T. McClure - An Allegheny Homecoming

Holly chose that moment to deliver the latte. “One pumpkin spice latte. Maybe you should go to Florida, Mrs. Hershberger. My mom and dad talk about it every year but never seem to make it there.”

The smile returned when Holly sank into the chair between them. “Winters in Pennsylvania usually aren’t too bad. This is my second winter being retired, and I’m just not accustomed to having so much free time.”

Finishing her latte, Wendy slipped her laptop into her briefcase. She remembered the school had honored the older woman for forty-five years of teaching. Mrs. H had to be in her late sixties. Why had she worked so long? Everyone Wendy came across always talked about retiring as soon as possible. Didn’t Mrs. H have family? Grandchildren? She thought everybody around here had grandchildren.

Mrs. Hershberger focused on Holly. “I read in the paper you and the other merchants are planning a holiday party and I want to hear all about it, but first...how is Riley adapting to the idea of having a baby brother or sister?”

Holly let out a burst of laughter, her green eyes dancing. She launched into a story about Riley insisting on decorating the nursery in a superhero theme.

Shaking her head, Wendy drummed her fingers on the arm of the heavily cushioned chair. At one time, Holly, world traveler, barrel racer, independent woman, had been a resource for discussing issues facing trailblazing women in the workplace, but now she was firmly entrenched in motherhood. Holly had gone over to the dark side.

* * *

JOSH DIDN’T HIT snow until Pennsylvania. Almost a week had gone by since he’d received the letter. He wanted to finish things on the ranch before taking off, and to thank Matt’s aunt and uncle for everything and to let them know he’d be back soon. Driving for twenty hours straight out Interstate 80 from Montana, he’d stopped only for coffee, snacks and gas. And once for ice cream. Water he carried in a gallon jug behind the seat. He planned to continue on with no breaks, but by the time he reached Chicago his eyes were drifting closed. He pulled off at a roadside rest stop, unwrapped his sleeping bag and pillow, and crashed for a couple hours in the cramped backseat of his truck cab.

He reached Bear Meadows late Friday. Dusk had fallen. High winds heralded the approaching storm front. The streets were dark, indicating power was out for most of the town. He considered going home, seeing his father, but concern for his mother kept him going through town to the east side, where the bakeshop listed in the newspaper article anchored one end of a five-store strip mall. He hadn’t even known his mother had gone through with her plans to open a bakery and thought belatedly he should’ve called home more often. Once he made sure she was okay, he would stay at the family’s cabin a few miles away. Facing his father would be easier after a night’s sleep.

Both sides of Main Street were dark, although emergency lights in the hardware store and the bank lit the interiors. The hardware store held happy memories. Every April he and his father descended on the place, list in hand for supplies for the first day of trout season. They’d gather up their equipment, and then, with bologna sandwiches made with his mother’s homemade bread and her perfectly round sugar cookies for dessert, he and his father would be on the stream at the crack of dawn. He angled his truck into the space in front of the bakery and glanced at the window in the second floor. Dark. Maybe she hadn’t moved out of their home. Maybe she was using her maiden name for business purposes.

The last time he had been home his mother had mentioned taking an early retirement from the university and opening a bakery. Whenever she had brought up the subject, his father had laughed and told her to keep her day job. Obviously his mother had gone forward with her plans. Had his father’s opposition forced a separation? How did the sudden weight loss enter into the equation?

For the umpteenth time, Josh weighed the possibility that his mother was sick. He would find out soon enough.

As he got out of his truck, the door was almost pulled from his hand by the gusting wind. Slamming the door, he stared at the hanging sign. The Cookie Jar. Black letters on a white background. Black and white—that was his mother. A no-nonsense kind of person.

He stomped up the snow-covered steps to the wooden porch stretching the length of the strip mall, his footprints the only disturbance in the pristine snow. He knocked lightly on the pane of glass and then turned the door handle. It was unlocked. His soldier’s internal alarm sounded as he opened the door into a quiet store. The faint scent of just-baked bread filled the room. He pulled his cell phone from his inside coat pocket and turned on the flashlight app. A long pink counter filled the half of the store to his right. To his left, racks filled with loaves of bread and boxes of baked goods filled the shelves. “Mom?”

No answer. Something brushed his leg and he jerked away. A brown tail disappeared around the counter. “Another cat. At least you’re small enough to handle.” He followed the tail through the door into the kitchen. The old Formica table from their house occupied the center of the room. Counters covered two walls. A computer filled most of a small table in the corner near the back door. He ran a hand over the bulky monitor. “How can you keep track of a business on this antiquated thing?”

Peering into the darkness, heading for the staircase, he slowed his breathing, the better to hear if someone was in the building. Ice crystals pinged on the windows. “Mom, are you upstairs?”

No response. As he mounted the wooden steps, he stomped his boots in case she was asleep. “I’m coming up.”

At the top of the staircase, he aimed the beam of light in a slow arc around the small area. A simple cot. Folded clothes in cardboard boxes on the floor. A table with a jewelry box and an alarm clock. He looked out the window at the desolate street. A basket of dried petals sat on the windowsill. He picked it up and sniffed. Rose petals. His mother had always been crazy about roses. Was she living here full-time?

He checked under the bed. No sign of the cat. Josh would have to warn his mother, a woman who had refused to allow a dog or a cat in the house, that an animal was loose in her place of business.

But he would have to find her first.

* * *

THE LONG WEEK was almost over.

Mark had returned just ahead of the big storm and, in an unexpected moment of civility, had taken the early morning show. Wendy wasn’t needed at the station until the last broadcast at 11:00 p.m.

Grabbing a yogurt container from the refrigerator and a spoon from the silverware drawer, she walked out onto the enclosed back porch. The storm she had warned Mrs. Hershberger about on Monday had indeed finally arrived. Though only late afternoon, the sky was already getting dark. Fat, fluffy flakes danced in the gathering wind. The still-green grass was almost completely covered. A blue jay chirped from the bare maple tree. She settled into the rocking chair to watch as he hopped onto a higher branch.

If her mother were home, she would be stalking the bird with a telephoto lens. But her parents had gone to New York City almost a week ago, leaving Wendy alone in the sprawling ranch house tucked back on ten acres of wooded property.

She shivered. She had dressed in comfortable sweats when she got up that morning, but maybe she needed something warmer. She settled into the chair, the only sound the scraping of the rocker on the porch floor and the still-squawking blue jay.

She was used to her parents going off on some adventure or other, but she found herself missing her mother’s Yorkshire terrier, despite the insistent barking when he wanted to be picked up. Since her mother spoiled the bright-eyed ball of fluff, Oliver was usually held immediately.