The Box of Possibilities

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sometimes the beauty of the vast Illinois countryside was impossible to ignore.

The intense, rich blue of the endless sky overhead was stunning all by itself. Only a handful of white, fluffy clouds interrupted the expanse, as if they’d been put there by the special effects department to make that amazing cobalt blue look more realistic.

A driver with a good eye could often pick out red-winged blackbirds perched on the thousands of fenceposts. Glossy black, with a vivid red shoulder patch underlined in yellow, posing like the overseers of the stubbly brown fields dry and empty for winter.

The real overseers were the hawks, though. Much bigger and often on fenceposts of their own. Mottled brown with tan bellies, watching those temporarily desolate fields for mice searching out any lost corn or soybeans.

Then the surprise of a stand of hardwood trees—a twisting snakelike row of them rather than anything as organized as a stand—following along a creek or river too deep or too needed for irrigation to be absorbed by a farmer’s ambitions. This time of year, the trees provided a glorious streak of October red and yellow and orange against the distant horizon.

The trail of dust that rose up behind him as the miles of highway gave way to gravel only emphasized the orderly landscape.

Doug Linton laughed under his breath at the way his nervous energy worked itself out in a veritable travelogue of his old stomping grounds. Over twenty years in the comparably wild and unpredictable state of Georgia had tuned his eyes for the near-tropical coast, rolling hills and towering mountains, thick forests, and the bustling city of Atlanta.

Everything he could see here had been transformed to new and exotic.

When he’d fled Illinois not long after high school, he’d been sick to death of the farmlands all around him. Unable to imagine how anyone could possibly find this view tolerable, much less beautiful.

But today, even faced with the sad but necessary chore of getting his beloved grandparents’ house ready to sell, all he could see was lovely, fertile land rich with potential.

Maybe the whole day would have potential, if he didn’t act all goofy and awkward and like a hopelessly nerdy teenager.

Not the best look for a guy mere weeks from hitting the big five-oh.

Doug shifted in the Jeep Cherokee’s seat, glad he’d decided to bring it on the drive despite paying more for gas along the way. His tiny hybrid electric car would have been more sensible, but more than a bit cramped for nearly ten hours. In this case, he happily traded fuel economy for plenty of headroom and legroom for his six-two frame, and a high-end stereo he never would have paid the extra to get.

But he didn’t hesitate to enjoy the previous owner’s expensive tastes.

Just then, his phone served up not the bright pop of his high school years or the grungy antidote of his twenties. Instead he got music more a part of his parents’ generation, and the dreaming orchestral opening to Knights in White Satin.

That was the real risk of driving with his phone set to shuffle songs.

The Moody Blues could stab him right through the heart.

Doug reached out his right hand to touch the double-right arrows for skip, then paused.

Maybe this wasn’t the time for ignoring those years of his life, and especially that song.

Since he was driving toward an unnerving and not-at-all predictable reunion with the most important person during all that time, pretending that song didn’t exist probably wasn’t the best strategy.

Assuming Quinn hadn’t decided to cancel at the last minute once the estate’s attorney told her about the change of company for this walkthrough.

Doug wasn’t yet sure whether to thank his cousin Jenny for calling him a couple of days ago—begging him to fill in because her daughter had just given birth to their first grandchild—or yell at her. Jenny’s reasoning that Grandma and Grampa would have chosen him for the whole thing instead if he hadn’t moved so far away had been just sweet (and true) enough to make up for the blatant manipulation of his feelings.

And of course he’d truly wanted to help and let her have those first few sweet days of grandmother time. He would have done the same if he knew for certain the realtor would be a complete stranger.

He just wouldn’t have been nearly so…anxious and carefully excited about it.

He detoured from his phone to pick up the stainless-steel cup that held the fragrant dregs of his late morning coffee fix and finished it off, making a face at how the cold brew tasted foul and sweet at the same time.

He’d now officially managed to get through the bulk of the drive without spilling a thing on his jeans or green flannel shirt despite his lingering little boy fears.

Paranoia made him lean up enough to see the top of his head in the rearview mirror.

Perhaps a little fuzzy with the dry air contrasting with Atlanta’s humidity, but not the staticky mess he’d been afraid of.

He’d abandoned the goofy mullet hairstyle of his youth as the Eighties gave way to the Nineties. Now photos of himself from back then made him cringe, with their undeniable proof of his short trim everywhere but the back of his neck. There the corkscrews were free to twist and twirl all the way to his shoulders.

After such indignities, decades later he was grateful his hair hadn’t abandoned him. Sure, his curly red locks had lost quite a bit of that intense color. But he only had a scattering of gray creeping in around the edges.

The gray was mostly confined to his beard, which wasn’t his favorite sign of aging. Shaving left him looking too much like that mulleted teenager to contemplate. Keeping it trimmed down to a goatee took care of most of that and showed off the ginger shades he had left.

For now.

He’d eventually have to deal with the inevitable fade and move on.

He’d spent the night in Clarksville, Tennessee, north of the traffic and rush of Nashville, so he’d only been wearing his contacts for about five hours. He should easily be able to get through the walk-through of the house before switching them out for the trendy little wire-framed glasses he’d finally admitted he needed when he turned forty.

Another fidgety glance in the mirror confirmed his eyes hadn’t taken on the reddish, irritated look of dryness just yet.

So far so good with only a few minutes to go.

The song shifted to the spoken word section—fantastic to listen to and in the impossible-to-dance-to category for sure.

That hadn’t stopped him and Quinn from doing their best to dance as long as they could, to this or any other song. On the creaky wooden floor of the high school gym, at an outdoor concert on the grassy lawn. In his bedroom when his parents were out of town.

Figuring out how they fit together in their minds, hearts, and bodies had been so easy. So effortless. Leaving both of them convinced that meant it would last forever. How could it not?

And it did, until it didn’t.

Until they each made their own decisions and went in their own directions.

Not because they didn’t still love each other. That part never wavered.

Life just…took both of them away from each other. He hadn’t understood why they couldn’t make it work then any more then he could now.

Doug shook his head, relieved after all when Duran Duran brought the joyful exuberance of Rio out to lighten his mood.

Just one more turn and a couple miles more, and he’d have at least one part of his occasional daydreams play out in real life.

He’d see Quinn Hedges again for the first time in over thirty years.

And see if his hopes of at least rekindling their friendship that had followed him across so much time would survive the transition to reality.