CHAPTER ONE
JJ—
The air smells different in the mountains of East Tennessee. Fresher, cleaner, and not as humid. When I left Birmingham four and a half hours ago, it was almost eighty and humid.
But now, it’s in the mid-sixties with a cool, dry breeze. The perfect riding weather and the Harley rumbling beneath me are all I need to settle my nerves.
I’ve dreaded making this trip, but I have to admit, I’m loving the weather.
But then, I guess it’s to be expected on the first of October. Sweater weather, my prez’s ol’ lady calls it. For her, it's all about the pumpkin spice latte. For me and the guys, it’s all about ‘Bama football.
Hopefully, I can get this dreaded business taken care of and be home in time for Saturday’s game. Approaching the city limits, I can’t help but have a heavy heart at the reason for my visit. I’ve avoided thinking about it, but I know it’s going to hit me in the face.
I take my exit and ride the two miles to Main Street.
Christmas Town, Tennessee. I can honestly say I have not missed you.
Still, all the old memories come nagging back. They weren’t all bad, I’ll admit. I just don’t like to dwell on any part of my childhood.
It’s weird being here in the fall. The leaves are all changing to brilliant gold and orange. Main Street looks odd without all its glorious holiday window dressing. It seems forlorn, like it’s justwaiting for fall to be over so the town can get on with its main event. The one it does oh-so-well.
It’s a Friday, and I’m surprised to see how busy the place is. I haven’t been back here in decades, but it was never this crowded before. I roll past a side street that seems to have a farmer’s market going on, and I suppose that explains it.
It’s an old-fashioned town with a main drag that leads to the center, where a big square surrounds the courthouse. I see they’ve still kept the old gas lampposts that line the streets, but the wrought-iron archway that proclaims to travelers that they’ve now entered Christmas Town is new.
I coast to a stop at a line of cars waiting to make a turn and grumble. Every damn diagonal parking spot I see is taken. What the hell is going on? All this for some homemade honey, bushels of farm-grown vegetables, and some fresh-baked cinnamon rolls that I can smell from here?
Maybe there’s a pumpkin spice latte stand, and all the town has gone crazy for some.
I bet there’s nothing over at those stands these people can’t get at the local grocery store. What’s the big fascination with buying it all from some stranger with a folding table and a crate of goods? Not that I’d know about grocery stores. Can’t remember the last time I’ve been inside one.
God, I can’t wait to get this over with.
I turn up a side street and find an open spot half a block from the corner. Backing my rear tire to the curb, I shut my bike down and climb off.
I’m used to receiving stares from passersby anytime my bike rumbles past, but I’m usually with a couple of my club brothers. It’s different when it’s just me. Some eyes are filled with curiosity, some with dislike, some with downright disgust. I’ve seen it all.
Pulling my helmet off, I shake my shaggy blond hair out and drag a hand through it. Then I step onto the curb and stroll up the street.
When I round the corner, I pass Wilson’s Hardware store and immediately recognize the guy out front sweeping the sidewalk.
“Well, by God, if it isn’t Scotty Wilson.”
He turns, and his gaze sweeps over me, then his eyes get wide. “JJ?”
“One and the same.”
His face lights, and he clasps my hand. “Good to see you, man. Hell, I think the last time I saw you we were teenagers working on your grandfather’s tree farm.”
“Yup. Been a while.”
“Sorry to hear about him. Heard he passed in his sleep.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“Were you here for the funeral? I didn’t see you in town.”
“Nah. The club was in Sturgis the first week of August. I couldn’t get back for it.”
