This is Chapter 3 from . . . in a love song.
Three
The morning sunlight and an occasional breeze from his open window enticed him awake from the predicted fitful sleep. In spite of the generous dose of mouthwash administered before he attempted his rest last night, his mouth proved thick and nasty as he tried to lick his lips and swallow.
He rolled to his back and kept his eyes closed, wishing his mind back to sleep. Instead he pictured her reaction to him last night, and the chain reaction of those thoughts continued into the daylight. He threw the sheet off and forced himself up, headed to the bathroom.
Showered and shaved, he felt better but sluggish as he tromped down the stairs.
“Short night, Mr. Rivers?” Eva’s voice wasn’t unpleasant, but this morning it grated on him.
“Yeah, it was, Mrs. Johnson. Too short.”
He chose to walk into the small town which was somehow thriving, maybe because it seemed hidden away from the busyness of self-absorbed cities and surrounded by ancient lava rock fortresses and miles of tumbleweeds. Forgotten by all but its inhabitants and their scattered relatives, this town with its odd name of Ribbon displayed its fortitude with an independent hardware store, privately owned feed store with massive hay sales and distribution, a barber shop and a brand new salon for the ladies, a rather elegant looking jewelry store, a supermarket from a small chain of stores, which apparently only existed in a few towns just like this one, joined by a locally stocked meat market, and under construction a brand new bank where Dale Rivers had found employment.
On the outskirts of Ribbon at the base of the rock cliffs a new project would soon be underway, after the bank was completed, on one side of the large almost perfectly round lake known for an indeterminable amount of years as The Wash for equally indeterminable and possibly unknown reasons. Included within the confines of the town, at least on the map and in the minds of its residents, multiple family-owned cherry and apple orchards grew beside acres and acres of cattle and hog ranches, and alfalfa fields extended for miles beside acres of tumbleweeds.
Eva’s Inn sat two blocks off the main street through town and two blocks away from its small center. The first marker at one end of the city central stood boldly on the corner, no neon signs lit up in its windows until the afternoon when the aptly named, if not unoriginal, The Tavern opened its doors to patrons seeking late lunches or early liquid spirits. Dale wondered as he rounded the corner if the boys closed it down last night, predicting abstractedly if any of them got lucky with one of the babes who’d hypnotized all the guys, it would’ve been Keith.
Just as he approached the entrance, he recognized the bartender who stopped to greet him, pulling out his keys. “Hey. Left kinda early last night, huh?” He stuck out his hand. “Name’s Jed Peters.”
“Dale Rivers.” The firm grips met and separated. “Not much of a drinker anymore.”
Jed laughed. “Gotcha. You had your day, though, I bet. Got smart, huh?”
“Don’t know how smart I got, but liquor tends to bring out the worst in me.”
“Sounds smart to me.” Jed put the key in the lock and looked back. “We serve a great late lunch here if you’re interested. Pet’s a great cook.”
“Pet?”
“You know the one—the gal tendin’ bar with me last night? Patricia, actually. But she’s been ‘Pet’ to all of us here in town since she was a kid. She hated it when she got older, but it’s what her family called her, and now that her dad’s gone, I think she kinda favors it since he more or less tagged her with it.”
“Good to know. I might be back. What time you start servin’?”
“Around two or so.” Jed pushed the heavy door open. “Well, nice meetin’ ya, Dale. Hope to see ya as a regular—we serve soft drinks, too.” He laughed again and walked into the pub, tossing a wave back to Dale as the door closed.
Just like that he knew her name. And part of the painting that colored her story.
The part about her dad made him think of his own. Age was catching up to Ron Rivers, but Ron was still ahead of it by a good margin. Mom seemed to be slowing down some, and picturing her gave him just a flash of homesickness, though he never missed the city life. It had taken years for his parents to get a real sense of his rambling ways. It didn’t help that he preceded them with his “wayward” ways.
The grocery store became his first stop. He hadn’t taken time to stock the little fridge in his room or the few cupboards. He’d been eating out since he arrived, and already it was getting old. However, today he’d already resolved to treat himself to Pet’s cooking. Yeah, he admitted to himself, and anything else she might have to offer.
Father, thank you is never enough for all the things you do for me. Apart from you, I can do nothing. Thank you for all the inspirations, words, stories – all of it. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Into the Fire 