I’d gotten as much done as I had. Dad grunted in reply. I tossed my suit into a pile to take to the dry cleaners in Silverwood and yanked on a pair of fleece pants, a Cedarburg Cardinals football booster hoodie, and grabbed my sneakers from the closet.
Dad was appraising the new painting I’d ordered online that now hung over the fireplace in the living room.
“This is interesting,” he commented, waving a hand at the oil of a storm twisted tree with scarlet leaves backed by turbulent slate skies. “Your mother is going to ask why you hate color so much.”
I sniggered then sat down to pull on my running shoes. “There’s red in it.”
“Not much.”
Once I had my feet dressed, we were off. Night wasn’t far off. All the houses we passed had lit Jack-o’-lanterns on steps and porches. A few kids were still out and about. Lindsey, Mr. Limbert’s fat old yellow cat, walked with us until the hill got too steep. Then he turned around and went home. Smart cat.
By the time we crested Valencia where it turned hard to the left and became Mercer Court Road, I was huffing, sweaty, and cursing myself for eating so much at the talent show. Those sugar cookies had just been too hard to resist. I really needed to get back to the gym, or running, or even doing sit-ups. All I needed was time.
“I’d forgotten how few homes there were up here,” Dad commented after he’d caught his breath. “The hill discourages folks from moving up here I always thought,” he added as he ran a hand through his red and silver hair.
“Probably it was Gideon’s demonic lure,” I mumbled, recalling my youth and how the roughest kids in school all seemed to live on Mercer Court Road. It was like its own community in a way. Lots of drinking and guns being fired off. “Those hoods up on the hill are at it again” was bandied around by my friends’ parents and mine too. Flashbacks of torment from Gideon and the two other boys who lived up here reared up. The rowdy bunch had thinned out over time, some going to prison, some simply moving out, and some finally growing the hell up. None had ever come back. Aside from Gideon who lived in the last house on the short but famous street.
We meandered leisurely, hands swinging, just two dudes out for a stroll. The air temperature was dipping quickly. A killing frost was predicted for tonight. We waved at Elaine Wood carrying in her bird feeders for the night. She and several other families had bought the old places up here on the hill. They’d fixed them up and now Mercer Court Road had a different vibe. Dad and I paused as we passed a mighty oak that had blocked the view of the old Pierce house.
“Wow,” Dad and I both said in unison. The Pierce house looked good. The old clapboard siding had been replaced with a soft brown vinyl siding. The rotten shutters had been removed and brand new black ones now bracketed what looked like old windows. Standing in the middle of his yard, rake in hand, was Gideon Pierce. Old jeans, a faded ELO sweatshirt, and scruffy sneakers. How on earth did a man doing yard work look so damn fine? My toe caught on a slab of sidewalk that had heaved up years ago. Dad caught me before I faceplanted.
“Watch the sidewalks. Seems the city would do something about those before poor old Mrs. Wood trips and breaks a hip,” Gideon called out, placing his rake to the worn post of his front porch. With that vexing smile of his, he strutted over then offered a hand to my father.
“Asshole,” I grumbled under my breath. Dad released my arm to shake hands with Gideon. “Gideon, you remember my father?”
“Yes, of course. I had him for Algebra 2. Pleasure to see you again, Mr. Griffiths. You don’t look a day older.”
Dad chuckled. “No need to butter me up now. You’re not trying to wheedle me into giving you a B instead of a C.”
Gideon smiled, and it looked like it was a genuine smile. No tartness or sarcasm, just a lovely white smile that made his whole Tony Curtis thing even more of a thing. Or something. What the hell was wrong with my head? Any time this person was near I slipped a fucking cog.