This post is part of the April A-Z Blogging Challenge, wherein participants blog throughout the month according to the letters of the alphabet. For more on the challenge, click here.
Note: If anyone wondered, I tagged the blog as having adult content due to a few factors: one, strong language; two, the possibility that excerpts I post may have graphic descriptions of sex or violence and therefore unappealing to some readers. Never fear, though, I’ll be sure to warn y’all if a post of that nature comes up! In the meantime, feel free to read on!
Cheers and happy ABC’ing,
All right, I was told that people don’t mind posts linked to Gage, so here we go!
I mentioned in an earlier post that Gage doesn’t have many friends. Roy Jameson is one of those he does have. He’s an older guy who was first Gage’s dad’s boss, and later, his dad’s friend. Since Gage went to jail and his dad died, Roy is one of the few people he has who are on his side. Just like he did for his dad, Roy now employs Gage as a mechanic in the garage he owns and operates, and looks out for him without making it obvious. Here’s Darcy’s first meeting with him.
No longer on the phone, the man—whose name, as pointed out by the neat stitching over his shirt’s breast pocket, is in fact Roy—offers me a friendly smile. “Gage’ll be out in a minute. You a friend of his?”
“Not exactly,” I admit, but, already charmed, I’m heading closer to the desk. He stands as I approach it, charming me further with small town manners I never saw in the city, and we shake hands. “Darcy Quinn.”
“Roy Jameson. So, what brings you to town, then?”
I explain quickly about my liking of ghost stories, producing one of my books from my bag—I’ve found it’s the easiest way to make it click into people’s brains. It’s met with various levels of farce or genuine interest, but in Roy’s case he seems curious, turning it over, riffling through the first couple pages of my account of my hometown’s hauntings. “And now you’re looking into our local myths and legends?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m living in the North Street Church and I heard about the Eliza Lawson story, so with Gage’s grandmother being the granddaughter of the maid who worked there at the time…”
He’s nodding as if this is all familiar to him, and speaks with an easy, relaxed voice that harried young people often lack. “Of course, of course. Y’know, my daddy always talked about how pretty Grace was as a girl. If Sterling Holloway hadn’t snapped her up, it might’ve wound up being me you talked to about this.”
“Too bad,” I say. “You’re friendlier than Gage.”
He laughs but shakes his head, deflecting the compliment. “Gage isn’t a bad sort. His dad worked here way back when, and we’re a family-run kind of place, so I like having him around. Shame what happened to that family after he went to jail, but…” he shrugs as if to say what can you do, then looks up. Realizing he’s not just staring off into the distance, I turn in my chair and see Gage, out of the coveralls, hands and face scrubbed of grease and sweat.
“She’s here for local history, Roy, not my family’s sob stories.” His eyes flick to me. “Ready?”