Tristan felt his
heart breaking for the loss of his home, his father’s home and the dream he had
of making this clubhouse and golf course into a show piece for the community.
Not to mention the parties he had scheduled for the next few weeks. He was
going to have to call people and refund their money.
He wanted to curse
out loud again. It had been three days since the fire. No one had been hurt and
it was ruled suspicious, but the State Fire Marshall didn’t have a lot to go
on, he’d said.
He was staying with
a friend and his grandfather was staying with Sarah Fuller at her house.
Tristan was sure he had started to wear out his welcome at his buddy’s house. The
Red Cross offered to help, as did the Chamber of Commerce of which he was a
member. Everyone seemed very sympathetic toward him and all he could see was
how pathetic everything was.
His grandfather kept
asking what the senior group should do for their holiday party. “Tristan, we
need to have that party. The holiday and New Year’s Eve parties are what we old
folks live for. It’s the only time we get to stay up late and party.”
Tristan smiled at
the memory. He’d help the senior group find a place for the party and he’d try
to work a deal for the rest of the groups who were scheduled for the clubhouse
and now couldn’t find a place with an open booking.
He walked around the
club house looking for anything recognizable. He ran his hand through his
ruffled and soot colored hair.
When he heard his
name, he jumped. “Tristan. I didn’t mean to scare you.” It was the woman who
came to pick up Sarah the night of the fire. He didn’t know who she was.
“Yes. Can I help
you?”
She gave him a
bright smile. “I think that’s my question. I’m Amaya Green. I’m Sarah Fuller’s
granddaughter. I’ve been checking up on your father.”
“Is he okay?”
She nodded. “He’s
fine. Settled right in. He and Nana are playing cards and watching Jeopardy -
,”
“And Wheel of
Fortune.”
She smiled again and
he felt a light flicker in his chest. The depression had been so all consuming
that to feel a little something like happiness was good.
“I wanted you to
know that I check on them every day. I’ll give you my phone number if you want
to call me.” She pushed a piece of her dark hair off her face, rubbed her hand
together and started to say something, but she didn’t.
He waited.
“I know this isn’t
your problem and you have more important things to think about and do, but
every time I go to the house they ask about their parties and if I can help
reschedule them.” She grimaced, which only made her a little more endearing.
Tristan felt a
bubble rise through his chest and he cracked a weak smile. “He’s been saying
the same thing to me when I talk to him on the phone. I don’t know what to do
about it. To hear him tell it, it’s the only time their families let them stay
out past eight.”
“Right?” Amaya
agreed. “We keep them under lock and key.”
Tristan’s face broke
into a full-fledged grin. She cocked her head to the side with a questioning
look on her face.
“That’s the first
time I’ve smiled since the fire. It hit me pretty hard.”
“Of course it did.
And, what have you done since the fire? Sift through the rubble, catch a few
hours of sleep in your car and eat whatever you have stuck between the back
seat of the truck?”
“No,” he protested.
“I’ve been crashing on a friend’s couch.”
“Umm hum. Come on,”
she said, grabbing his arm. “You look like you could use a shower and a hot,
home cooked meal.”
“That’s nice of you
–“
She cut him off.
“Get in the car,” she demanded.
The man was a mess.
Somewhere under all the ash and grime was a relatively good looking man, but to
see him lost in the disaster that used to be the club house was depressing. She
had no idea what made her grab him and take him back to her house to shower,
but she couldn’t imagine him standing outside in the cold without a hat or
gloves. The man was lucky to still have use of his hands.
He didn’t know her.
She didn’t know him. Their grandparents were the only connection they had. And,
yet she felt the pull of him. The need to help - to put a smile back on his
face. There had been talk around town and in her shop about Tristan Chandler
who had lost his wife and took over the old golf course and club house to cope.
He’d built the business up, kept to himself mostly and did anything that anyone
asked him to do. Like the senior center. They had nowhere to go and Tristan
opened up time in the schedule so they could meet every day at the club house.
She heard the water
turn off in her bathroom. There was some shuffling around before she heard him
open the door and exit.
“Coffee,” she asked,
holding a mug out to him.
He took it and
sipped. His blond hair was clean and smelled like her shampoo. “I borrowed your
hair stuff. I don’t have anything. Thanks for the clothes,” he said motioning
to the jeans and T-shirt she’d left on the sink for him. Neighbors had dropped
stuff off the second they saw him enter her store. She lived in an apartment
above the market she owned. It was the only place people could get homemade
soups, sandwiches, unique cheeses, wine and other items that her customers
weren’t going to find at Walmart.
“Make yourself at
home. I have nothing to hide. I’ve started some chowder for you. It’ll warm you
and fill you up.” She sounded like a mother.
“I appreciate you
taking me in. I guess I needed that shower.”
She smiled at him.
“You did. Now that we have that out of the way... What should we do about the
party for our grandparents and their friends?”
He collapsed into
the nearest chair. “I have no idea.”
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