eyebrows appreciatively.
"Of course."
I speared a chicken chunk and plopped it into my mouth.
"What're your ideas?"
Solve the mystery of the disappearing hikers, I posited internally.
An amused smirk graced my lips, confusing the Chief, "I'm having trouble thinking about what the community really needs."
"Oh it needs plenty. Wrack your brain, look about, and I'm sure you'll find something. What are you passionate about?"
"Mm..." I took a bite and chewed slowly as I thought, "Music, nature, medicine, and self-defense."
"Ho, self defense, eh?"
I nodded, taking another bite as Scott thought about that.
"Maybe I can partner with your department to create a yearly program where students are taught personal defense," I suggested, wrapping a set of noodles around my fork to cup into a spoon, "Tailored to the community too; the fact that we back up to a state park, a national park, and a wildlife refuge with all sorts of wild animals inside means we should have lessons on what to do if you encounter an aggressive creature."
"It's a good idea," he agreed, "It's good for the kids going off to college too. How do you think you'd make it a lasting fixture?"
"Mm, well, does your office get write-offs for educational events or community engagement? That could motivate things on your end. I could also talk to the school about what their budget looks like. In the end, I may need something like a bake-sale to raise funds."
"A bake sale?"
Hesitance slowed his questioning.
"Yes: students bring in baked-goods and sell them."
"We had an incident a while back," Scott grumbled darkly, "Someone laced the baked goods."
"We can threaten that baked goods will be randomly tested," I suggested with a shrug, "The whole thing's a work in progress."
Scott grunted warily and I shifted.
"Anyway, what time is fishing this Saturday?"
"Nine. I'll pick you up -"
"Are you sure? If we're going to Valley Point, picking me up is heading in the opposite direction."
"I don't mind. In case there's an emergency, I ought to know where you're located. It really doesn't sit right with me that your old man is..." he pursed his lips, "Well, I'll do what I can."
"If you're sure," I murmured, watching the flicker of anguish that arched his eyebrows.
"It's important," he muttered in a thick tone, his turn to avoid eye-contact, "Being a teenager is... it's short. It doesn't feel like it to you right now, but it goes by fast. Us adults ought to be there when you need us, even if you don't think you need us."
I fought the urge to grimace as a pang of guilt pulsed through my chest. Out of the two of us, he was my junior. And yet here I was; selfishly relying on some divorcee who'd lost his child.
"I won't let you off easy," I muttered, shuffling my noodles around my plate, "They need chaperones for the winter dance and there's a Christmas concert that's four dollars to attend. I'm part of the orchestra."
He chuckled, "I think I can stand to lose four dollars to hear Jingle Bells and Sleigh Ride. The winter dance on the other hand, well, I'll be on duty to keep an eye out for the after-parties.
His eyes narrowed, "If you've got a boyfriend for that, he ought to be vetted."
"I do," I nodded, winding another bite of noodles around my fork, "Mason Warde."
"Good family," he said immediately, eyes lighting up with approval, "New to town as of last year, but I've never heard a peep out of those three foster children. More than I can say about some of the 'legacy' kids around here."
"I heard that Dr. Warde holds blood drives," I probed curiously, taking a sip of water as I watched his expression.
"Yeah," he nodded, eyes darkening, "We occasionally have few accidents on the roads around here. Blood goes bad quickly - or so I hear."
"Does Dr. Warde draw the blood himself?" I wondered, eyes narrowed with skepticism.
"On a completely volunteer-basis, yes," Scott nodded, his bushy eyebrows raised with exasperated amusement, "There's a few other nurses that help, but most of the ladies in town go in hopes that the doctor will draw their blood personally."
"He was somewhat handsome, I suppose."
"'You suppose?'" Scott echoed, "You've met the man?"
"Yes."
"And it's only a 'you suppose'," he checked again and I shrugged, "Hun, men like that are the reason bachelors like me remain bachelors."
"He's married!"
"Doesn't matter one bit."
"Whatever," I scoffed, waving him off, "Dr. Warde is too old; I generally prefer age-appropriate men."
"How old is Mason?" he wondered suddenly, a mild suspicion knitting his brows.
"We're in the same year," I said quickly, "Completely reasonable."
"Yes, I suppose that is reasonable. No dating anyone too old; you're still young."
"How old is too old?" I wondered, cocking my head.
What would a human consider too old, anyway?
"As you're still a minor, anyone not within a year of you is too old."
I rolled my eyes. That was something to take note of, however: to properly blend in, I'd need to forego any dating for at least another year, it seemed. Not that I'd really been planning to, anyway.
"I'm serious," he growled, tapping his knuckle on his temple. "Your brain is still developing."
I raised my eyebrows at that; it had been the conclusion that my people had come to during the very late nineteenth century when the average human life expectancy had really begun to rise.
"Okay, so when I turn eighteen am I magically able to date men up to, I dunno, twenty five years of age?"
"Too old."
"I disagree," I argued, spearing another shrimp, "At least for my case. Mason's a rare exception for a boy my age; surprisingly mature. -" Scott snorted disbelievingly "- Given what I've been through, I've had to mature really quickly. I don't think I'd be able to relate to most boys my age who are indecisive, wild, and..."
I thought better of voicing the next adjective I'd chosen, instead letting the sentence trail off naturally with a raise of my eyebrows.
Scott thought about this, narrowing his eyes, "You... might have a point. Boys tend to calm down and become men once they're through their early twenties. Still, it doesn't sit right with me. Better to simply not date and work on your hobbies until the others catch up to you. There ain't no rush."
"Mason's mature," I assured him.
He moodily stabbed another cube of steak.
"I'll be the judge of that."
"I hope you will be."
Scott averted his gaze, but I saw a small, close lipped smile on his reflection from the window.