“Ah, yes.” Simon’s brow furrows. “I’m not entirely certain, but I’m a tad concerned it might have to do with that raccoon. And your ring.”

Epilogue

July

* * *

“There was this huge field full of them, so Jonah decided to just land right there. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to him doing that.” I chuckle as I tuck the bouquet of vibrant purple wildflowers into the mason jar of water and then set it next to the white cross. “Sure was beautiful, though.”

The cemetery is oddly quiet for such a balmy summer day. I drove through Bangor on my way here, and it was bustling, people trudging along the dusty roads, carrying bags of groceries and greeting neighbors. The parking lot at Meyer’s was crammed. Agnes said the store shelves were bare all week after a lengthy storm system lingered, grounding cargo planes for days. I guess they must have restocked.

I adjust the small model plane, shifting it to sit closer to the flowers. “Agnes and Mabel are flying home with us today. You should see their new place.” The construction company we hired to build the prefab log house told us it wouldn’t take long to erect the building once the ground was level. They weren’t lying. One week there was flat ground by the lake’s edge where trees had been. The next? A small but beautiful two-story home. A parade of tradesmen have cycled through since, installing electrical and plumbing, flooring and kitchen cabinetry.

Now it’s Roy’s turn for all the final touches. He’s far from finished, but Agnes is anxious to get settled, her house in Bangor sold and emptied of personality. She also said she doesn’t mind the curmudgeon milling about with his chisel and saw, not saying much. For his part, he doesn’t seem to mind her chattering.

“The garden is growing wild. I must have made a thousand jars of strawberry jam. I mean, it was realistically more like fifty, but it felt like a thousand. And there’s this zucchini that’s already three times the size of all the other zucchini. It’s a mutant. Muriel says we should enter it in some giant vegetable competition when it’s full grown. But, I’ll probably sell it at the farmers’ market.” I trace the letters that spell out my father’s name. They could probably use a fresh coat of paint soon. “Delyla’s coming. Did I tell you that already? I can’t remember if I did. She’s flying up with her kids next week. They’re going to stay with us.” The day after Christmas, I woke up and called her. Before coffee, still in bed. I didn’t wait. I didn’t waffle. I called and she answered on the third ring, her sweet southern twang carrying surprise through the phone line.

I told her all about the Roy Donovan that I know, the one who is always there for a neighbor in need, who may not choose the right words but somehow always ends up letting you know how he really feels. The man that I’ve come to care for as deeply as if he were my own family.

The man who is far more than he seems, and whose regrets are bottomless.

We talked for over an hour, until my mother came in, tapping her watch impatiently.

Delyla thanked me and asked if she could call me sometime in the future.

She called the next week.

The week after that, I emailed her a few candid shots of Roy from our wedding. She thanked me profusely.

And the next week, she emailed a letter for Roy that she asked me to print out and give to him. I left it on his kitchen table. He grumbled and snarled for three days, dubbing me Muriel Junior. And then he showed up at our house out of the blue, asking me to teach him how to use one of those goddamn computers. So I set him up with an account and left him alone to type out his thoughts. It took him three hours to finish that first email and hit Send. Delyla confided in me that it was only seven sentences long and riddled with apologies.

After that, Roy started showing up at our house every Monday like clockwork, with handwritten drafts of what he wants to say to his daughter. I leave him be in the office. He’s sometimes in there for hours, cursing at the keyboard, his two-fingered typing painfully slow.

In April, I set up a video call for the two of them. He barely said two words. He seemed dumbstruck. It didn’t matter because Delyla likes to talk. For a while, I was worried he’d complain about his ear falling off, but he didn’t. He’s improved his video-calling skills since then, asking questions and answering them with complete sentences. I’ve even caught him with that rare smile, which doesn’t seem to be quite so rare anymore, especially when Gavin and Lauren are present.

I’ve found a kinship with Delyla, either because of our connection to Roy or my own estrangement with my father. We’ve forged a friendship of our own over the long winter months, sometimes spending hours on FaceTime, laughing and chatting about nothing and everything.

When she suggested coming up to Alaska, I didn’t hesitate to offer her a place to stay. It took me three days to work up the nerve to tell Roy that his daughter was coming here to meet him face-to-face. He was annoyed at first, but he didn’t damn me to hell for meddling.

I’d say the curmudgeon is definitely coming around.

I check my phone. “Jonah should be back from flying Marie to the villages.” She came to our house in a huff the other day, begging to tag along on this trip to Bangor. She said she needed to get away “from it all.” I’m not sure what “it all” is, but I’m guessing it has to do with a certain sled dog breeder that Toby said she’s feuding with.

I study the simple solemn cross, still remembering the day it was placed. An ache stirs in my chest. “Why does it feel like we’re leaving you behind?” Like the last ties to Western Alaska are being cut. With Agnes and Mabel in Trapper’s Crossing, there’s no real reason to come this way anymore. “I guess that’s not really possible, though, is it? You’re still everywhere to me.” When I hear the buzz of a plane overhead, I like to think it’s Wren Fletcher, doing what he loves most, flying high over the mountains, over the land he loved so deeply. He just doesn’t need to land anymore.

“Hey, Calla!” Jonah’s deep voice carries from the edge of the cemetery. I didn’t hear him pull up. “Sorry, but are you about done there? ’Cause there’s some weather comin’ in that I’d like to get ahead of. Aggie’s all packed.”

I see him leaning against George’s borrowed truck, his USAF ball cap pulled low on his brow, a soft, black cotton T-shirt clinging to his powerful frame. He’ll wait for me out there. He never intrudes on my time at my dad’s grave.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back here again.” I bite my lip as my stomach erupts in a wild rush of butterflies. “But can I let you in on a little secret? One I haven’t even told Jonah yet?”

I lean in.

And I whisper the words that are about to make my husband very happy.

Catch up with Calla, Jonah, and the rest of

Trapper’s Crossing, Alaska in

Dr. Marie Lehr’s story.

* * *

Title and release date to come.

The Player Next Door - Sneak Peek