CHAPTER FOURTEEN
RYAN

After everyone cleared out for the day, I decided to go for a walk before dinner. The thing about Town Square is that it’s never as empty as it looks. There’s always a pensioner power-walking laps or a couple of fifth graders pretending not to smoke behind the statue of old man Oakley. I heard he once burned down his own barn for the insurance money, but they never proved it. Today it’s almost peaceful. Late evening sun setting over the valley.

I drift along the brick path, chewing on the inside of my cheek and dragging my free hand along the top of every bench along the way. When I get to the gazebo, I stop. It’s like something out of a Thomas Kincaid fever dream. The wood’s painted blinding white with railings straight enough to use as a ruler and the flowerbeds under it are so violently perfect in their use of color that I suspect Ray has a degree in design that he’s not telling anyone about. I look up and spot him in the center of the square trimming a bed of marigolds like he’s doing surgery. He loves this. I always thought he did it just because it was his job, but in this moment I see the immaculate care and love that he has for this place.

“Ryan Calloway!” he hollers, waving his trimmers overhead in a lazy back and forth movement. “How are you?”

“Good,” I lie, and shuffle over

Ray leans on his rake, squinting into the sun. “Heard you came back to help your grandparents with the inn.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “I did.”

He gives a knowing grunt, the kind of noise that means I see you and also your entire string of bullshit. He jerks his head toward the benches facing the gazebo. “Sit.”

I do, because it’s Ray. That’s just how it works around here.

He sits on the bench next to mine, wipes a streak of dirt on his jeans, and says, “You ever do time on a sub?”

“Is that a metaphor, or…?”

“A submarine,” he says. “I was in the navy in the seventies. Thing’s smaller than this square. It stank like dirty socks and instant coffee. You think you hate someone, try eating canned beans with ‘em every day for six months.”

I blink slowly.

He doesn’t wait for my response. “My point is, you get close or you kill each other. Hopefully, not the latter. But after a while, even the stuff you hate—the leaks, the rust, the hum of the constant sound of other people’s conversations—it becomes home. And they become family because you survived it together.” He nods at me, like he’s just delivered a TED Talk.

I shove my hands in the pockets of my hoodie more to give my hands something to do than because I’m cold. “So what’s this got to do with the inn?” I ask.

He points at the building across the square, where a full dumpster waiting to be emptied and the sound of saws and hammers announce to the world that we’re making progress. “That place is a relic,” Ray says. “But it’s also a survivor. Outlived everyone who was here when it was built, survived two depressions and the fire that took out half the block. Some say it’s stubborn. I think it’s got a little bit of magic wrapped up in it.” He settles in, gets comfortable. “Did you know, the inn hosted Al Capone and half his entourage?”

“I did hear that,” I say, nodding along and thinking about the conversation from the field trip Dani and I took to the book store yesterday.

Ray laughs, a deep belly laugh, and throws his head back. “Rumor says they trashed two floors and left a piano in the fountain but they also tipped every maid a month’s salary.” He grins, relishing the memory like he was there. “There was a jazz singer once, too. Stayed for a week and sang in the lobby for free each night. The whole town crowded in to listen.”

I pause, glancing back at him now. His eyes are bright with the joy the memories of his conversations are bringing him. “Is this in the history books, or is this Ray canon?”

He shrugs. “The people determine the history. I just listen to their stories.”

As he talks, I find myself thinking that’s the way I want everyone to look at the inn when they come to stay.

Ray turns back, his expression a shade more serious. “You know what I liked about subs? When they broke, you fixed ‘em. No committees, no red tape. You just got the right people, rolled up your sleeves and got to work.”

“Sounds nice,” I say. “But most people don’t want to fix the hard stuff. They just cover it up and hope the rot stays quiet.”

Ray nods. “That’s why you’re different. I saw you working the other day. Your hands got dirtier than any of the contractors.”

“Not afraid of a little mess,” I say, and realize it’s true.

He nudges my sketchbook with a calloused finger. “Do you miss it?”

I hesitate. “The inn?”

He shakes his head. “The city.”

The weight of his question hits me like a punch to the gut. “No,” I admit.

He nods, like he’s been expecting that answer. “Feels different, now?”

“Yeah.” I let out a sigh and realize it feels like I’ve just released a weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying. “I stayed so busy I hadn’t let myself realize I hated it.”

He snorts. “Slowing down isn’t something most people want to take the time to do. The world needs more people who pay attention.”

Just then, a kid on a skateboard clatters past, wipes out on the far curb and gets up swearing. Ray watches, then says, “That was me at his age. Didn’t care if I broke something, as long as I did it my way.” He glances at the inn again. “You’re gonna break a lot of eggs with this one, you know.”

I grin. “Omelets all around.”

Ray looks satisfied, stands up, and leans on his rake. “Don’t let ‘em get you down, son. Most of these people are afraid of change. But that’s just because they don’t know what it’ll look like yet.”

I want to say thank you, but it feels too soft. Instead I just nod, and watch him walk off toward the next crime scene in his war against weeds then head down Main Street.

As I make my way down the sidewalk, I pass a couple pushing a stroller, a guy delivering ice to the bakery, three tweens practicing a dance that’s trending on social media from the courthouse steps. The whole town feels like it’s on the verge of remembering itself, and for the first time in a long time… I want to be a part of that memory.