Page 4 of Harper

I picture him a few years later, on the Fourth of July. Fifteen years old—tall, cut, and cocky—he came in second at the annual axe-throwing competition. By then, I was madly in love with him, but I’d never uttered a word of my feelings to anyone. The first person I’d end up telling was Joe. After our first kiss. That very day.

I picture him at eighteen, ready to go off to college. He was astonishingly beautiful in his late-teens—his body tan, toned and hard from working summers on his uncle’s fishing boat. I am lying on my back on a spit of sand, and he hovers over me, his lips a whisper away from mine. When I lock my eyes with his, I find they are flooded with so much love, so much tenderness,so much conviction and certainty, that I finally say yes. That day, we make love for the first time.

My heart stutters at the memory, and I whimper softly.

When I open my eyes, they burn with useless tears.

I miss him. I miss him desperately.

Despite the fact that we live in the same town, I haven’t spoken a word to Joe Raven in years. When I see him, I look away, I turn away, I run away. I can’t face him. I can’t bear to look into his eyes because when I do, I can see that he still loves me, and I am frightened that if he gazes back at me for too long, he’ll see that I still love him, too.

But I have no right to love Joe after what I did.

Here is the brutal truth: if Joe knew who I really was, and what I’d done, he’d hate me. All of the love in his heart would die, and he’d wish he’d never met me. I know it. I’m certain of it. So, I stay away from him. Because even though Joe is everything I always wanted, he’s the one person I can never have.

Two fat tears roll from the corner of my eyes, sliding into my blonde hair. They’re followed by more, and more. So many tears over the years, they could fill all the oceans of the world.

At some point, the sun finally sets below the horizon, casting my room in a lavender light so melancholy, I finally fall asleep.

***

Joe

In a town like Skagway, where the local population from late-September to early-May is a little over one thousand souls, the sheriff knows everyone, and everyone knows me.

With the exception of some drunk and disorderly regulars, and the occasional domestic situation, it’s a pretty quiet town during the off-season. Sure, we’ve got our share of petty crime—break-ins and such—and yes, there are at least two calls a monthabout bears searching the garbage bins behind restaurants or taking a stroll down Broadway, but for seven months a year, Skagway runs pretty smoothly.

Then, there’s the summer.

Dear God. The summer.

From May to September, Skagway explodes with seasonal workers, tourists, and cruise ships—over a million people over five months.

On an average summer day, we have over 2,000 extra people living and working here, and another 8,000-10,000 people visiting. That’s ten thousand more people a day. Minimum.

This creates a unique challenge for law enforcement, which—for the most part—I embrace. I roll with the punches. I keep my town safe and hospitable, and the tourists keep coming back, infusing our little borough with the kind of money that takes care of us for the rest of the year.

But every now and then, we get a special case; someone who rolls up on our shores and is one hundred percent bona fide looney tunes. That kind of person can wreak havoc and test my mettle.

Ramona De Alicante, a seasonal employee at the King Kone, is one such bird. By making fake death threats and claiming false pregnancies, she drove local man, Tanner Stewart, out of town last year. So, when I hear Tanner’s voice asking for me at the dispatch desk, I wonder if Ramona’s back in town and up to her antics for a second season.

“Joe! Tanner Stewart’s here!” yells Vera.

I glance down at the half-eaten caribou burger on my desk and sigh.

I think lunch is over.

“Send him back.”

Tanner’s a big guy. His lumberjack-sized body takes up most of my doorway.

“Shoot,” he says with a grimace. “I’m interrupting your lunch. Sorry, Joe.”

Even though his face is red and angry, he looks so much like her—like his sister, Harper—my chest hurts for a second, like it always does when I see one of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Stewarts around town. I look away from him and swallow down those old, useless feelings, recovering quickly and waving Tanner into my office. Professionalism is important to me; I keep my personal life separate from my job.

“That’s okay,” I say. “Come on in. We can talk while I finish.”

He plops down in front of me, massages his jaw with irritation and grunts in frustration.

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