I’m quickly sensing that everyone knows everyone around here, and if they don’t directly know them, then it’s through one or two degrees of separation at most, and they’ll strike up a conversation to find out exactly how. Coming to Meyer’s seems to be a social activity as much as a life necessity. Shoppers meander up and down the aisles, blocking paths as they slow to comment on the sale on ground beef and lettuce, or the forecasted break in the rain, or who’s coming in from Anchorage. No one is in much of a hurry.

No one except Jonah.

“Hey, Bobbie.” Jonah starts chucking produce onto the belt. “Yeah. I’m supposed to be. I was ambushed on my way in.”

I roll my eyes. Jonah’s gone from babysitter to hostage. “Thanks. I’ve got this.” I yank the green pepper out of his hand before he can toss—and bruise—it, too. “Do you mind bagging things? Over there.” Away from me. I punctuate my words with a little push against his bicep, rock hard beneath my palm.

The cashier—Bobbie—continues ringing things up, her fingers flying over the keyboard with memorized vegetable codes. “George said they’re calling for a few clear days this week. I’m tired of getting my hopes up. Still, it’d be a nice change from all the rain.”

“You should be used to the rain by now,” Jonah says gruffly, stuffing my groceries into brown paper bags.

“Is anyone ever used to it?” There’s a pause and then, “So, is this your sister? Or a cousin?” She’s asking Jonah, but she’s looking at me.

“This is Wren’s daughter, Calla.”

Her quick fingers stall. “Oh . . . right! George said something about you going to Anchorage to pick her up. George is my husband,” she explains, now addressing me directly. “Him and Jonah’s dad used to fly together in the air force. Now he flies for Wren.”

I’m guessing this George guy was the connection to Alaska Wild that Jonah mentioned earlier. And this Bobbie lady has also given me another piece of information—Jonah’s father was a pilot in the US Air Force, and it sounds like Jonah followed in his footsteps, as far as flying goes, anyway. That must be his father’s hat.

Bobbie shakes her head. “I forgot Wren had a daughter all those years ago. Gosh, it’s been forever. You and your mom ended up in . . .” She lets that hang, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

“Toronto.”

She gives a small nod, like that answers an unspoken question. “And this is your first time here?”

“Since we left, yeah.”

“So . . . you figured it was time for a visit?”

“As good a time for a vacation as any, right?” Jonah answers for me, his piercing eyes on mine, the warning in them clear.

From what Agnes said, my dad doesn’t want people knowing about his cancer diagnosis yet. I guess that includes his employees.

“Yeah. Had some time to burn and I’ve always wanted to see Alaska,” I add, solidifying our lie.

Bobbie gives me a polite smile—one that says she was hoping for a juicier answer than that—and then finishes ringing up the rest of my groceries.

My eyes bulge at the final tally as I count out the bills. How do two bags of groceries cost that much?

Bobbie laughs. “That’s some sticker shock, huh? Well, you enjoy your time in Alaska, Calla. And be careful,” she warns, nodding Jonah’s way, “or that one will charm you so much, you won’t want to leave.”

“Yes, I’m already struggling to control myself.” My voice drips with sarcasm.

Her head crooks, confusion filling her face.

And my mouth drops. “Oh my God, you’re not kidding.”

An awkward chuckle sails from her thin lips. “Make sure you send that husband of mine home right after work, Jonah. He gets to talking and next thing he knows, the sun has gone down.”

Jonah throws a flat-faced wink her way as he scoops up the grocery bags in one arm, his biceps straining beneath his cotton sleeve. “Will do.”

I trail him out, cradling the bouquet of near-spent flowers, feeling countless eyes on my back.

I can’t help myself. “So, if you’re charming, what would Bobbie consider an asshole?”

“There’s one right now.”

I follow his nod and find a reflection of myself in a window.

He’s quick with the comebacks, I’ll give him that much.

Jonah peers up to the sky, squinting, and I can tell he’s searching for a looming rain cloud.

“People really obsess about the weather around here.”

“Why wouldn’t they? Strong winds, thick fog, too much rain or snow . . . any of it will ground us for hours, a day. Even longer, sometimes.” His boots scrape along the dusty ground. “People rely on planes for food, medicine, doctors, mail. Everything.”

I try to ignore the heavy gazes of two teenaged boys of maybe sixteen, with cans of Coke in their hands, gawking openly at me. “And they stare even more than they obsess about the weather,” I mutter, more to myself.

“They’re not used to seeing a real, live Barbie doll is all.”

I frown. Did he just call me . . . “I am not a Barbie doll!”

“No?” He gives me a sideways glance, amusement in his eyes. “Fake hair, fake face, fake nails . . .” His eyes dip to my chest before flashing away. “Is anything on you real?”