Page 9 of Quintessentially

Up ahead on the sidewalk, I watch as an elderly man on a bench turns my direction, opens his eyes wide, and stands. His bent frame is an outward sign of his years of hard manual labor on his large farm north of town.

A smile comes to my face. I wasn’t sure if he was still alive.

Bruce Gordon was my grandpa John’s good friend and the man I worked for during my summers. Today he’s sitting on a bench outside the shops on Main Street.

“As I live and breathe,” Bruce says, slapping my shoulder. “Look at you, Dax Richards.” He grins as thousands of lines deepen on the skin of his sun-baked face. He scans from my loafers to my slacks and button-down shirt.

I’m dressed for my meeting with Grandma’s attorney. He wants to talk to me alone before I sign off on the provisions of her will.

“Or are you Daxton now, a big deal from the Windy City?”

“Still just Dax, Mr. Gordon.”

“How’s life up there in Chicago?”

That is a loaded question that I’m not ready to answer with full honesty. In a nutshell, life in Chicago is hectic and busy. I’ve been concentrating on moving up the ladder of success instead of living a life. Hell, I was even in London when my grandmother passed. It seems as though I’ve become what I never wanted to be—my parents.

Being back in Riverbend reminds me how simple and satisfying life can be.

“You know what they say,” I respond. “Rat race.”

“Remember, it’s better to be a bystander instead of one of the rats.”

“That seems like sound advice.”

Mr. Gordon nods. “Everyone sure is sorry about your grandmother. Ruth was loved by one and all. I miss seeing her smile at Quintessential Treasures.”

I nod as I take a deep breath. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Ruth had a big heart. She knew what she was doing.”

I start to ask if Bruce means about leaving the store to Kandace Sheers—of all people—but I stop. First, it isn’t a bequeathal because the will specifies that the transaction will include a monetary payment, a common practice to avoid taxes. Nevertheless, that practice also undervalues Quintessential Treasures, something that as the executor of the will I can’t condone. Second, even though this is a small town, surely not everyone knows the details of my grandmother’s will. “That’s what I’m here to find out.”

“Some of the boys you used to hang out with are in the diner. They have breakfast most mornings before heading to work.”

“That’s where I’m headed. Cory invited me and told me not to be late.”

Mr. Gordon smiles. “Good boy, Cory.” He looks at his watch. “You better hurry.”

Cory is now a vice-principal at the local elementary school, but to a man like Mr. Gordon, he’s still a goodboy. Cory is one of the friends from Riverbend I’ve stayed in contact with. We both attended Indiana University, giving us a connection beyond the summertime streets, parks, and ball fields of Riverbend.

As I start to walk away, Mr. Gordon reaches for my arm. “I know you’ll do what’s right, Dax. Ruth knew that too.”

“I’m going to try, Mr. Gordon.”

Something about his statement prickles my skin. Before I can give it more thought, I’m at the door of the Main Street Diner and peering through the glass windows. A bell jingles as I enter. Cory is the first person I spot. Throwing a few bills on the table he comes my way, shaking his head. “Dax, are you living on Chicago time?”

“Shit,” I mumble, looking at my watch and the clock above the door. “I am.”

“Well, I need to head to the school, but fix your damn watch and we’ll reschedule. Hey, some of us are headed to Decoy Ducks tonight. You should join us and catch up.”

“Who is some of us?”

“Most everyone. Tonight’s the last softball game of the season. We need to celebrate our record.”

I recall playing baseball during the summer with these guys. “You won. That’s great.”

Cory lowers his voice. “We weren’t swept. That’s a win. See you at nine at Decoy’s or come by the ball fields at seven thirty and watch us strike out.”

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