meant well, but her situation had been a lot different than mine. Graham’s job didn’t require him to travel around the world for months at a time, and Soraya’s “competition” had been a single, lying bitch of an ex, not thousands of gorgeous, young women willing to do anything for a piece of her man.
My heart and my head were at war, raging against one another in a vicious battle, but I knew which one must prevail. Not only for my benefit, but also for Jace’s. Letting him go was the kindest thing I could do for both of us, no matter how much it hurt.
~ * ~
Bear Run was much like I remembered it. It was hard to believe that twenty years had passed since I’d last been here. The ancient movie theater still looked the same, the old-fashioned yellow globe bulbs outlining the marquee. Banner’s Drugstore still graced the corner of Main and Sixth. A McDonald’s had been added at the far end of the main drag, leading me to deduce that the local township must have lifted their ban on fast-food chains within town limits.
I swung my gaze in the other direction, toward the neighborhood mom-and-pop store I had visited so many times in my youth. I wondered if Mrs. Tomaselli was still running the place, but that was unlikely. Ninety if she was a day then, she’d sit behind the old-fashioned cash register with a hand-crocheted black shawl over her shoulders, pretending to be nodding off but her hawk-like eyes missed nothing. I smiled, remembering how many times Jimmy Battaglia had gotten his hand slapped for trying to sneak candies into his pocket.
My hometown was still small, a forgotten oasis in the middle of nowhere. It was very much like Willow Woods in that respect, except that Bear Run was a bit less wild, a bit less rural. The land was more developed, the mountains more like gentle, rolling hills, sporting familiar swatches and patterns of varying shades of green dotted with simple white houses.
The nearby coal mines had long since been closed, though a few had been prettied up and now offered official tours to the rare tourist or history buff passing through. The shift away from anthracite had begun well before I was even born. At one time, it was the sole reason this community had sprung up out of nowhere. It had endured through a stubborn kind of stoicism, unwilling to be forgotten.
Now, I found myself standing in the shadows before the break of dawn, hands deep in the pockets of my hoodie, looking across the street at the familiar bakery. I could smell the delicious aromas of freshly baked bread and rolls, the sweet allure of sticky buns and doughnuts, homemade cakes and pies. D’Agolino’s Bakery had been serving the predominantly Italian community since my great-grandfather had emigrated from Palermo in the early 1900s.
Without conscious effort, my feet silently carried me across the street in the predawn light. Inside, the lights were already on, the sounds of Tony Bennett muted through the huge plate glass window.
I smiled. Mama had always had a thing for Tony Bennett. His music wasn’t my cup of tea, but I found the man himself to be warm and kindhearted. I’d met him several times over the years, eventually working up the courage to ask a special favor. I often wondered what my mother had thought of the personally autographed, eight-by-ten colored glossy of Tony, smiling and proudly wearing a D’Agolino’s shirt, that I’d sent anonymously for her birthday one year.
With my hood pulled up to stave off the early morning chill, my breath appeared as visible wisps an inch from my lips while I peeked inside. My heart pounded when I saw them. My father was still a large man but his hair was now all white, and my mother was no taller than me and well-rounded, her hair pulled back into the tight knot she always wore at the back of her head.
I hadn’t meant to put my hands on the glass when I leaned in for a closer look. I didn’t even realize I’d done so until my mother turned and saw me standing there. One hand went to her mouth while the other desperately clutched the big man beside her. Then, the door was suddenly thrust open, and I was staring into a familiar face, older but so much like my own.
“Evangelica?” the woman whispered, reaching out to touch me as if to see