Susan Kirby - Love Sign

“Interesting stuff,” Shelby said, silently appraising the easy pride he took in his hometown.

“It gets better,” Jake continued. “A few years went by, and come to find out Flats didn’t have clear title on the land he had sold. The public was put out enough at dapper Dan, they tried to change the town name.”

“To what?”

“That was the problem. They couldn’t agree. By then, Dan’s grown sons had put down roots in town. When it came to a vote, Liberty Flats got seven votes. The rest were split between a dozen other suggestions. So Liberty Flats carried the day,” explained Jake. “Dan was pleased enough, he nailed together a little hotel by the railroad tracks, and spent the rest of his life in Liberty Flats, trying to clear himself of any wrongdoing. Claimed he’d been taken in by a slick land agent.”

“Was that true?”

“According to Dan’s descendants, it is,” Jake said. But his grin left room for doubt.

Modern concrete gave way to quaint brick sidewalk. Flower beds dotted green lawns that unfolded toward the street. Jake paused beside a picket fence. “This is it. Wilt Wiseman’s place.”

Shelby stopped in front of the two-story clapboard of chipping paint and fading glory. The grass needed cutting, the newspapers were piling up and a garbage can at the back corner of the house was overflowing.

Shelby was about to walk on when she heard a clatter. Joy, still clad in her pink dress, darted into view without seeing them. She grabbed the garbage can by one handle and dragged it behind the house.

“Now what do you suppose she’s up to?” Jake opened the gate, took a beaten path skirting the house and disappeared around the far corner.

Shelby’s nerves leapt as a young man came racing from the far side of the house. He was a dead ringer for the boy she had seen at noon in the alley by Jake’s sign building. As she stood watching, he jerked a bicycle out from beneath a bush, pedaled through the open gate, and tore down the street. A moment later, Jake returned with Joy, whining and dragging her feet.

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