Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,37
a state-of-the-art job of it. She sucked in a deep breath. Moping around here isn’t helping. Shopping might help raise my spirits. I’ll go to town.
She looked out the window at the old Jeep sitting alone by the shed. Well, since there’s no choice…Anyhow, if he can drive it, so can I.
Ten minutes later, struggling to get the knack of driving the ancient standard-transmission vehicle, she was roaring about the Lodge grounds. It bucked and balked and was every bit as trying as a two-year-old colt. But Allison Armstrong had mastered more than one of those in her time. With teeth clenched and lips drawn into a pencil-thin line, she persisted until she felt reasonably in control. Then she headed down the tunnel of greenery toward Portage. She was glad she’d left Jack in the Lodge. In this vehicle, he’d have been bounced more than she cared to think.
At the service station on the edge of the village she noticed the gas gauge was reading empty and the oil light was flashing.
“Fill it up and check the oil, please,” she told the attendant, who was appraising her critically. “May I use your phone for a long-distance call? I’ll use my card.”
“You’re Jack’s grandkid, aren’t you?” he asked. When she nodded, he grinned, “Sure, sure, go right ahead. Anything for Jack’s family.”
She went inside and told the gum-chewing teenager she had permission to use the phone. Hardly bothering to look up from her magazine, the girl shoved it across the counter toward her.
The place was empty except for the distracted clerk. Allison quickly punched in her parents’ number. She preferred to talk to her mother without an audience, and at any minute someone might come in.
Shortly she had Myra on the line and was telling her that Heath appeared perfectly capable of looking after the Chance.
“I’ll be on the flight to Ottawa tomorrow afternoon,” she concluded.
“So soon?” Myra sounded surprised. “I thought you might like to spend a few days renewing old memories.”
“Have you forgotten? I have a job. Anyway, with Heath Oakes as my sole companion, I’m eager to get the heck out of here. See you tomorrow. Love to Dad.”
She hung up before her mother could respond, thanked the teenager, who nodded despondently, and headed down Main Street.
The town, she discovered now that she had a chance to see it up close at her leisure, hadn’t changed much over the years of her absence. It still consisted of a single main street with a few owner-operated establishments on either side. There was a hardware store, a bakery Allison remembered made the best sticky buns she’d ever tasted, a shoe store, a furniture outlet, a grocery store, a craft boutique, and, across from the village’s only restaurant, a shop that sold clothing for the entire family.
Noting the restaurant owner was setting out a couple of sidewalk tables in the spring sunshine, she headed for the clothing store, with a smile. Her grandfather had always said spring had arrived when Douglas O’Brien set up his sidewalk cafe.
As she stepped inside, the bell over the door tinkled. Allison remembered the sound from the days when she, her mother, and her grandmother had shopped there. Nothing else had changed much, either, she realized as she glanced about at the crowded racks of merchandise filling the center area and the carefully piled sweaters and shirts on shelves along the walls.
The narrow strips of hardwood that formed the floor were the same, too, a little worse for wear but still just as much a part of the old store’s ambience as its tin filigree ceiling. Only a few posters along the walls, advertising brand-name outdoor wear, appeared new.
A wave of nostalgia swept over her as she remembered a visit to the shop with her grandmother. She recalled Grammie Adams, her blue eyes bright with pleasure, holding the little pair of jeans to her six-year-old granddaughter’s waist and declaring them perfect.
“May I help you?”
The saleslady’s voice made Allison start. She turned to see Mildred Wilson, the store owner, smiling at her.
“Why, if it isn’t little Allison!” Beaming with delight, the white-haired woman hurried to grasp Allison’s hands in hers.
“Hello, Mrs. Wilson.” Allison smiled as the familiar scent of the slender, well-groomed woman’s lavender perfume brought still more memories rushing back. “How are you?”
“Fine, just fine, honey. My, you’re as beautiful as your mother. But that hair and those eyes have to be your father’s. Is he still as handsome as ever?”
“Still.” Lord, it felt good, this